🇨🇴Nat🇺🇸
||(she/her)||
||18+ ONLY|| Child of the 90’s
Current White Boy(s) of the Month: Dr. Jack Abbot, Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen, and the Man of Steel himself: Clark Kent. Profile pic by Beth
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summary: A normal Saturday gets turned upside down when you have to go to the emergency room. And Robby is doing his best to balance being chief attending and a husband... and pretend like he's not absolutely whipped for his girls.
warnings: brief mention of pregnancy and having kids, descriptions of a hand burn, probably inaccurate medical procedures, kingdon (if you squint), Robby being a papa bear.
notes: okay, the girl!twin!dad! Robby truthers have pulled me into their agenda. Robby just deserves to be happy, okay! also, sorry my jack fic wasn't ready, but I offer this as penance 😌
It's a normal Saturday at PTMC. Same old aches and complaints; same accidents and tragedies. Nothing Robby hasn't seen before.
Maybe that sounds cruel of him. To boil down somebody's worst day to a brief twelve hours of his. Dana is always telling him he's too desensitized to things like this.
Maybe he is.
Robby stretches his shoulders, rubbing a knot at the base of his neck as he makes his way through the waiting room. It's still early, the brief period between the nursing home rush and the late afternoon chaos.
Doesn't mean the room isn't crowded. People crammed into chairs, standing along the walls. The tvs play the news, a boring chart about stock prices or the cost of gas. Robby’s not really paying attention. His eyes dart across each patient, making quick assessment of what he can see.
Make sure nobody was dying. Making sure nobody is on the verge of-
Hold on.
Robby freezes, hand pausing against his shoulder as he turns back to the pair of girls in the chairs across the room. Two familiar looking twelve year olds, both sharing a chair, hips pressed together, brows furrowed in annoyance.
“Will you scoot over-”
“I’m as far as I can go-”
“Nuh uh. You're trying to hog-”
“I am not!”
Robby’s heart practically plummets into his gut as he registers he’s not just looking at a familiar pair of twins. He's looking at his twins.
Those are Robby’s girls- his Maddi and Liz.
Still in their pajamas and sporting messy hair, elbowing each other in the oversized chair they were sharing, a phone playing some disney movie between them.
Robby swallows thickly, moving on autopilot, apologizing as he skirts around an elderly man with a walker. The girls look up before he even gets to their chair, ‘dad’ radars going off. Because somehow they always knew. When his car was pulling into the culdesac, when he was the one picking them up from school.
Liz’ face lights up first, her crooked teeth breaking out into a big smile. She's got on her gray hoodie over pink pj's, converse kicking her sister. Maddi gives her a withering look, noticing Robby a fraction of a second later. She gasps in surprise, waving her thick pink sweater sleeve to garner his attention, teal pajama pants tucked into rain boots .
Not that she had to. Robby would know his girls anywhere.
“Dad!”
They scramble out of the chair, limbs clashing, the phone tossed on the floor as Robby hurriedly crouches down to embrace them.
“Hey,” Robby chuckles, an arm around each girl, hands already feeling for any bumps or bruises. He laughs as he looks both of them in the eye, a hand cradling Liz’s cheek, the other brushing along Maddi’s hairline. “What are you two doing here? It's Saturday. Isn't mom making-”
“Pancakes. But the pot holder was-”
“Mom burnt her hand and so we had to get dragged-”
“Liz was trying to grab the turtle for the car-”
“And she was screaming-”
Robby shakes his head, holding his hands up to try and calm them as they jabber over each other.
“Okay, wait. One at a time-”
It was always like this. Two girls bursting at the seams wanting to be heard first, needing their father to understand.
They ramble on.
“Of course then she had a blow out-”
“We offered to help but mom said no.”
“She didn't want to hurt the baby-” Robby makes a face.
“Woah, what about the baby? Where's your mom?” Liz sighs and Maddi rolls her eyes.
“Dad. Weren't you listening?!”
Robby gives Maddi a look, head tilted with the kind of silent parental authority that said “watch your tone.” Liz reaches out to tug Robby’s sleeve, her head turned around.
“There she is, dad.” She points toward the bathrooms, where in fact, you were. Robby feels himself tense up at the sight, diaper bag slung over your shoulder, six month old baby on your hip… and a tight, pained look on your face.
The cloth wrapped snuggly around your hand might explain that.
Robby stands with a grunt, hands finding the girls’ shoulders automatically, guiding them back to the chair.
“Sit here for another minute will you?”
Liz makes a face.
“Dad we've already been here an hour,” Maddi huffs.
“Just sit there. I’m gonna talk with your mom,” he presses a kiss to Liz’s head before marching off in your direction.
You're struggling to get something into the diaper bag, Hazel fussing against your shoulder, her sounds muffled by the stuffed turtle she was chewing on.
“I know, baby girl. Give me a minute and I’ll find your cheerios. I just need-”
“Hey,” Robby calls out your name softly as he reaches to caress your back, being careful not to startle you. You give him a surprised look, your eyes wide with relief.
“Robby- oh,” your head falls against his shoulder as he pulls you close. Hazel shrieks at the sight of him, socked feet kicking against your hip.
“What are you doing here?” Robby asks, the question rougher sounding than he’d like. Not that you notice. You're too busy feeling relieved as he takes Hazel from your arm, the turtle smushed between her little body as he pulls her close.
“I- Robby it was so stupid. We were making pancakes and the girls were getting water everywhere. The sausage was smoking in the oven- I didn't realize the potholder was soaking wet when I grabbed it- and the-”
“No honey,” Robby shakes his head, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “What are you doing here?” Robby nods his head towards the crowded waiting room, the twins watching the two of you carefully from their chair, acting patient now.
“Waiting,” you purse your lips, glancing down at your hand. “The lady at the front desk said it wouldn't be too much longer.”
“You should have called me. I could have-”
“Robby,” you shake your head. “I’m not going to cut the line just cause I’m your wife.”
“Why not?” Robby shrugs, Hazel giggling softly at the movement. “I pull the chief attending card all the time.”
“Yeah. For free chips and guac at the mexican restaurant down the street. Not when there are actual lives on the line,” you gesture towards a man being wheeled in, blood dribbling from his forehead. Robby unconsciously shifts Hazel’s face away from the sight, glancing at the twins again. They're back to their movie, pretending like they weren't listening.
They were. They always were.
Robby sighs, looking you up and down. You hated the emergency room. Actively avoided it any way you could. He could count on one hand the number of times you had visited the ED.
When Maddi sprained her finger playing volleyball at school, the time Liv broke her tooth and split her lip riding a friend's skateboard. When Robby had cut his hand open trying to build the girls a playhouse for Christmas one year.
The most recent time had been during your last pregnancy; unable to keep any fluids or liquid down, you’d been sick as a dog.
Hazel whines in Robby’s arms, looking between you and him with a big pout. You sigh, giving her a smile as you carefully maneuver your bag so you can reach inside.
“I know, baby. I know you're hungry. I’m sorry.”
You were here.
Two girls haphazardly dressed, Hazel in an emergency onesie Robby knew she'd just been changed into; the outfit you had been wearing when Robby kissed you goodbye that morning still cozy around your frame.
And the towel wrapped around your hand.
Robby helps you zip the diaper bag, reaching for your injured hand.
“You said you burned it?” You hesitate for a moment, finally letting him take a peek when Robby gives you a look. You concede, the unnatural warmth of your skin radiating from the thick layers of terry cloth.
Balancing Hazel and her cheerios in his arm, scrub sleeve surely soaked with drool, Robby peels away the towel. You inhale sharply as the cool air hits the burn, your skin an angry red, palm peeling and blistering in places. Robby swallows thickly, looking at the painful wound.
You look away from it first.
“It doesn't hurt that bad anymore. I soaked it for twenty minutes before we came here.”
“How long have you been waiting?” Robby asks. You don’t meet his eye.
“Just a little while.”
“You don't have to lie to me. I know this hurts.” You take another shaky breath, your hand flexing against his touch.
“I can't just cut the line Michael. That's not right-”
“You're not cutting anything. Okay? Let me take care of you.” Robby lets go of your hand gently, thumb brushing your cheek as he cups your face.
You melt into it slightly, glancing over at your other girls. They're watching you expectantly, practically buzzing with anticipation of leaving the waiting room. Robby could see you were ready to cave, wanting to get out of there.
He adds a final nail to the coffin, crouching a bit to meet your eye.
“Please.”
Robby can see it. The resignation crossing your face, the pain of your hand catching up to you.
“Okay,” you nod slowly. “But only if l’m not messing with your work-”
“Of course not,” Robby presses a kiss to your temple. “Come on. You ready Hazel?”
The baby blows a raspberry, squealing happily before chewing on a cheerio she manages to grab. You nod towards the girls, gesturing for them to get up. They share an equally happy sentiment as their sister, quickly following you through the staff entrance.
“Finally!” Maddi sighs, pulling her sister up. “Come on.”
You can feel the eyes on Robby as the five of you enter into the Pitt. The Emergency Department’s big bad chief… a smiley baby girl in his arms and two preteens following like baby ducks.
It was cute, you have to admit. Maybe cuter if your hand wasn't throbbing like you’d thrown it into a pile of glass.
Liv holds on to the sleeve of your sweater nervously, looking around at the bustling nurses and loud monitors. Robby glances back at the three of you, making sure you were still alright. You give him a small smile, observing the worry lines already creasing between his brows. The calculations and treatment plans and patient names he was likely filing through. Slotting your name next to an already crowded roster.
You really had tried to hold off going to the emergency room. It hadn't hurt that bad when it happened, surprised you mostly.
But your palm had gotten redder and hotter as the minutes ticked by, your girls looking at you with worry. Robby was always telling you to call him if something happened. Always leaving in the morning with the same goodbye whispered against your cheek.
“Love you. Call me if you or the girls need anything.”
But it just didn't feel right to skip the line. To get in simply because your husband was the chief attending. Although the sentiment was becoming a little stale as your palm throbs deeper.
As you pass by the nurses station, Maddi lights up, quickly finding her favorite person in the ED.
“Hi Mel!”
The blonde resident pauses, turning from her conversation with Langdon, a bright smile blooming when she sees your girls.
“Hey!”
Maddi runs, in spite of Robby’s warning to be careful, tall frame running into Mel’s open arms.
“Is everything alright? I never see you guys here.”
“Peachy,” you raise your injured hand. Frank cringes behind Mel, whistling as you show him the burn.
“Oof. You soak it?”
“Please, she's married to a doctor. Of course she did,” Robby says, chest puffing proudly. Langdon laughs.
Liz clings to your sweater shyly as Frank looks over at her. Then Hazel. His eyes light up like a kid getting candy.
“Ah, Miss Hazel. I see you've graced us with your glorious presence. My favorite Rovinavitch!” Hazel squeals as Frank tickles her foot, curling into Robby’s chest. Maddi lets out a protesting gasp.
“Hey. I thought I was your favorite!”
“Yeah. Before Mel stole you from me.”
“I did not,” Mel frowns, adjusting her glasses with a little smile. “Can't steal what you never had.”
“That’s alright. We all know who my real favorite is,” Frank glances down at Liz, giving her a quick wink. She blushes furiously, turning further into your side.
You laugh, glancing over at Robby. He just shakes his head, cringing as Hazel squeals again, turtle clutched tightly in her flopping hand.
Dana peeks her head out from behind a curtain, squinting over her glasses.
“Is that my happy Hazel I hear?” The charge nurse comes over, giving your older girls a tight squeeze before grinning at your youngest daughter. “Hi beautiful girl.”
Robby can't even protest before Dana is scooping Hazel into her arms, the six month old wiggling around happily. Always the center of attention.
You have a crowd forming, Trinity and Princess inching closer and cooing at the baby, Dennis giving high fives to your older girls.
Robby sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly as his staff fawns over his girls.
“Okay, most of you have patients you need to see.”
“Do we?” Princess asks, eyes wide as she makes faces at Hazel. Robby rolls his eyes.
“Yes. Now, go on and scram.”
“Mom,” Liz looks up at you apologetically.
“Yeah baby?”
“I’m really hungry now.” You sigh, closing your eyes and nodding.
“I know. I’m sure.”
The girls had really been troopers. Helping you clean up the mess breakfast turned out to be, waiting patiently to go to the hospital, keeping the complaints to a minimum. They'd grabbed some granola and fruit before you’d left the house, but they were growing girls. You'd seen them out eat Robby a few times already and it was getting closer to lunch time.
You look over at Robby who takes Hazel back from Dana, brow furrowing as he looks you up and down.
“What's going on? You okay?” You nod, your uninjured hand running over Liz’s short hair.
“The girls need food.”
“Sustenance,” Maddi groans. She then gets a look on her face, turning to her sister. The two lock eyes and huddle, shoulders pressed impossibly close as they whisper. You raise your brow suspiciously, Mel laughing behind her hand as she watches from her computer.
Liz nods and stands beside Maddi as they approach Robby. He frowns.
“Uh oh. What’s the council discussing this time?”
“Can we get Starbucks?” He cocks his head.
“Um. Here?”
“Yeah. You can order it on your phone,” Liz adds quietly.
Robby shares a look with you. You shrug.
“I could use a chai.”
"You're encouraging bad habits," he mutters.
"Robby, you know they're not gonna eat the soggy pb and j's they try to pass off as food in the cafeteria," you whisper back.
Robby sighs, looking between your two girls. You can see the torn expression on his face, the fight between saying no because he still wasn’t thrilled about the girls drinking coffee just yet and also saying yes because they’d already been through a wreck of Saturday-
“Please,” Maddi pouts, hands clasped desperately. Her big brown eyes, mirrors to her fathers’, shine beneath the hospital lights. Robby opens his mouth, the words lost as Liz adds another please.
“Please papa.”
Oh. Your girls were good.
You snicker to yourself as you watch Robby become undone in real time. Any pushback he might’ve had lost at the name. The first name the twins had called him.
‘Papa.’
Before they decided they were too cool and the social norm of ‘dad’ was adopted.
Robby sighs, head lowering in defeat. Dana gives your arm a squeeze as she passes by, smiling fondly.
“Okay, fine. But I don't want you two drinking straight sugar for breakfast. You're getting egg sandwiches too.” Maddi makes a face.
“Egg?”
“That's the deal Mads.” She crosses her arms, a familiar looking pout crossing her face.
“Fine.”
“Hey Boss,” Perlah calls out, the red phone pressed to her chest. “We’ve got an GSW coming in five.”
Robby looks up, nodding. “Uh, okay. Give me just a minute.”
“Sure,” Perlah smiles at Hazel who gives her a friendly wave. Robby fishes his phone out of his pocket, handing it to Liz.
“Here. You can get one drink and a sandwich. One,” he gives the twins a pointed look. They giggle, nudging each other knowingly. “Mel can take you guys to the breakroom. Stay in there until I come to get you.”
“What about Hazel?” Maddi asks, reaching over for Robby’s phone in spite of the way Liz keeps it clutched tightly to her chest.
“She'll stay with me honey,” you smile. “She's got to eat soon.” Robby checks his watch, looking between you and the baby. You had her on a pretty strict schedule; the girl loved her consistency.
Liz frowns, looking down at your hand with sad eyes. “Mom. Are you gonna be okay?”
“I’ll be fine, baby. Your dad will fix me up just fine.” You smile again, meeting her eye reassuringly.
But with each passing minute your hand starts hurting even more. You know Robby can see it. The forced line of your smile.
It's the same smile he's shared a hundred times over. The brave face of a parent.
“Cap-” Dana starts, giving Robby a look. “GSW is here in two.”
“Right,” Robby hums, the sound gravelly and tired. He had that look on his face, the one you'd seen plenty of times over. When he was being pulled in multiple directions and didn't know which he should choose. “Okay, uh, Mel-”
“I got the girls, Dr. Robby,” she smiles. He nods, gratefully.
“Feel free to get yourself something too, okay.”
“Oh, that's alright-” Mel shakes her head as Maddi tugs her hand, pulling Mel away towards the break room.
“Mel. Starbucks has boba now!” That gets her attention.
“Really?” Liz nods in agreement, fingers already zooming across the screen.
“Well, they're tapioca pearls. Not really boba. But the same thing…”
You feel the tension in your shoulders release slightly as the girls follow Mel into the break room, and you allow yourself to finally let out the whimper you'd been holding.
“Ow,” you hiss under your breath, cringing as you bring your hand closer to your chest.
Robby turns, his hand moving to rub a soft circle on your back.
“Okay mama, let's get you taken care of.”
“Robby-” Dana’s voice cuts in, the red phone in her hand. “Another ambulance on the way. Three minutes out.”
Robby lets out a frustrated sigh, cursing beneath his breath. “Okay. Okay that's fine. I’ll have Dana look over your hand first and then I’ll be right there.”
“Whatever you have to do,” you nod. “Remember, I’m just like any other patient you’d see-”
“You're not just any other patient,” Robby shakes his head. He presses a kiss to your forehead as he passes Hazel over to Dana, her arms already ready for the baby. “You're my wife. And you deserve the best, okay. I’ll be right back.”
Robby gives Hazel a little wave goodbye, a pair of gloves seemingly materializing in his hands, face already set with a determined focus. You watch him head off to a gurney being wheeled in, voice steady and authoritative. Dana stands beside you, bouncing the baby slightly.
“He hit the jackpot with the four of you, you know.”
“Sorry,” Robby looks at you apologetically over his glasses, gloved hands gently prodding your burnt palm. It looks somewhat better after being cleaned and sterilized. Although Dana is a master at making even the most frightening cases look appealing.
“No sorry, it's not you,” you look down at your daughter- or rather what you could see of her beneath your nursing cover. Just the sliver of a onesie covered foot kicking rhythmically. “She's being extra aggressive today.”
Robby smiles to himself, leaning over to grab something off the tray laying between you.
“Told you she's teething.” You roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief.
“I can't believe it- ow! Hazel,” you hiss. Robby pauses, watching as you try to peek at the baby with one hand. “Gently honey. Mommy already has enough she's got to try and do with one hand.”
“Are you sure you don't want me to wait till you're finished feeding her?”
“It's okay,” you shake your head and smile. “You guys are busy enough. The Robinavitch’s are multitasking pros. I can manage.” Robby chuckles, shaking his head.
“Come on. Indulge me. I think this is the longest I’ve sat all morning.” You smile, your eyes raking over Robby.
He's sure he looks a mess, after two trauma cases and a patient consult. Hair mussed from running his hand through it, scrubs rumbled and splattered with something he couldn’t quite identify.
It still surprises him how much can change in just thirty minutes. Someone's whole life flashing by, blood on his hands and decisions on his head.
You hum, looking down at Hazel.
“Alright Doctor Robinavitch. Whatever you say.” Robby groans slightly, leaning back in his chair.
“Oh, don't call me that.”
“What,” you laugh. “It’s appropriate, no?” You gesture at the patient room, the walls lined with medical posters, curtains still drawn shut to give you privacy.
“Yeah, well not when it's coming from you. That's how we got this little one,” Robby reaches over and gently shakes Hazel’s small foot. She kicks back and you smile, arm adjusting to hold her closer again.
“Well it’s not my fault you have a thing for role play. And I wouldn't trade her for anything.”
“No. Me neither,” Robby chuckles. She'd been a surprise for sure. Almost more jarring than the first time around when you found out you were having twins. But it was hard to imagine life without her now.
Robby shakes his head and hums, picking up the medicated balm and beginning to smear it gently over your palm.
You sigh, eyes closing as you lean your head back against the chair. Robby smiles, watching you.
“Tired?” You nod.
“Yeah," you say slowly. "More frustrated, I think. I wanted to get some things done around the house today. Get the living room picked up at least.”
“It’s fine,” he shrugs, gathering a long strip of gauze to wrap around your palm. You peek your eyes open, unenthused.
“Robby, the same basket of laundry has been sitting by the couch for a week.”
“So have the girls put it away.”
“It’s your laundry.” He smiles sheepishly, looking down as he continues to wrap your hand.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” you tease. Robby can see a shift cross your face, and you get more serious. “I am going to need your help though. At least, for a couple days.”
“I know,” Robby scratches the scruff of his beard. “I figured I’ll have to rearrange some things.”
“By some things you mean getting home on time, right?” Robby gives you a look.
“Woah, hey. I’ve been getting home at a decent hour.” You throw him a look.
“Ten at night is not a decent hour, Michael.”
Oof. Michael.
Robby shifts in his seat, setting your now wrapped hand on the table between you. You slide it away, closer to you. Robby narrows his eyes.
“I thought you said you weren’t mad.”
“I’m not mad,” you huff. “I just… it’s hard sometimes. And I get it. I know you’re the boss and the hospital needs you. But we need you too, you know.”
“I know.”
“I mean it Michael. Those girls are growing up faster than you’d think. And while yeah, I wouldn’t mind you being home earlier to help around with dishes or watching the baby, I want you around to just be with them.” You smile sadly.
Robby knows he’s been busy. The long hours he’s been putting in, the overtime. The late nights where he’d get home and crash on the couch with barely a hello and goodnight to the girls. Dana always chided him for staying so late. Even when she was doing the same thing-
“You’re turning her into a single mother, Robby.”
“She’s okay. She hasn’t said it’s bothering her.”
“Of course it’s bothering her. Your wife is just a saint and won’t say anything because she hates seeing you worry.”
Robby looks at you now in the patient room, carefully pulling the nursing cover away now that you had both hands back, oddly adjusting your daughter as you check her.
“I think she’s finally asleep,” you murmur. Robby watches you carefully. Not assessing. Not diagnosing. Just watching.
It hits him then, watching you juggle his daughter and your injured hand and your other girls in the break room… just how much you truly kept everything held together.
The glue of the little Robinavitch clan.
And Robby had been playing the part of chief attending much more than he’d been playing father and husband. Leaving you to gather the pieces and try to make something good out of it. Robby scoots his chair closer to you, cupping your cheek as you look at him in surprise.
“I’m sorry.” Your eyes widen at the sudden movement.
“For what?”
“For not being here like I should. For having you worry about whether you’re bothering me at work when you’re hurting.”
“Robby-” He cuts short whatever you were going to say with a soft kiss, lips pressed gently against yours. You melt slightly into it, cheek pressed against his as he moves to press another against the corner of your mouth. Then the corner of your nose. And-
There’s a knock at the door. You hum, giving Robby a smile.
“I think that’s for you.”
“They can wait.”
“Robby…” you give him a look. He pulls back, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Go. It’s okay.”
Robby sighs, grunting as he pushes off from the chair. He pushes the curtain aside, taking in Whitaker standing nervously at the door.
“Yeah?” Robby asks, brows drawn low with curiosity. “What’s happening?”
“Uh, I was told I had to give this to you,” Whitaker holds out a perspirating plastic cup and a paper bag with something sweet smelling. “I believe the instruction was ‘make sure mom eats. So she feels better faster.’”
Robby laughs, taking the drink and bag, the smell of banana bread wafting towards his face. He also takes the phone Whitaker holds out, the dark phone case splattered with something that smells like whipped cream.
“Thanks for relaying the message huckleberry.”
“Oh sure. Your girls are quite the pair.” Robby smiles.
“They are.”
Whitaker stands awkwardly for a moment more before adding- “Also Dana said we’re in shambles without you.”
"Yeah, okay. Hang in there for a couple more minutes. I'll be back soon."
“Aye aye captain,” Whitaker gives a two finger salute. “Just don’t be too long. Dana might start threatening to recruit your girls.”
The two laugh and Robby closes the glass door gently, balancing the goodies in his hand. Your eyes are wide with appreciation as Robby holds up your food.
“It was for you.”
“Oh thank the Lord,” you grin.
Robby laughs, helping you take off the nursing cover, Hazel gently passed into his arms. You pick at the banana loaf, pushing a generous chunk over to Robby as he sits down again.
“Here.”
“No, I’m okay,” Robby shakes his head as he settles his sleeping girl on his chest. You give him a look.
“Robby…”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“I know you haven't eaten all morning.”
Robby huffs and takes a piece with a mumbled thank you. You give him a bright smile, letting out a pleased hum as you eat. Robby sits, enjoying what he knows is the last bit of quiet before he's thrown back into the throes of the ED.
You're packing up the diaper bag, the twins helping you tuck in extra bandage wraps and medicated ointment into the side pockets. Maddi happily slurps on a caramel lined coffee cup, Liz sipping at something tall and green. Robby watches them fondly as they hover over you, Hazel still sleeping in his arms.
"Mom, I got that."
"Here, I can hold the bag!"
"No I can-"
"Girls," you chuckle. "It's fine. One of you can hold the bag and the other can hold my drink."
Robby's phone pings and he fishes it out of his pocket, frowning as he reads the notification. You don't notice as you take the baby from him, holding her closely.
"You girl's ready to go?"
They nod enthusiastically, giggling softly beneath their breaths. Robby's frown deepens as he looks at them over his glasses.
“Hey… why does it say my card was charged a hundred and thirty dollars?”
Warnings: this chapter is technically two parts in one, Marcus (barf), violence, harassment, funeral of a child, flashbacks, drinking, grief, hurt/comfort although reader isn’t really able to begin healing, overuse of the em dash bc I’m an ellipsis hater, reader is 33 Brett is early 50s.
Banners by: @cafekitsune & @uzmacchiato
The alarms were going off now, the monitors rapidly beeping as your blood pressure and heart rate began to climb rapidly. You tried to sit up a little, but pain shot through your ribs and shoulder immediately, forcing you back down with a sharp inhale.
“Detective Hale,” he introduced himself to Brett, yet his eyes focused on you.
Brett didn’t respond.
He didn’t have to.
The silence between them was more than enough. The officer beside Marcus shifted, clearing his throat at the tense encounter, looking at his partner with confused eyes.
“You can do this later,” Brett said flatly.
Marcus didn’t look at him.
“I’m doing my job.” Then finally his eyes shifted to Brett. “You must be the little firefighter who brought her in. Richard’s I believe it is?”
Brett’s jaw tightened.
“And I’m the one telling you to leave.”
Something almost like amusement flickered across Marcus’s face.
“Just here for some questioning, Chief.” There was a condescending tone in his voice. “Won’t be long.”
Brett looked at you, the way your body crumbled into itself, your legs trembling under the blanket, fingers clutching at the sheets hard enough to wrinkle them with the sweat from your palms.
Your pulse was flashing across the monitor, climbing higher with every second Marcus remained in the room.
That was all it took.
“No,” Brett said, voice low and final.
Marcus arched a brow. “Excuse me?”
“I said no.” Brett stepped fully in front of your bed now, broad shoulders blocking Marcus’s view of you as much as he could without touching him. “You want a statement, you come back with a warrant, her doctor's clearance, and a hell of a lot better timing than this.”
The younger officer beside Marcus shifted awkwardly, eyes darting from Brett to the monitor and then to you, where you were struggling just to pull air into your lungs. You weren’t sure if it was the smoke inhalation or fear.
“Sir,” the officer said quietly to Marcus, “maybe we should—”
Marcus lifted a hand, silencing him without looking away from Brett.
“This is a criminal investigation,” Marcus said smoothly. “I’m not asking for permission.”
“You have no jurisdiction here.”
Marcus looked at you, trying to hide the smirk that he fought to keep at bay. He was enjoying this. Enjoyed watching you lay helplessly in the hospital bed, body battered, eyes swollen from tears.
“I’m investigating an explosion that killed children, one of which was under her care” Marcus chirped. “I think I can ask a few questions.”
“And I think,” Brett said, taking one deliberate step forward, “that if you don’t walk out of this room in the next five seconds, I’m going to stop asking nicely.”
Marcus just cocked his head, studying Brett like he was something mildly interesting under glass.
“Protective,” he murmured. “That’s sweet.”
Your lips were pale. Your hands were shaking so hard you could barely keep hold of the blanket. Tears had started spilling soundlessly down your cheeks, your chest rising in quick, painful little jerks.
“I’ll come back when you’re less emotional.” Marus scoffed, turning towards the door. “I do hope Abigail’s sleeping better these days. Nightmares after an accident can be so difficult to shake.”
The room detonated.
Brett lunged. It happened so fast your vision blurred. One second Marcus was halfway through the doorway with that smug, poisonous look on his face, and the next Brett was moving.
“You keep my daughter’s name out of your fucking mouth!” Brett roared.
The younger officer caught him with a startled grunt, shoes squealing against the tile as Brett dragged him forward anyway. Two nurses flooded into the room at the same time, one shouting for security, the other making a beeline for your bedside.
“Chief,” the younger officer barked, straining to hold Brett back. “Chief, stop!”
Brett looked like he might actually kill him.
His chest was heaving, every muscle in his body flexed as he fought against the officer’s grip. There was nothing controlled about him now. Nothing careful. Just rage.
Marcus’s expression didn’t change.
He just slid one hand into his pocket, gaze flicking past Brett to you—curled in the hospital bed, sobbing silently.
The younger officer finally managed to wrench Brett back a full step.
“Marcus,” he snapped, no more Detective now, no more polite deference. “Go. Now.”
Marcus arched a brow at the change in tone, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he gave the smallest shrug, smoothing the front of his uniform with one hand.
“Bit dramatic,” he murmured.
Brett surged again.
This time it took the officer and a security guard who had rushed in behind the nurses to keep him from reaching the door.
“Brett!” Your voice tore out of you enough to make his head snapped toward you. You were crying so hard you could barely breathe. “Brett,” you choked again, a plea.
Marcus watched all of it.
Every second.
Every gasp of breath.
Then he smiled.
It was small. Barely there.
But you saw it.
“Cute.” he said quietly.
Brett took one step toward him, no one stopping him this time, and pointed at the door.
“Get out.”
“Of course.” He looked past Brett to you one last time, his voice dropping into something almost soft. “We’ll finish our conversation another time.”
Your stomach rolled.
The nurse beside you stiffened, clearly hearing the implication even if she didn’t understand it. By then you were sobbing outright, your breaths broken and frantic, tears flowing freely soaking your hospital gown.
“Hey. Hey, look at me.” Brett dropped to the edge of the bed, cupping your face in both hands. His palms were warm and rough and shaking almost as hard as you were. “Look at me, sweetheart. He’s gone.”
And somehow that made the panic worse. Abby. Where was Abby?
Brett pressed his forehead against yours, careful of the bandages wrapped around your head, his breathing harsh and uneven.
“Listen to me.” His hands slid down to hold your wrists, feeling your pulse. “He doesn’t get near her. He doesn’t get near you. Do you understand me?”
“I should’ve told you,” you cried.
“Told me what?”
“The message. The photo. The night Abigail—“ A sob ripped out of you so loudly it sounded like a scream. The nurse beside you jumped, Brett held onto you tighter.
“What photo? Honey what photo?”
A nurse reached over him to push something into your IV.
“Sedative’s in,” she said softly to the others. “Give it a minute.”
“Wait a second—“ Brett’s head snapped towards the nurse and then back to you. “What are you talking about? What didn’t you tell me?”
“Marcus— he—“ the tears began to slow as your eyelids grew heavy. You fought the sedation, or at least tried to. The fatigue creeping into every bone in your body. “He did it.”
The alarms had quieted some, though your pulse still thudded too fast beneath your skin.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
“I know,” he whispered back. “I know, baby.”
And then you slipped under.
And Marcus? Marcus had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
You hesitated outside of the church, its bells ringing somberly as the rain hit the pavement around you. The droplets hitting your cheek and mixing with your tears. Your leg still ached as you climbed the stairs with a slight limp.
A hand found the small of your back and you jumped, turning to find Brett. Standing in front of you in his Class A uniform, his curls extra defined from the dampness of the rain. He clutched Michael’s service pamphlet in his hands, on it a photo of him with a toothless grin.
“Brett what are you—“ you jumped again as the bells rang once more. “You didn’t have to—“
“Yes I did.” Brett interrupted, “Michael is important to you. I’m not letting you do this alone.”
“I don’t think I can go in there.” You shook your head as you stared at the church doors. “How can I face his family?”
“I’ll be right behind you, okay?”
“His mother— what if she sees me and all she can think is that’s the woman who couldn’t save my son?”
“She wont.”
“You don’t know that, Brett.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But I do know what I saw when I entered that classroom, and what she may or may not think doesn’t change that. So we are going to go in there and get through this one minute at a time. Right now all you have to do is get through those doors.”
“What do I even say? What do you say to a mother when you’re the one who held her son while he died?”
“You tell her the truth,” he said gently.
Your face crumpled.
“What truth is there, Brett? That I found him too late? That I couldn’t get him breathing again? That I sat there and kept trying while the room burned around us and it still wasn’t enough?”
“No. The truth that her little boy wasn’t alone.”
Your breath caught.
Brett stepped in closer, forcing your eyes up to his, cupping your face in his hands. God he wanted to kiss you so badly.
“You tell her that when everything went to hell, Michael had someone with him who loved him enough to stay. You tell her he wasn’t left on some classroom floor by himself. You tell her you fought for him until I physically pulled you away.”
“I keep thinking she’s gonna hate me. That I’m not even welcome here.”
“She might,” Brett said, honest as ever. “Grief makes people do impossible things. It makes them look for somewhere to put all that pain. But if she does, you let her. You let her be angry if she needs to be angry. You let her hate the universe, or you, or me, or whoever she needs to hate for five minutes just to survive the day.”
And then you moved. Up the stone church steps that were shiny from the rain that still fell. Brett opened the door to the church, to which you were met with sobs. A closed casket sitting in the front of the church. There should never be a casket that small, you thought to yourself. It was his favorite color, blue, and was draped in hundreds of flowers. There was a framed picture beside it, the same toothless grin from the pamphlet, his cheeks round , his little tie crooked in the school photo because he’d probably been squirming while they took it.
His family stood in the front row, hugging and sobbing against those who gave their condolences. Brett’s hand never left your back, the other gripping your bicep to steady you as you limped towards the front of the room. The tears fell freely, your breath hitching as you fought you catch your breath.
His father stood first.
You recognized him immediately even without the muddy work boots and ball cap he usually wore at school pickup. Now he was dressed in all black.
Next to him? His wife.
Brett shook his hand first, offering his condolences and any aid the family may need. The fire department had already started a fundraiser for the victims families, much to Brett’s persistence.
Michael’s mother stared at you.
You opened your mouth but nothing came out. At least not at first.
“Mr and Mrs. Donaldson, I’m so sorry. God— I’m so sorry.” Without hesitation, the two of you fell into each other, arms pulling each other close as sobs ripped through your body. “I should’ve gotten to him sooner. I should’ve found him sooner, I should’ve—”
“No.” His mother shook her head. “They told us what you did for those children. They told us you went back for Michael when you realized he was still inside— that you stayed with him.”
“I held him, Mrs. Donaldson. I held him the whole time.”
“Thank you,” she wept. “Thank you for not letting my baby be alone.”
Your knees buckled just enough that Brett had to catch you, both hands moving to steady you as the sobs ripped through your chest. You grabbed fistfuls of his damp dress uniform.
The room spun, and Brett noticed immediately. He grabbed your purse and pulled out some glucose tablets you had tucked away in your side pocket. He handed you one discreetly, holding on to keep you upright.
Michael's mother grabbed your hand as you began to step away.
“Will you sit with us?”
You looked at Brett immediately, panic flashing bright and ugly through your chest. Sit with them? In the front row? In full view of the casket and every grieving person in the room?
Brett read the terror on your face instantly.
But Michael was your baby.
So you nodded.
“You sure?” Brett murmured.
No.
Absolutely not.
“I’m sure.”
He kissed the top of your head then offered you his hand.
“Then let’s go sit with your boy.”
Michael’s mother slid over to make room.
You sat beside her with Brett on your other side, his knee touching yours, his hand immediately finding yours in the folds of your black dress you had been gripping so tightly.
You don’t remember the service, just that your chest ached from your sobs. Brett sat close, arm wrapped tightly around your shoulder, pressing kisses into your hair.
The organ was loud, playing it’s beautiful haunting hymns— the priest delivering his sermons. You shut your eyes tightly, burying your head into Brett’s neck every time Michael’s mother let out a blood curdling scream.
When the mass was over, Brett grabbed your arm and helped you up. When you looked up at him he was frozen, eyes burning into the back of the church. Turning your head you saw him, Marcus— leaning against the back wall of the church, watching you.
You whimpered. The fact he’d stoop this low. That he slithered into this little boy's funeral to watch you unravel. You felt your knees buckle and sat down in the pew. Brett kneeled in front of you, grabbing your hands.
“Listen to me,” he whispered, “we are gonna walk out of this church and you keep your head down, you hear me?”
You nodded.
“If he says anything to you, you keep your head down or you look at me.”
And then you walked. Moving down the aisle, eyes down as Brett held onto you for dear life. Your leg ached, and your hands trembled by your side. You limp had worsened, and Brett slowed his step to accommodate you, giving your arm a squeeze of assurance.
Your eyes stayed fixed on his shoes, the leather reflecting the chandeliers hanging above you.
Almost there.
Mere steps away—
“Tragic, isn’t it?”
Marcus had pushed off the wall.
You hadn’t looked up. Hadn’t disobeyed Brett.
“Brett,” you whispered, panic flooding your voice.
“I know. Keep walking.”
Marcus stepped into the aisle, just enough to block the path for the door.
“Move.” Brett hissed.
“I came to pay my respects, Chief.”
“I said move, Detective.” Brett brushed past him, pushing through the doors into the steady rain.
“Ya know,” Marcus called behind you. “You don’t have to go through all this trouble, Chief. She was easy enough to get in my bed. Sitting through some kids funeral isn’t gonna score you brownie points.”
You gasped. Your body propelled backwards as Brett lunged forwards. Losing your footing, your body slammed into a stone pillar as Brett’s first landed against Marcus’ jaw with a deafening crack.
“If you ever speak about her like that again,” He grabbed the front of Marcus’s uniform with both fists, slamming him back against the door enough to rattle the stained-glass windows above them. Before he could finish, Marcus laughed.
Actually laughed.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he looked Brett directly in the eye.
“Touch a nerve, Chief?”
Brett shoved him harder.
“I’ll kill you.”
Firefighters who had attended the funeral came sprinting down the church aisle, followed by two off-duty police officers who’d been paying their respects.
It took four grown men to pry Brett away.
“Chief!”
“Enough!”
“Let him go!”
His chest heaved, curls plastered to his forehead from rain and sweat.
Marcus straightened slowly, pressing his uniform with his hands, one eye already swelling shut.
He looked at Brett.
Then at you.
You struggled to stand upright, gripping the stone column as your knees shook to hold your weight.
“Brett,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Please…”
He turned immediately.
The second he saw you clinging to the pillar, white as a ghost, tears streaming down your face, he was moving. He lowered you carefully onto the church steps instead of letting you collapse, one hand supporting your back while the other cradled your jaw. His hand came up, brushing damp hair away from the side of your face.
“Come on,” he helped you to your feet after assuring you were okay. “I’m gonna take you home.”
He slipped an arm carefully around your waist, keeping your injured side against him as he guided you down the slick church steps.
“Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you, yeah?”
When they reached his truck, Brett opened the passenger door before turning back to you.
“You wanna try getting in yourself?”
You nodded.
You made it exactly one step.
Pain shot through your leg, and your knee buckled beneath you.
Before panic could even register, Brett’s arms were around you.
“I’ve got you.”
“I know.” you snapped back, defeated.
Without another word, he scooped you up and buckled you in as your head fell against the headrest.
Rain drummed softly against the windshield as Brett drove with both hands on the wheel, his knuckles still split and bleeding from where he’d hit Marcus.
You were quiet. Eyes almost catatonic and lifeless. Brett glanced over every so often to make sure you were still with him. That you hadn’t gone too far away.
Pulling into your driveway, you listened to the hum of the engine and the squeak of his windshield wipers.
“I wasn’t— I’m not—“ you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, trying your best to keep the tears at bay. “I don’t want you to think I’m easy. That I’m some skank.”
Brett leaned across the console without another word and wrapped you in his arms as best he could in the cramped cab of the truck.
“Enough. Don’t let him get in your head.”
Outside, rain continued to fall against the windows.
Inside, you buried your face against his shoulder.
“I’m so tired,” you whispered.
“I know, sweetheart. Let’s get you inside.”
The house was a mess.
Not dirty. Abandoned.
Mail littered the entryway floor where you’d let it pile up after getting home from the hospital. Dishes sat untouched in the sink. Clothes piled against the laundry room door.
And scattered throughout the living room:
Empty bottles.
Wine.
Beer.
Vodka.
He helped you toward the bedroom without a word, one arm still carefully around your waist. Opening the door he found a bottle on the nightstand, one tipped on its side in the bed, some cans on the floor.
You sat at the edge of the bed as he helped you out of your shoes and wet clothes, tossing them into the mountainous pile in the corner of the room. Left in nothing but your bra and underwear, you crawled under the covers and pulled the blanket up to your chest. You didn’t want to bother with clothes.
Your whole body ached, your chest feeling as if it were about to cave in. Except not from the physical pain, but the grief. You reached to your side table for a bottle only to find it was empty.
“Can you get—“ you looked away from him. “There should be another bottle in the kitchen.”
Instead, Brett sat on the side of the bed, pulling your face towards him. His gaze was fixed on yours. The hollowing of your eyes, your sunken cheeks.
“You should go to sleep.”
“It makes it stop,” you whispered. “Just for a little while.”
Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
Brett swallowed hard. Eyes drifting briefly toward the empty bottles scattered around the room before returning to you.
“You’ve been doing this every night?”
You didn’t answer.
You couldn’t.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
Still nothing.
“The last you’ve slept?”
Shame crept up as you spoke now.
“If I don’t, I have the dream.”
Now Brett was the quiet one.
“I’m helping them put their backpacks way. Lily is at the first to her table, she’s coloring of picture of her cat Pixie; she loves her cat. Brooks is already asking to go outside. And then suddenly I start to panic. I remember what’s about to happen— like I’ve been there before, just reliving it over and over.”
Brett was running his hands across your forehead.
“I start screaming for them to run. I try to get to Michael first. I never make it. But if I have enough— the dreams go away. Please, Brett.”
So Brett watched as you drank. Wishing he could do anything to take it away. The bottle. The pain. Your grief.
Each sip your body grew heavier, melting into the sheets. Your eyelids fluttering closed until your breath began to slow and your hands went limp around the bottle.
"The America I loved still exists, if not in the White House or the Supreme Court or the Senate or the House of Representatives or the media. The America I love still exists at the front desks of our public libraries."
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I honestly think Gen-Z and younger simply does not understand how recent widespread smartphone adoption is.
I am not that old, and I didn't have a smartphone until probably late high school. For most of my life, many if not most people were not walking around with a magic internet machine in their pocket that they pulled out and used constantly for everything.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x girlfriend!reader
Warnings: fluff, emotional, mentions of medical cases, pregnancy.
Summary: A small gift box changes Jack's entire world forever.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
It was just after 7 AM on a Sunday. You carefully balanced a wooden breakfast tray on your forearm. On it sat two plates of eggs and bacon, a stack of pancakes, and two mugs of black coffee.
Right on cue, the front door clicked open. A moment later, Jack appeared in the bedroom doorway.
"Tell me I'm not hallucinating," he murmured. "Did I die on the way home and go to heaven?"
"Not quite, handsome," you teased, setting the tray carefully on the nightstand. "Just a girlfriend who knows exactly what a twelve hour shift feels like. Come here."
He walked over, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and left a soft kiss in your neck.
"You're my lifesaver," he whispered against your skin.
Jack sat down on the edge of the mattress. You watched as he leaned forward to unfasten the straps of his prosthetic leg. It was a routine as natural to the two of you as breathing. He slipped the socket off, setting the prosthetic carefully against the nightstand. He rubbed the residual limb with a sigh, the tension visibly leaving his lower back, before swinging his leg up and propping himself up against the pillows.
You slid into bed right beside him, pulling the duvet over both of your laps and settling the breakfast tray between you.
Jack immediately reached for the coffee, taking a long gulp. "God. I needed this so bad."
"Rough night?" you asked, cutting into a pancake.
He leaned his head back against the headboard. "The usual Saturday night madness. Two vehicle accidents, a couple of bar fights, and a teenager who thought fireworks in June were a brilliant idea. But..." He trailed off, his eyes turning a little distant as he stared at his coffee mug. "...there was one case right at the end of the shift that’s still sticking with me."
"Yeah? What happened?"
Jack took a slow breath. "A guy came in. Severe chest pains, classic myocardial infarction. We had to rush him straight to the cath lab. His kid was with him, must’ve been no older than seven or eight. Just sitting in the waiting room, crying, holding a handmade card he’d drawn."
Jack looked over at you. "The kid kept asking if his dad was gonna make it, because he couldn't give him his draw if he didn't wake up. It hit me right in the chest when I realized the date." He offered a poignant smile. "It’s Sunday. It’s Father’s Day."
You reached across the tray, slipping your hand into his. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours, squeezing tightly. "Did the dad make it?" you asked softly.
"Yeah," Jack nodded with relief. "We got the blockage in time. Stable, recovering in the ICU. Before I clocked out, I walked past the room and saw the kid sitting on the edge of the bed, helping his dad hold the draw. Just... totally protective of his old man."
The bedroom fell into a quiet silence. Jack stared down at your joined hands, his thumb tracing circles over your knuckles.
"Seeing them like that," Jack said, his voice dropping quieter now. "It made me think. I spent so many years just focusing on surviving, on the ER, on just making it through the day. I never really let myself look past the next shift."
He lifted his eyes to meet yours, intense and full of an emotion that made your heart skip a beat.
"But looking at that kid today… and then coming home to you, seeing you waiting for me like this… it made me want it, again. For some time, I've been thinking about it, really wanting it, you know?" He swallowed hard. "A family. With you. I want to be that guy one day. The one getting the messy handmade draws."
A sudden rush of warmth blooming in your chest.
"You're going to be an incredible father, Jack," you whispered looking into his eyes. "You’re already the most protective and caring man I know."
A radiant smile broke across Jack’s face, reaching all the way to his eyes and crinkling the corners.
"Yeah?" he murmured playing with your fingers.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, but a sudden wave of nerves and excitement fluttered in your stomach. You hesitated for a second, testing the waters. "How exactly do you see yourself as a father? You think you can handle diaper duty after a twelve hour trauma shift?"
Jack chuckled, leaning his head back against the pillows as he genuinely thought about it. "Honestly? I think I’d be the overprotective dad who checks their breathing every five minutes. And I’ll just use my trauma precision to handle the swaddling. And I'll probably be the guy teaching them how to throw a baseball while completely ruining my prosthetic." He smiled warmly, looking at you. "And with you by my side? I think I'd be a pretty damn good one."
You bit your lip, a wide smile breaking across your face that you couldn't suppress.
"Well," you said, your voice suddenly a little breathless, "I certainly hope you'll be a good father."
Before he could register the sudden shift in your tone, you abruptly moved the breakfast tray off your laps.
"Okay, why the rush? Where's the fire?" Jack blinked, startled, as you hurriedly carried the tray across the room and set it down on the small table by the window.
"Just clearing the blast zone," you teased, your hands shaking slightly with adrenaline. You walked over to your dresser, pulled a small wrapped gift box from the top drawer, and walked back to the bed.
Jack watched you, thoroughly confused now, his eyebrows furrowing as you slid back under the covers and handed him the box. "What’s this? Did you buy me a gift? Something on sale for Father's Day?"
"Shut up and open it," you chuckled, sitting next to him.
Jack gave you a suspicious look as he pulled the ribbon.
He lifted the lid, removing a layer of white tissue paper.
His tired look vanished from his face instantly.
Resting at the bottom of the box was a tiny small pair of knit newborn shoes. And resting right beside them was a white plastic stick with two distinct and undeniable pink lines.
The bedroom went completely silent.
Jack froze as his brain tried to process what he was looking at. He stared at the positive pregnancy test with his chest rising and falling in quick breaths.
"Are you..." Jack’s voice cracked completely, his throat tight. He looked up at you, his eyes suddenly glassy and swimming with tears. "Is this... are we...?"
"Happy first Father's Day, Jack," you choked out, tears of your own finally spilling over.
Jack carefully placed the box on the nightstand next to his bed, his hands trembling so badly he didn't want to risk dropping it.
The moment his hands were free, he lunged forward, catching your face. "I love you, i love you, i love you." he said placing kisses all over your face. "God, I'm so happy, I'm gonna be a dad," he muffled against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. "We're going to be a family."
"Yes, handsome, you're going to get a lot of messy handmade draws."
Jack hooked his arms under your thighs and waist. In one effortless motion, he lifted you directly onto his lap. You gasped in surprise, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself as you straddled his good leg, your knees framing his waist.
Jack didn’t hesitate. He cupped the back of your neck with one hand, his fingers tangling in your hair, while his other hand anchored firmly around your lower back, pulling your hips flush against his.
Then, he leaned up and kissed you.
It was a passionate, deep, and utterly breathless kiss. His lips parted yours with possessive tenderness, tasting the salt of your shared tears as he poured everything he was feeling into the kiss.
It was a promise, a thank you, and a declaration of absolute devotion all wrapped into one.
You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, leaning into him completely, melting against his chest. You could feel the emotional tremble in his lips.
When he pulled back, he didn't let you go, he kept his forehead pressed firmly against yours. His hand moved down to rest flat against your stomach, his fingers spreading wide over the fabric of your shirt, already protectively.
"You have no idea of the happiness I'm feeling right now," Jack whispered, his voice was so intense with emotions tjhat it made your heart ache. "You have absolutely no idea how much I love you."
You are my destiny! - Part I (Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
Summary: There is a custom that dates back to the Andals that says, "If you put a miniature version of the Maiden inside a large cake for the feast of the Maiden celebrations, the lady who finds it is destined to marry that same year and have a child the following year."
You are this year's lucky lady… You nearly lost a tooth as a result, but the court dismisses it as a joke by the Maiden.
You were one of only a few women in the Seven Kingdoms whose marriage was annulled due to infertility. Your husband annulled the marriage because you did not have children after nearly a decade of marriage.
Even though you were relieved to be free of your awful husband, you live a lonely life because no man wants to marry you.
You accept your fate until the feast of the Maiden, and you catch the eye of the Lord Hand.
Word Count: 3,519
Tags: Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Past Domestic Violence, Infertility, Pregnancy, Child Marriage, Period-Typical Sexism
Baelor’s mismatched eyes surveyed the ballroom.
Everything is going well… so far.
Today is the feast of the Maiden, and all the daughters of the great houses were brought to the Red Keep. The main purpose: to find suitable husbands. All the mothers of Westeros made sure their daughters wore the best gowns and best jewels coin could afford. They whispered among themselves about who has recently become widowed, who is looking for a bride, and who has the best land and titles.
Baelor wasn’t spared.
He doesn't have enough fingers on his hands to count how many Ladies approached them with their daughters and introduced them to him. The daughters would curtsy to him and speak to him with their sweetest voices. Some of them were as young as fifteen. Baelor politely went away from this conversation, feeling a little bit irritable with the attitude of some of these mothers.
He has been a widower for quite some time, and he has made no attempt to find himself a second wife. His mother probably wished he had a wife and, for her, more grandchildren. He has two healthy sons, one who is already married. His line is set, and there’s no need for a wife and more children.
“I can’t believe she’s actually here!” He heard one lady whisper, horrified.
“The nerve! She’s walking bad omen!”
“How could she do that to her own cousins?"
He looked over and saw who they were talking about.
A woman wearing a grey gown enters the ballroom with two young ladies behind her. Some courtiers stopped their conversation and openly gawked at her with curiosity, mockery, disdain and a bit of pity
“Ser Delaney.” He called for his steward. “Who is that Lady and why does her presence cause this much fuss?”
Ser Delaney tells Baelor the woman’s name and house.
“Her husband divorced her.” Ser Delaney whispered. “That’s why they’re staring at her like that.”
“Divorce?” Baelor asked, surprised. “On what grounds?”
"Barrenness, my Prince," His steward explained. “She had been wedded to Ser Helios for almost a decade, and her belly not once swelled. He got the same Septon that wedded them to annul the union. He got remarried a few months later.”
It’s almost impossible to get a marriage annulled. The only ways to get an annulment are impotence, non-consummation and barrenness. There must have been enough proof for a Septon to come to that decision.
Baelor looks at her as discreetly as he can. He watched as the lady and who he assumes to be her cousins sat down. The younger of the two girls is looking around at people staring at them with her head low and her shoulders tensed. The woman in grey gently tipped her cousin's head forward. They shared a look and then a smile. A silent conversation that was enough to ease the young girl’s discomfort.
Baelor smiled at that interaction; it reminded him of when he was younger and his mother would tell him to keep his chin up when the courtiers commented on his Dornish side.
A Lord comes inside with who Baelor assumes to be his daughter. The Lord looked at the Lady in grey, and he smirked mockingly in her direction. Some people take great pleasure in other people's misery.
“That’s the Lady’s former husband," Ser Delaney whispered.
Baelor hummed as he looked at her. The Lady in Grey didn’t pay attention to her former husband. She quietly sipped her wine and talked with the people at the table with a composed face.
“The young lady he just entered with is his new wife."
Baelor looked at his steward with a haughty look. He assumed she could be a younger family member. His steward shared the same expression as him.
...
“The Florent boy is looking at you," You teased.
Your cousin Muriel blushed. “No, he’s not!”
Your other cousin, Muriel’s sister, Mina, laughed. "Yes, he is!”
You smiled at their antics.
These Lords and Ladies expected you to lock yourself in your family’s keep and drown in your misery, but no. Just because you are no longer a wife doesn’t mean you are not a person. If you want to join a feast with your cousins, you will. Your former husband can flaunt his child bride all he wants; you will not cease to exist just because he made your vows void.
“He’s so handsome.” Muriel said dreamily.
“Then you should talk to the Florent boy.” You said.
“Not him!” Your cousin corrected. “The Hand.”
You and Mina stared at the high table where Prince Baelor was talking to the lord next to him. He looked handsome indeed.
“You think the song is true," Mina asked.
“What song?” You asked.
“You know…” Your cousin shrugged her shoulders. “The song.”
You glared at her through the corner of your eye. “You are not supposed to know that song.”
“I know, but it’s so catchy!” She groaned and mumbled under her breath. “Country was in peril; the Anvil was a rock. The Hammer smashed the bastard with his giant veiny—"
And as if he could hear from afar, Prince Baelor turned his head and looked directly at your table. You and your cousins turn away so quickly your necks made a snapping noise, and you three burst into laughter, not caring about the looks thrown your way.
The feast went on. Wine flowed and the music kept on. The Florent boy approached the table and asked Muriel for a dance, which the girl happily accepted with blushed cheeks. You and Mina stayed at the table talking and enjoying the cake when another Lord approached her and asked her for a dance; she too accepted and joined her sister on the dance floor.
You remained.
Part of you is happy that your reputation didn't disturb her cousins’ prospects, just like those other nobles whispered.
The other part of you feels empty.
No Lord as looked at you with anything but pity or like you were a walking disease. No Lord appraoched you and asked you for a dance. You don’t think that will ever happen.
You look at the table where your former husband and his new wife sat. He looked happy and he was surrounded by various people. How can he forsake his vows to you and still be surrounded with warmth while you are the one that has to be the pariah? Is it because you barely fought for your marriage like a good noble lady should? What was the point in fighting for something that was as barren as your womb?
“Cake, my lady?” A servant asked with a tray full of cakes.
You nodded, and the servant placed the plate on the table.
“Thank you.”
You grabbed your fork and started eating the cake. You moaned at the taste. It was a delicious cake with berries and a hint of vanilla. You eat the cake while keeping an eye on your cousins, making sure those boys didn't take any liberties with their hands. You take another bite, and suddenly pain suddenly floods your mouth. Blood floods your mouth immediately, and the metallic taste mixes horribly with the sweetness of the cake. You drop your fork and clasp your jaw as you groan in pain.
Conversations at the surrounding table stop.
You feel something hard in your mouth, and you think it’s your tooth. You forgot all the decorum and spit on your plate. Blood, pieces of cake and an object fall on the plate. You look at what you think is your tooth, but to your relief, it isn't. It was bigger than a tooth, and it was mint green instead of white.
“What a…” You mumbled.
“My lady, are you alright?” A kind male voice asked.
You look up, and to your horror, it was Prince Baelor, and you present yourself to the heir to the throne with blood caking your lips and teeth. Words were stuck in your throat.
Prince Baelor didn't care that you didn't answer him. He took out a handkerchief and handed it to you. You hesitantly accept it and press it to your mouth; you could smell wax and parchment.
Your cousins approached you and checked on you while Prince Baelor inspected the object that was on your mouth with the fork. His brows furrowed as he looked at it.
“What is that?” Muriel asked, grossed out.
“The Maiden, I believe.” The Prince answered.
You take a closer look at it, and he is correct. It was a small miniature of the maiden with her serene face and gentle smile. How did it end up on the cake?
“Bessie!” A servant cried out. “They found it!”
A woman in an apron covered in flour ran into the hall. That must be Bessie. She runs to your table, not caring about the blood in your mouth or the presence of the prince. She reaches the plate and picks up the miniature of the maiden that was covered in your blood and spit. Mina gags.
“Oh, my lady! You have been blessed.” She tells you with joy as she holds the figure of the maiden up in the air like a war trophy. "Congratulations!"
You let out an indignant noise. Blessed with what? A chipped tooth?
“The Lady is bleeding.” Prince Baelor said with a firm tone that sent shivers down your spine. He put his hand on your shoulder, and you could hear your heart beating in your ears. “She could’ve choked as well. A Lady as been harmed under my roof. Explain yourself or you and your fellow workers will find work elsewhere."
Bessie’s face became white. He didn't raise his voice, not once, but you could hear the promise in his tone.
“My Prince.” The cook cleared her throat. “At every feast of the Maiden, I put a miniature figure on our cake batter, and the maiden who finds it is destined to be wed by the end of the year and have a child within the next. It’s a tradition in my hometown, and it always comes true.”
There’s laughter behind you. It’s a cruel and cold laugh. You recognised that laughter; it’s your former husband’s. He laughed just like that when the Septon declared your union null and void.
You’ve been married for almost ten years, and red has always stained your sheets. When you were late for a few days, you held your breath and then let out a disappointed sigh. You drank tonics that midwives promised to boost fertility, but it only made you want to throw up. You laid on your back and gripped the sheets so hard that your hands cramped when various maesters put their cold hands and instruments between your legs. You held babies in your arms, and for a few minutes you pretended they were yours. You kneeled in front of the statue of the mother and prayed feverishly.
Humiliations flood your body, and you want to disappear.
“I meant no harm, m’lord!" Bessie said, thinking they were laughing at her. “The lady has been chosen by the Maiden!”
You couldn’t control yourself and sobbed into the Prince’s handkerchief.
A hand smashes against the table, rattling the cups and utensils and quieting down the laughter. You look up and see the Prince’s balled fist on the table. He looked at the table where your former husband was sitting with a ferocity that made you wonder if that is how a dragon is supposed to look.
“Ser Delaney, please escort the lady and her cousins to a washroom so that she can clean herself.”
He stared at you, and all of the harshness in his mismatched eyes evaporated, and his gaze softened as he held his hand towards you. You accepted his hand, and he helped you get up. You followed the steward out of the hall with your cousins by your side and eyes staring at you, but you only hoped that the Prince still had his on you.
...
Baelor let out a tired sigh as he walked to the washroom.
The feast has gone well if you ignore the cake accident.
If Baelor had a motive, he would ban Ser Helios from the keep. He can still feel the way her shoulder tensed under his hand when that man laughed cruelly at her, and the sound of her sob echoed in his ear. He’ll make sure the lady and her cousins are settled comfortably and under his care for the remainder of the festival.
He stands in front of the door but stops the guard from announcing his presence. He listened in to the conversation. He listened to the sound of water in the basin and the two young ladies talking to each other. If his old Septa saw him now, she would pull his ear until it turned red.
“That baker is foolish!” He heard one of her cousins say. “Who puts a choking hazard on a cake? What if you had choked instead of harming your mouth?”
“Well, Prince Baelor would’ve probably saved her!" The other cousin said. “Did you see the way he ran the moment she let out that painful screech? For a moment it looked like he was flying.”
Baelor smiled softly but shyly.
The reason why he was so quick to go to her side is because he was staring at her right until she spit out that miniature.
He didn’t mean to. His gaze just kept drifting to that table, and he couldn’t look away. She smiled beautifully, and when her gaze saddened, he just wanted to go to her and bring back that smile. When the cake was placed in front of her, his heart made a funny movement when her tongue poked out and licked the cream off the fork. Then it made another when she winced and let out a pained groan. He jumped off his chair when she leaned forward and spat out blood on the plate.
“And how would he save her? Shoving his fingers down her throat? It would’ve made it worse!”
“Probably!” She giggled. “Have you seen the size of his hands?”
Baelor unconsciously looked at his hands. They’re average for all he knows.
“They probably felt nice.” The cousin teased.
The Lady finally spoke. “By the Seven! He touched my shoulder, not my tit!”
The trio burst into laughter, and the guards at the door turned their heads away to avoid eye contact with the Prince. Baelor eavesdropped enough. With the tips of his ears red, he ordered the guard to announce his presence.
“Prince Baelor Targaryen, my ladies!” The guard announced.
The laughing stopped.
The door opens and he goes in. The three ladies go to the centre of the room and curtsy to him. The cousin, Mina, was biting her lip, trying to contain the laughter that was still stuck in her throat. The other cousin, Muriel, was looking down, begging the floor to swallow her. The Lady, the woman he came to see, was looking directly at him.
“My lady.” Baelor nodded at her. “If you need a Maester, I would be glad to send my personal maester to check on you.”
“You are too kind, my prince.” She said. “The wound has stopped bleeding, so there's no need to create such a fuss.”
"Nonsense." Baelor said quickly. He cleared his throat. “You are a guest, and your comfort is my priority.”
The Lady smiled and she wrung the handkerchief, his handkerchief, in her hands.
“If there’s anything you need… you can come to me.”
The two younger cousins share a look and have a silent conversation among themselves.
“Thank you, your grace.” She looked at the handkerchief in her hand. “Unfourtnulyey, there’s blood on the handkerchief you so kindly gave me. I’ll be sure it’s thoroughly cleaned before returning it to you.”
“Keep it.” Baelor said softly. “Will I still be seeing you at the feast again?”
The Lady smiled sadly and shook her head. “I’m afraid not, my prince. I feel I had my fill of them.”
Baelor buried his disappointment. He understood why. There were a few Lords and Ladies whispering about the baker’s words and how the Gods make funny jests once in a while. He’s not much of a believer like his namesake, but he does wonder if the Maiden has plans for the Lady in front of him. Perhaps it’s just a silly superstition.
...
You stay up at night and stare at the handkerchief Prince Baelor gave to you. The bloodstains have faded thanks to the hard work of the laundress. Part of you, for an unknown reason, felt disappointed you couldn't smell that faint scent of musk and parchment.
You can still remember the way he looked at you. You wonder if he knows your story. If he did, you’ll never forget the way his gaze held no judgement whatsoever and looked like a true person.
The Prince told you to keep it, but as you traced the stitches that formed the dragon sigil, you decided you wanted to do more. At the first sign of light, you sat on the chair near the window and started to embroider. By noon you were done.
You walked through the halls searching for the familiar form of the Lord Hand. You found him in the gardens with his oldest son, Valarr. You smiled but you stopped yourself. Doubt starts to settle in like an uninvited guest.
Would he even accept your gift? He was just being kind to you, nothing else.
You look at the handkerchief in your hand. It’s not perfect now that you take a closer look at it when the sun is at its peak. You did it in such a hurry. The dragon you stitched was a bit crooked; the heads were different sizes, and it looked more like a gecko than a powerful dragon.
You bit your lips as anxiety flooded you. You should leave. You lift your head and your heart skips a beat when you see Prince Baelor staring at you. It starts to beat faster when he says something to Valarr and walks towards you.
You bow when he reaches you.
“My lady, is there anything I can help you with?" He asks gently.
You clear your throat. “I wished to thank you once more for the other day.”
He smiled. “As I told you before, your comfort is my priority."
“Even so, I wish to express my gratitude even more.” You presented him the handkerchief.
Prince Baelor barely looks at it and grabs your hand carefully. Your body shivers with the contact. “My lady, I told you there’s no need to return it…”
“I made it!” You stop him, and you curse yourself for speaking that way with him.
He blinked and looked at the hand holding yours, now noticing how different the piece of fabric on your hand is compared to the one he gave you. He grabs it and holds it carefully. His mismatched eyes analyse the stitches in front of him.
He looks up at you, and his gaze looks different. Relaxed, you could say. “Thank you, my lady.”
“It’s not perfect…” You try to say it.
“It does not matter.” He says softly. “And it being made by your bare hands makes it even more… special.”
You smiled shyly. “The dragon looks like an angry gecko.”
Prince Baelor laughed. “It does look a bit like one. Thank you, once again, my lady.”
You nodded. “You’re welcome, my prince.”
You bowed one more time and left.
Your whole body felt tingly.
...
She made it for him.
She created something with her own hands just for him. Not because she wanted favour with him but because she wanted to thank him and nothing else. Something inside Baelor warmed up.
He carefully traced the stitches. It was not perfect, but he did not care. This was his.
Baelor was so focused on the cloth that he did not hear Valarr call for him until he stood right next to him.
Baelor blinked and looked at his son. “Yes, son?”
“Are you alright?” His son asks.
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve been calling for you for quite some time and you didn’t answer.”
"Apologies, I was..." He tried to find the words.
“Is that the lady you mentioned the other day at supper? The one whose tooth broke was almost broken by the maiden.”
“Yes, it was her.” He confirmed. “She just wished to thank me one more time.”
“She’s also the one whose marriage got…”
“Let us not speak of someone who is not here to speak for themselves, Valarr.” Baelor snapped, feeling the urge of protecting her even though he knows Valarr wouldn't say anything inflammatory towards her.
Valarr raised a brow but nodded his head. “Of course, father.”
They started walking.
“I do wish to add one thing.” Valarr said after a while. “Her ‘husband’ is quite a pathetic man if you ask me.”
I am so ready for more of this!! The concept is perfect and I can't wait for until the marriage with Baelor happens and then the ex-husband is the one looked down on!
tags: andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader, !!!possible spoilers for the animal kingdom finale!!!, near-death experience, hurt andrew, canon typical violence, mentions of death, blood, non-descriptive injuries, andrew gets his happy ending, 18+ MDNI
notes: I saw that one Shawn interview where he spoke about how different he'd make Pope's ending, and I couldn't help but want to write it into existence in my own way. I hope you all enjoy this, if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here! enjoy! and if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here!
word count: 4.5k
Andrew’s bleeding body and betrayed soul burned almost as hot as the house behind him.
Flames threw heat against his back with every staggering step he took. His large hand pressed against the wounds littering his torso, his shirt squishing wetly under his palm. Each inhale and exhale caused spurts of blood to continue soaking the fabric. Exhaustion dragged him down like a ball and chain; he was so tired.
He wondered if this was it, if he was about to just give up in the house that started it all. Surely someone had already called about the fire; surely cops and other federal officers were on their way. But even with those thoughts, Andrew couldn’t help but worry about everyone but himself.
The pool lapped in crashing, rhythmic waves against the concrete side, a calm sound compared to the raging chaos around him. With a grunt, he lowered himself to sit on the edge, boots coming to rest on the first stair, the fabric instantly soaking in the chlorine scented water. His body ached, ached, ached, and his mind reeled with the last hour where everything went so horribly wrong.
His betraying nephew, his lost and probably injured baby brothers, his fading life; Andrew wasn’t sure which one hurt the most.
With shaking hands, he pulled out two items from his back pocket: his phone and a small photo. The corners of his mouth failed to turn at the sight of his younger self and his sweet-looking twin that he had failed so many years ago; J had made sure that his failure to protect her sank deeper and hurt more than his wounds. A small sob pushed out in one puff of air, and a singular tear made its way across his cheeks, mixing with the blood trickling from a cut near his eye.
Andrew placed the photo down carefully and looked at his phone second. Behind him, the fire continued to roar on, leaving no part of the famous Cody house untouched. His attention should have been on getting out of there, on finding Deran and Craig, but all he could think about was the phone call he had to make. For a split second, he hesitated, thumb frozen over the contact, before he touched the screen.
You picked up in two rings. “Andy?” you breathed, voice already filled with a panic that made his heart clench. “Andy, what’s going on. I saw—you were being transferred, but—the news, I don’t know what’s happening.”
He pinched his eyes shut, allowing more tears to squeeze their way out of his tear ducts. “I’m sorry,” he said first. “I’m so sorry.” He could almost envision your pinched, worried face if he thought hard enough. “You need to listen to me.”
“What’s going on?” you repeated. “Talk to me.”
Iron-tanged saliva pooled around his tongue. “Everything went south. J talked; Craig and Deran are gone but—” He inhaled sharply. “I don’t know if they’re going to make it.”
He couldn’t stand the sound of your shaking breathing on the other line, the one you made when you worried on his behalf.
“Andy—”
“There’s money,” he interrupted, so awfully aware of the growing heat behind him. “In your name. You’re gonna be taken care of, I made sure of it. You’ll never have to worry about anything, understand?”
“Money? What? What are you saying, Andy?”
He looked down and over at the photo then down to his pool-soaked boots. “I think this is it for me,” he whispered, heart breaking right into two at the thought of leaving you alone in this world. “Cops are comin’; the house . . . I took care of it.”
“You’re at the house?” you questioned, and Andrew could hear the tell tail sound of your keys jingling on that keychain he always told you would mess with the ignition.
He mentally cursed himself for the slip up, not wanting you to come after him and possibly find what he left behind. “Stay home,” he ordered. “Don’t-don’t come here; it’s not safe.”
“But—”
“Promise,” he stated, hand reaching to pick up the photo again. “Promise you won’t come here.” Each word hurt to get out.
“I’m not going to leave you to die, Andrew,” you argued. “Not when I can do something about it.”
“No,” he moaned, sides protesting with the word, body tensing with fear at the thought of you driving over. “Sweetheart, don’t come.”
Your keys stopped jingling, and he quietly sighed in relief. However, his heart sunk down to his toes when the sound of your car humming to life filled the speaker. The tires squealed.
“Just,” you started, pausing when words failed. “Wait for me. Please, Andy, wait for me. I’ll be there soon; you know this. You don’t get to die on me, Andrew Cody.” Your voice rose with each sentence.
Andrew sat there for another moment before his world slowly tipped to the side. His bones protested at the change, and his shoulder screamed when it came to rest on the concrete. Like sticky molasses, he shifted slowly until his hands dipped into cool water, photo of him and Julia quickly becoming soaked. His chest heaved in heavy, labored breathing. His poor auburn curls flattened under the weight of his head against the brick outline.
“Andy?” you whimpered. “Are you there?”
It took him a minute to gather the strength to speak. “Yeah,” he croaked. “’M here.”
“Do you remember what you told me the first time you walked me home?”
This time, Andrew’s lips quirked upward for a millisecond at the memory. “Yeah.”
“You said—” He heard you thickly swallow. “You said that no matter what, you wouldn’t leave me behind.”
He closed his eyes.
“A-and if-if—” It was almost like you couldn’t even speak the idea of him dying into existence in fear that it’d happen. “That’s breaking your promise.”
Andrew stayed silent as sirens wailed in the distance to the point that he thought that you could probably hear them through your phone. He didn’t want you mixed up in any of this; he had tried his damn hardest to keep you as far away from his family activity as possible.
“I’m almost there, okay? I’m coming.”
He didn’t know how much time had passed between your sentences, the world becoming blurry and sounds reaching his brain through cotton. He had lost a hold on the picture minutes ago, and it had slowly drifted out of reach, close to being so waterlogged that it threatened to dip below the surface and sink to the bottom. The only thing he kept a firm grip on—even if his strength was quickly waning—was the phone, his one lifeline to you.
Dark black spots danced in his vision, and his breathing stuttered and slowed.
“Almost there,” you kept repeated, like saying that would grant you the power of teleportation. “I’m almost there, and then, I’m going to get you all patched up. You’re going to be just fine. We’ll move somewhere safe, start a future together, just like we talked about yeah?”
Andrew’s chest heaved. “Yeah.”
“Tell me what you see, Andrew. What do you want our future to look like; keep talking to me.”
The next few words hurt, but he wasn’t just going to leave you without saying anything else. “A house.”
He heard a large sniff, followed by a watery exhale. “Yeah? What kind of house.”
“Big. Safe. Warm.”
“It sounds so nice.”
“Full.” He closed his eyes. “Full house.”
“You always did want four kids,” you tried, but the attempt to lift spirits fell flat. “What else?”
“All girls,” he muttered, his energy almost draining each time his mouth opened. “First one, then twins, and one baby.”
A small laugh crackled through the speaker. “Sounds like a dream. You’re going to be such a good dad, Andy.”
He hated the way you continued to speak like he was going to make it out alive. He knew you were still on the way, and the sirens were slowly growing louder even through his cotton (blood)-filled ears. His fingers loosened, and the phone dropped onto the ground with a thunk.
“Andrew? What was that?”
He thought he responded, but really, the words were all jumbled in his mouth. He dragged his cheek across the rough concrete to get his mouth closer to the dropped phone. The black spots had grown significantly as blood continued to pour from his body.
With one last large breath, he said, “I love you.”
His mind went quiet soon after, despite your yelling across the line for him to hold on. All fight left his body in a single moment, frame deflating under the weight of what was about to happen. Andrew Cody was close to death, and for the first time since meeting you, he felt truly at peace. Every blink of his eyes slowed; he didn’t know which one was going to be the last, but when his eyelids finally settled, and he couldn’t find the strength to open them again, he fully welcomed the darkness.
_______________________
You didn’t know what to expect to find when your car squealed into the fully-flame-engulfed Cody house’s driveway.
Andrew had gone silent on his end almost two minutes ago, and your heart thundered against your sternum. You didn’t even pull the keys out of the ignition before your door swung open. Your feet hit the ground, and you dashed around the corner to the side fence entrance. It took your shaking hands two tries before the latch gave way. Flames roared in your ears as you pushed through the gate, but all you could focus on was the Andrew-sized lump lying unmoving at the pool’s edge.
A cry of pure anguish tore through your throat. You didn’t stop running until your knees hit the pool’s ledge. You didn’t have time to dwell on the pain of your joints.
“Andrew?” you questioned, hands reaching to roll him over on his back. His body swayed under the motion, completely boneless. “Andrew?” Your hand curled into a fist and rubbed erratically against his sternum, just like you’d seen on TV. “Come on; come on!” Tears began streaming steadily down your face. “Andy, Baby, come on! Don’t do this to me!”
When he failed to make any signs of waking up, you quickly dug two fingers into the side of his neck and held your breath, waiting—hoping to feel something, anything below his skin. When you felt a dull pulse, you pulled your fingers away with a gasp of relief.
“You stay with me, Andrew Cody,” you grunted as your hands slipped under his arms, back straining under his dead weight.
Really, you hadn’t thought anything through; Andrew was almost double your weight, but the adrenaline coursing through your body was somehow enough for you to start dragging him across the backyard.
Almost back to the fence, you stumbled, ass falling down to the grass with Andrew pressing down on your front. Almost on the next street over, the sirens were getting dangerously close. If you didn’t move in the next few moments, they’d either drag you away and shoot Andrew on the spot as a convicted and escaped murderer or they’d drag you away and leave him to burn along with the house. You couldn’t let that happen; you’d rather die than let that happen.
So, with all the strength you could muster, you stood back up and kept yanking. Andrew stayed unconscious as his body bumped along the grass and then dragged across the small bit of driveway. A deep groan from the house had your head whipping up in time for you to witness the integrity give way under the flames. Plumes of smoak wafted high, but Andrew was already put in the passenger seat with the back all the way down for him to lie against. If you happened to pass officers on the way out, they’d only see you, Andrew being covered by the door.
Just like when you pulled in, your tires squealed on the way out. Your left hand gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles while the other held onto Andrew’s limp hand, thumb brushing against his split knuckles. Through the air, your phone rang a few times before a voice answered on the other line.
“Deran?” you called out.
He answered with your name in a saddened tone. “Yeah?”
“Where are you? Is Craig with you?”
A sobbed choke followed. “Craig’s . . . Craig’s—fuck!”
You bit down on your bottom lip to stop it from wavering, and your hand gripped Andrew’s just a tad bit tighter, knowing he was about to meet the same fate.
“Please,” Deran said, not waiting for you to say anything else. “Please tell me you’ve heard from Pope. He went back to the house to go after J; he said he’d find us, but—” He shakily exhaled. “But it sounded like he was saying goodbye instead.”
Your eyes drifted from the road down to Andrew, who still remained unconscious. “I have him, but Deran—” You looked back toward the road, blinking rapidly to rid your eyes of tears. “It’s bad. There’s so much blood. I—” You sniffed loudly. “I have to get him to a safe place. Is there anywhere you can think of?”
The line went silent for a few moments. “Smurf had a house . . . in Encinitas. I can meet you there, but . . . do you think he’ll last that long?”
“He’ll have to. Or I’ll bring him back just to kill him myself,” you muttered, spinning the steering wheel under your palm to take the closest exit. “Send me the address, and Deran?”
He sighed heavily. “Yeah?”
“Stay safe, okay? I’ll see you there.”
You hung up without another word, and the address came through not even a breath later. Your thumb continued to run across Andrew’s knuckles the entire 13.4-mile drive, hand never once letting go of his. The only thing that kept you from losing hope entirely was the slow up and down movement of his chest. Oh how you prayed for his hazel eyes to open, but even with your muttering and begging, they stayed closed.
Every so often, you’d look over your shoulder or stare right through the rearview mirror, heart thudding in awful anticipation of possibly seeing any battalion of police cars following you. But as your car stuttered to a halt in front of a non-descript house, the fear of being found was slowly overtaken by the fear of truly losing Andrew.
You exhaled slowly, forehead coming to rest against the wheel for just a moment, giving yourself a small chance to breath before you got out of the car. You quickly rounded the hood and opened the passenger door. Deran was nowhere in sight, and you didn’t want to wait for him to get there to help you transfer Andrew indoors. He needed to get inside as quickly as possible.
So, for the second time in thirty minutes, you shoved your arms under his and pulled with all your might. His feet hit the ground hard, but it was at least better than his full body. Your feet scuffled along, sandals definitely not the best choice for lugging your almost-dead fugitive boyfriend into a safehouse.
His weight pressed against you as you tried to get through the door, mentally thanking whoever last stayed there for stupidly forgetting to lock it. With one hand, you twisted the knob, and a wave of heat washed over you once you got through the threshold. You didn’t dare stop until you lugged Andrew onto the closest couch.
You all but collapsed next to him, shoulder pressed against his arm that had fallen over the side. Without thinking, you reached up and gingerly brushed a curl away from his face. He didn’t move one inch, and that terrified you.
You weren’t a doctor. You weren’t certified to give him any medical attention. However, that didn’t stop you from ripping his shirt off, finally laying eyes on his multiple wounds and bruising that almost swallowed his skin. Your hands hovered over his torso, mind not knowing where to even begin.
The sound of the door creaking open, though, had you grabbing the gun from his waistband and pointing it toward the front. Your finger shook against the trigger, but when the door opened fully and reveal an exhausted Deran, a sigh of relief wheezed from your lungs.
“Deran,” you sobbed, pushing up from the ground and speed walking over to his open arms. He smelled of thick sweat and blood, but the solidness of his arms around your shoulders was enough to make you feel safe. “P-please; I don’t know-know what to do.”
Deran took one look over your shoulder, and his breath hitched of his older brother looking closer to death than he’d ever seen. His arm slipped from your body as he walked over in small, hesitant steps. “He—” He sucked in a breath. “He’s not dead, right?”
“No,” you breathed out almost instantly. “He’s still holding on. But with all the blood loss, it’s going to take him a long time to wake up.” Your arms wrapped around your middle. “But he has to-has to wake up.”
You watched Deran lean down and press his forehead against Andrew’s before withdrawing. Recovery was going to be long, and the moment he woke up, you’d have to move him quickly to someplace safer. But all you could do for now was join Deran at the couch and stand like guard dogs, watching over Andrew as he slept.
_______________________
Andrew tensed the moment he became cognitive enough to know that he wasn’t dead.
His hands clenched at his sides before taking fistfuls of plush couch cushion. His bones ached as he lied there, unknowing exactly there was. If he’d been caught by police, a couch would be the last place they’d put him. And if he actually died, he wondered if God was playing a trick on his mind, putting him someplace comfortable before he’d be judged for his sins. Neither idea though seemed to stick while he pushed himself in an upward position. He blinked rapidly, and the scene before him came into a sharp, vivid image.
Bloodied rags and bottles of alcohol covered the spans of the small table that seemed to have been haphazardly pushed out of the way. Lines of drying, brown blood made a small path from his couch to the front door, and Andrew could only guess it all belonged to him. He kept a hold of the cushion in a grounding fashion. The last thing he remembered was your scared voice begging him to keep talking.
Flashes of pain raked through his soul, and panic began to bubble under his skin.
He’d been taken from his burning grave. He didn’t know where you were or if you had even made it to the Cody house. The idea of you pulling up, running inside just to not find his body had him itching to stand. But his knees buckled the moment he tried to get up, and a low groan pushed from his chest.
The sound must have echoed, because a thunder of footsteps followed almost instantly. Andrew tensed again, mind running with the possibility of who had actually taken him away. His hand reached for the gun he knew he had tucked in his waistband, but all he grabbed onto was an empty space.
His hands would have to be enough. They curled into fists and rose in front of his chest; however, they immediately fell back to his sides when you and Deran came around the corner into view, both pausing when you noticed who exactly had made the large thump.
You gasped loudly before continuing to rush toward him. Only sobs spilled from your mouth while you kneeled in front of him, hands gently coming to rest on his naked shoulders. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, and your left hand quickly buried itself into the curls at his nape.
Andrew, almost frozen in disbelief, shakily placed his hands on the small of your back.
“You-you’re awake,” you stuttered, pulling your face back to look him in his hazel eyes. “You woke up.” You softly swiped you thumbs across the skin under his slowly blinking eyes. “You came back.”
Andrew closed his eyes fully. “You told me to wait.”
Wanting to be closer, you leaned forward until your forehead touched his, your eyes also fluttering shut as the two of you held each other. It wasn’t until Deran shifted that you parted. Andrew’s eyes opened and looked over your shoulder at his brother, and his eyebrows pinched when he wondered what was wrong with the picture.
“Craig?” he asked, tone all gravely with an ever too present underlying pain.
Deran shut his eyes and shook his head, silently telling Andrew everything he needed to know.
He all but crumbled back into your arms, thick hands finding a strong hold on your sides as he finally allowed himself to grieve; grieve for the life he had, for the life he lost, for Craig, for J’s betrayal, for Cath, for Julia.
But the tears also healed.
They signified that he was alive, breathing, and in your arms.
His sobs sputtered to a slow stop until he quieted. You stayed still through it all, wanting Andrew to be done only when he was ready. Your hands continued to pet and run through his blood-matted curls while he stayed buried in your front. Your lips gently placed intermittent kisses against his temple, and Andrew lightly hummed at the feeling.
He didn’t know where the two of you were supposed to go from there. You and he would have to flee California while he knew Deran would want to stay, lie low, and find Adrian at some point. Andrew knew that time was ticking down, that it was only a matter of time before the cops started looking for him and Deran. But all he could care about in that moment was the rise and fall of your chest under his ear and the feeling of having his arms wrapped around your middle.
_______________________
For one split second four years ago, you didn’t think the life you always wanted was possible.
But as you stood in front of the small, farmhouse that seemed to glow against the sunset, you took a large inhale of air. Well, as much air as you could with two developing babies currently pressing upward against your lungs and all your other important organs. Your stomach stretched far, and you ran a hand down the swelled bump.
A squeal from the front yard had caught your attention, which was how you found yourself standing on the wrap-around porch, baby bump held between your hands. Your cheeks warmed with a smile as you watched Andrew carry your almost 4-year-old daughter through the tall grass where the lightning bugs were just starting to twinkle.
Your shoulder rested against one of the pillars, and the cool breeze of April settled against your cheeks in soft and fleeting puffs that carried the smell of approaching spring and rainwater. You knew that if you walked down the steps and into the grass, the ground would squish softly between your toes.
“Mama!” Julie yelled from where Andrew was currently holding her out like she was flying. “Do you see! Do you see da glow bugs!”
“I see!” you called out in response, not even trying to fight the smile that pretty much never failed to stretch your face since you found this small part of paradise.
“Daddy! Put down! I wanna see Mama!” she squealed right into Andrew’s ear.
You watched as Andrew contemplated setting her down before he flipped her face up and pretending to bite at her tummy, the sound of his playful growl mixing so wonderfully with the sound of Julie’s giggles. He took large steps in your direction, deciding to just carry his daughter instead of having her walk through the soft and slightly muddy yard; his nicely cleaned and polished floors would thank him later.
The sound of her pitter patters up the steps caused your heart to flutter; it was a noise you’d never get over hearing.
“Be careful,” Andrew warned when he noticed Julie coming at you with a bit more speed than your poor knees could probably handle. “Remember to be gentle with Mama.”
Julie all but screeched to a halt before continuing on at a much slower speed. Her small arms wrapped around your left leg, and your left hand trailed through the mop of auburn curls. She was, in all aspect of her tiny life, Andrew’s twin. And you were more than fine with it, even if you’d grown her for nine months just for her to come out with a frown that matched her daddy’s to a tee.
“Go wash your hands; dinner’s almost ready,” you said, giving her one last pat on the head.
She squeezed your leg one last time before dashing into the house, squealing her entire way in. You couldn’t help chuckle at the noise.
It hadn’t taken long for Julie to be on her way after you and Andrew found this small piece of land. The house had needed fixing, but it was something you could envision your family growing in. And just five weeks into renovations, you’d shown him three tests with double lines so dark they almost looked black. Andrew had cried openly after dropping to his knees in order to rest his forehead against your then flat stomach. For the next nine months, he panicked, prepared, cried some more, and panicked again. But the moment Julie was placed in his arms, you knew exactly then that Andrew Cody was meant to be a father.
His hand sliding across your belly brought you out of your reverie. “They being good?” he asked, leaning down to press a kiss to your bump before straightening to kiss you.
He was answered by a few kicks to his palm that sent flutters thought your body.
“They want out,” you muttered against his lips before pressing back into him. “Can’t believe you called it. First Julie, now A and B. You think you’re gonna be correct with the last?”
Andrew pulled back and smirked. “Definitely. Like I said, sweetheart, all girls.”
Your eyes gently raked across his face, taking in each and every freckle that dotted his face like constellations you could see on a clear summer’s night. You caressed his cheek with your fingers, and his eyes fluttered as he leaned into your hand.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For staying.”
“Thank you,” he echoed. “For never giving up.”
The two of you stood there, enjoying each other’s company, until Julie called for you deep in the house.
“Duty calls,” Andrew muttered, curling an arm around your waist.
“Yes,” you mused. “Yes, she does.”
The rest of the evening went in warm touches and moments you never wanted to end. And like many nights before, you went to bed surrounded by your small family with a large smile each time Andrew tugged you in a bit tighter in his sleep, knowing that everything would continue to be exactly as it should be.
hi love, i know you’re so good at helping people find isos for certain pitt fics, so i thought i’d shoot my shot. i read this one a while ago, maybe last year? here’s what i remember m:
it was robby x reader
they worked in the er
the reader had an ex that was abusive
he followed her around after
the cops got involved
he either hid near her car or stabbed her tires?
he stabbed or shot ahmad
I am thrilled you thought of me to help you. I love to help find fics.
Unfortunately this isn't ringing even a little bell for me. It sounds great and hopefully someone can help us find it.
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synopsisRobby wants to take you- his beautiful wife- on a romantic get away, he forgets about the knuckleheads that means leaving at home
warningskids, robby is a dad in this, you are a mom, language, smut-ish (pentration) hospital stuff, bone breaking etc
author notewasn't i so original with the names? my genius frightens even me sometimes. this is a short little thing I just had in my head and really wanted to write. if you're not into kid fics i apologise, really this was just an excuse to write something featuring a version of john carter again. I have lots and lots and lots of pitt drafts and thank you for requests!! I am slowly getting through them:)
the pitt masterlist. another Robby fic!
The smell of wood and coffee drifted to you as Robby nudged open the door with his boot, grunting slightly at the weight of the bags he carried that you'd offered to help him with but hadn't even got a reply as Robby slung one under arm, taking the other two in hand and walking past you with a smirk.
“Home sweet home,” he said.
The cabin was small and hidden away from the city. It was miles away from the hospital and any roads to hide the noise of wailing sirens.
Peace. That's what this getaway was about, taking you somewhere the two of you could live as a young couple, un-disturbed. It was about the only thing that had gotten Robby through the last tough weeks of work. All the blood and death and bathroom breaks of locking himself in stools to silently cry was all so he could come home to you and his family in one piece.
Now, he could shred every responsibility that didn't include being your husband and that wasn't a responsibility. More an honour.
Robby looked down at you with a smile, expecting to see one back. Instead, you were looking down at your phone. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“I'm just checking in with the kids.”
He groaned and grabbed your phone, throwing it ahead into the cabin. It landed somewhere soft on the rug. “They'll be fine, they're what? Twenty something?”
You laughed and stepped closer into his circle of heat, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and drawing yourself closer. “Look at you, pretending not to know your kids ages.”
Robby dropped the bags, snapping his arms around your waist and holding you up. “What can I say? I'm loving... attentive...”
His beard scratched up and down your neck as he littered slow kisses there.
“Should I carry you through the doorway? Like when we were married?” Robby wasn't exactly encouraged by the idea with your laughter shaking in your chest.
“I don't think your back can handle that, old man.”
His brows rose up, tongue poking the inside of his cheek and you bit back a smirk. He couldn't help but think how sexy you looked, even after kids and marriage you never failed to stop looking beautiful.
And Robby had never found being called old sexier.
“Well,” he grunted, lifting you further till your toes were scraping the floor. “How about you go up to that bedroom and I show you just what this old man can do?”
“Dad's gonna kill me... Dad's gonna kill me.”
Noah watched his brother, John, pace the small hospital room. For such a tiny pace he was making good job at trekking miles. “Relax, at least we're in a hospital,” he said. “That way they can shock you back to life.”
“So he can kill me all over again!” John hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, the smack bouncing around the walls.
Their sister, Casey, laughed on the bed.
She was taking all this surprisingly well considering it was her arm broken and limply lying in her lap.
The brothers looked to her as if remembering she was there. Like she wasn't the reason they were there. Well- technically it was John's fault. Because he was older and he was supposed to be looking after Casey. He should have been the one watching her on the trampoline. Should have seen how she fell on her arm and a sickening crack followed.
To her credit, Casey didn't cry.
Instead she let out a string of curse words that would make a sailor shudder.
Noah didn't know which is dad would hate more: the cast she'll inevitably be put in or the words she'd some how picked up.
“How're you feeling?” John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Hungry,” she said, pulling out the puppy dog eyes and pout that only a six year old could do effectively.
“Can't eat I'm afraid, not till we've got that arm looked at.”
“Will I need stitches?”
Noah let out one loud, ha! “Worse!”
Casey shrieked.
“Noah!” John lectured.
“What? I'm being honest! Honestly is the best policy.”
“Not when it scares her!”
“I'm not scared,” said Casey, momentarily misplacing her broken arm as she tried to flail them around only to end up teary eyed at the pain.
John shuffled closer to her side in panic, throwing an arm around her shoulder and comforting her. “It's okay, oh, it's okay.”
“I want daddy!”
John and Noah looked at each other, gulping.
It had been a total of four hours. Four hours they'd been gone and already things had gone wrong! The drive up to their cabin alone was five so they'd maybe only had three hours of relaxation. That was enough, right?
For months their dad had drilled it into them he was taking their mother away for an anniversary he had to work three months ago. This was the only time off together your schedules could work out. After all, PCMT didn't run steady without the attending and nurse.
We'll be gone three days, their dad told them, sitting the two brothers a year apart down. Carter will be busy at Presby so I need you two to look after Casey, alright? John you're eighteen, you're in charge.
Noah had never been happier to be younger.
It was all amusing to him really, besides the fact his sister was hurt- obviously.
“I want daddy too,” Noah laughed.
John paled.
Suddenly the door flew open and just when Noah thought it might have been a doctor they'd never seen, or Abbot or Dana, it only got worse.
Carter rushed in, white lab coat billowing a second behind him. Their dad thought it was tacky and dumb (med students haven't worn them since the 90s, he'd said) but their mom thought Carter looked handsome so- the doting mommy's boy he was- Carter always wore it.
Noah rolled his eyes.
“Hey, hey, what's going on here?” he rushed over to Casey, pressing a kiss to her forehead and petting down her hair. “You okay? She okay?”
“She's fine,” said John, standing from the bed.
“My arm hurts,” whined Casey.
“I'll give you ten bucks to say nothing,” said John.
Casey made a dramatic move in holding in her words.
John should have done it for five.
Carter looked around the room like he was wholly confused even if he was in his second year of med school in Presby and was accustom to the look of a hospital room. “Where's her chart? Has she been looked at? Has Dana been in?”
“No, I got us in on the down low,” said Noah, standing from his chair.
Carter hovered over the computer, trying to find a way to log in that didn't mean hacking into the system. “The down low?”
John reached his other side. “I bribed Donnie to get us a room.”
“Why would you do that?”
“So they don't call mom and dad!”
“They're not here?” Carter asked, a furrow between his brows.
“No, they're up at the cabin,” said John.
“Their romantic getaway, you remember that?” asked Noah.
Carter's expression dropped. “That was today?”
“Yeah that was today, where have you been living?” said Noah, knowing his brother lived in the second biggest room of the house and had been pretty much vacant from it with his studies. Noah had took to invading the room at any chance.
John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “We called you cause... you know, you're a doctor.”
“Well, no, I'm a med student,” said Carter, though briefly the word 'doctor' had gone to his head. And ego.
“But you're so good at it,” encouraged Noah, thumping their eldest brother on the chest and fixing his crooked stethoscope. “What better time will you have to put your skills to good use then to help our sister?”
The three looked back to Casey who was watching them, blinking.
“How's your pain on a scale of one to ten, Casey? One being no pain at all, ten being horrible, terrible, worst pain of your life?” asked Carter, keeping his voice as light and brotherly as possible.
Casey looked to John.
He sighed. “You can talk, Casey.”
She thought about it for a second. “A seven?”
Carter cursed under his breath.
John and Noah shared a look, knowing who to blame Casey's exclamations on. “You can order labs,” said John.
“Yeah, get her a scan or something,” added Noah.
Carter laughed them off. “I can't, I don't work here!”
John put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Of course you can, you're a Robinavitch.”
“Hey,” said Santos, approaching the nurses station as if in a daze. “I'm like totally not crazy and I totally don't miss the guy or anything but I swear I just saw a younger version of Robby walk in here.”
“What?” Javadi laughed.
Whitaker nodded along, as if he'd expected it. “You must really miss the guy, huh?”
Santos rolled her eyes. “No, Jesus that's not it. I just mean Robby's literal doppelganger just walked in, white lab coat and all.”
Dana didn't make it a habit to listen into gossip... sometimes she couldn't help it. She lingered at the nurses counter, listening with one ear to everything else around her in case there was an actual emergency.
“Really, where?” Javadi asked.
“Hey! You three!” Dana called, snapping her fingers as she approached the three, peering at them over her glasses. “We got beds to empty, people to see, let's move it!”
The three were resigned to do their job, as so many usually were, but Dana watched them go, ensuring they were all going to three separate locations but not before she caught Trinity leaning into Javadi, whispering in her ear an exam room where this mysterious young Robby was hid in.
Dana wondered but not for long as she found the room with not one, not two but four Robinavitch children inside.
A grin formed. It was always good to see them, especially since she'd been seeing them since they were babies, having held each one of them in her arms and held each of their hands as they started to walk. Sometimes they still needed the hand.
Carter, John and Noah's backs were to the door, the three standing over the bed in clear thought if their folded arms and tense backs were anything to go by, so like their father they were.
Casey Robinavitch, the youngest of the set, was first to spot her, smiling wide. “D! D!”
“Well look what the cat dragged in!” she celebrated.
Casey did what she could to move but Dana was there at her side, embracing her and helping her back down onto the bed.
The boys were less enthusaticaly.
“Hey, Dana,” John said quietly.
Carter was by far his father's son in looks. The same sloped nose and brown eyes. Dressed up as a doctor he looked even more the part. It freaked Dana sometimes, like having the ghost of young and cocky Michael Robinavitch hovering around the place.
John and Carter- still alike their father- had a bit more of you in them. In their smile and eyes. Casey too.
“What the hell's going on here, you miss me that much you invaded the place, huh?” she asked though she could tell by all three of the boys looking worried and Casey sitting still that there was some reason to have been here.
“It looks like Casey broke her arm,” said Carter, brushing back his hair. “A simple Distal Radius fracture.”
“You got all that without a scan? Presby must be teaching you something,” she teased.
Carter blushed.
Dana cast her gaze to the quiet John and Noah. “Which one of you supposed to be looking after my girl here anyway?”
They both pointed at each other.
Dana shook her head and rolled her eyes before focusing ahead to Casey. “Okay, honey, you hungry? I keep a stash of candy in my draw, you want a piece?”
She nodded enthusaticaly.
“But she'll need surgery for her arm, she can't eat,” said Carter.
“Even I knew that,” added John.
“Yeah well the OR's a little backed up,” said Dana with a pat to Casey's knee. She stood up and drew the curtain around them, closing them in. “We had an accident and there's a long que.”
She didn't want to get in the specifics of crash that involved all the OR's time but Carter approached her.
“Anything I can do?” he asked.
Dana smiled. She had to say, it was good to see the kids that were made from her favourite attending and nurse. “No, kid. You stay here with your family, I'll handle everything.”
“What's with the curtain?” asked Noah.
“Are we grounded?”
“You're all a bit of a celebrity around here, the new residents and med students don't know you guys exist, heck they only realised your parents were married after Huckleberry caught them in the lounge.”
“Ew,” said John.
“Caught them what?” asked Casey, full of child like innocence.
The boys looked to Dana in amusement.
“Doing things adults shouldn't do at work,” she said.
Casey wasn't satisfied. “Like what?”
“You can ask them when they get here.”
“You're not gonna call them, are you?” asked John, adam's apple moving in his swallow.
“Have to kid, sorry! I'll get Princess to take you to X-ray, sound good?” she asked Casey, knowing Princess was her favourite (other than herself of course) because she was better at braiding than both her parents.
John fell into his seat, hunched over. In comfort, Carter clamped a hand on his shoulder.
Dana left the family, shaking her head and trying to hide her smile. She'd pushed you and Robby to go away, trusting that the three boys you held in such high esteem would handle looking over one small girl who really wasn't that much trouble.
She hated to be proved wrong.
Hated even more she had to interrupt the two of you after she'd had to watch the sultry looks passed between the two of you and stop the two of you from disappearing together into rare empty beds and store rooms.
Dana called you first, shaking her head while she did.
“Robby!”
He groaned into your neck, his arms caging in your head as he moved in and out of you with a rapid pace. Sweat covered both your bodies from the long-awaited sex he planned to drag out. “My god,” he groaned.
Your nails scratched down his back leaving angry welts in your place. He licked lazily at your neck, moaning and groaning at the taste.
The both of you were as loud as you liked, without kids barging in to say they couldn't find the remote or wanting to know what was for dinner. The cabin stood alone with only trees as its companion so you could be as loud as you liked.
He'd had you coming on his mouth and fingers- then once more for luck- before he finally found himself home in you and that was how it felt, coming home.
Your back arched into him as his hips met yours. “Michael... Michael...”
You could feel him grin into your neck. “Gonna come again? Come on my cock, jus how I like.”
Robby found your lips and kissed you openly, all teeth and tongue. His breathing was laboured, his lips a hungry mess. His hips drove in more and more, his groaning louder, face scrunched in concentration to last.
“Please, Michael, please,” you whined against his lips.
Robby licked at your lips, nodding-
Suddenly there was a loud ringing and vibration against the wood off the bedside table where you'd left your phone.
Robby groaned but not in pleasure. As his lips pulled away from yours you turned to look at your phone. “Ignore it, ignore it,” he begged, cupping your cheek to move you to look at him again.
You let him kiss you, let him distract you with his tongue as he drove his cock in and out quicker, desperate to chase your high.
“Oh god, hurgh, fuck!”
Your phone still rung and his grip hardened on your face.
“Could be... could be the kids...” you uttered.
“They're fine, they're fine-”
But you couldn't help but stretch, under the feign of pleasure you arched up and grabbed your phone, turning it face up.
“Jesus-” Robby grunted but stilled inside of you, impossibly close.
Hospital. Work. Calling.
“Jesus-” he chuckled dryly. “Hasn't even been a day.”
Before you could even think about answering it Robby snatched it from your hand and threw it half way across the room.
“Robby!” you laughed.
Your arms wrapped back around him and drew him in, legs going around his waist as his cock continued his work.
“Jack, thank god!” Dana gasped when she spotted the night attending making his way in. He greeted her with a bag already over his shoulder, giving her a brief hug.
“Hey, got your message, what's going on?” he asked, brows knitted together in worry.
It was a last ditch attempt. Dana had called you a handful of times from the hospital phone and her own. She'd tried Robby and been sent straight to voice mail. Nothing. She couldn't exactly blame the two of you, it was supposed to be a holiday.
None of the kids were willing to be the one to make the call and other than tackle them to get a phone Jack was the last result.
“Got a family situation, the parents won't pick up,” she explained.
“What kind of family-”
Dana led him into the exam room.
Casey was sitting in the bed, her arm up in a sling with a pizza box in her lap. Next to her Noah was cosied on the bed while John and Carter were on each side of the bed, chairs pulled him and pizza slices in hands.
“Uncle Jack!” Casey cheered.
The boys at least looked happier to see him than they had Dana. They knew if Jack was here it meant they couldn't get in contact with either you or their dead.
“What's this? A pizza party and I wasn't invited?” he said, setting down his bag and heading for Casey, checking in on her first.
“What's this? Where's the pizza come from?” asked Dana.
“They were hungry, I ordered,” said Carter.
“And surgery for her arm?”
Carter chocked down the last of his pizza. His doctors coat was still sat on his shoulders but his tie was lose around his neck and several pens were missing from his pocket. “The OR's backed up, you said that, you gave her a lollipop!”
Dana tried her best efforts to be mad on behalf of Robby but it didn't work. Robby could maybe be mad at the boys if he had the right too but Casey he could never seem find to be angry with. A daddy's girl through and through.
“Hey, Carter, how's Presby?” asked Jack, all the while testing the pain with Casey.
“Good, it's er, it's good,” he said. “I told them there was a family emergency.”
There was only one reason Carter had gone to Presby and that was to keep work and home away from each other. He couldn't be a student under his dad and mom.
“So you er-” Noah started. “Couldn't get through to mom or dad, huh?”
There was an un-denying gleam of joy at that.
“No, we couldn't,” said Dana. “But we're gonna keep trying.”
Carter crossed his arms over his chest as if he were the concerned doctor and not the worried older brother. “We need their permission for the surgery, what happens to her arm if it's not put right soon?”
“Well good news is I can pull weight in the OR, though we'll have to wait for the pizza to go down,” said Jack, taking a bite from the slice Casey held in hand. She laughed. “What colour we thinking? Pink? Red? Black?”
“Can I have three colours?” she asked.
Jack shrugged. “I'll put the request in.”
“Why aren't they answering? Maybe they're asleep?” said John.
Noah smirked. “Or maybe they're enjoying their free time.”
Jack shot him an unamused look.
“I meant playing games!” he defended.
“Like twister?” asked Casey.
Carter looked away, scratching the back of his head as Dana hid her smirk along with him.
“Yeah, twister.”
You'd managed to escape the clutch's of Robby, managing to throw his shirt on and get to the kitchen for a glass of water. Your legs had been shaky in the sort of delicious way you'd missed.
It was dark out, the small orange glow of the lights around the cabin lighting your way as you downed half your drink.
The wooden floor creaked behind you. The curve of Robby's belly met your back.
His hands wound under his shirt on your body, fondling your hips. “I thought the point of a get away was no clothes allowed.”
You bit your lip, gently setting down your glass of water. “And if I turn around are you going to be following that rule?”
Robby chuckled into your skin. His lips found your neck again, kissing over the bruises he'd left from before. It started slow, the sort that reminded you of your first time before his teeth met your skin and nipped. His hands got further up your skin, running over the curves of your body. “Why don't you look and find out?”
The idea of Robby in all his beauty had you salivating at the mouth and lower parts when a vibration alerted the two of you.
Robby groaned again, the both of you finding his phone left in his pants pocket crumpled on the floor.
It seemed you'd been in a hurry to get them off.
“The thing keeps going!”
Robby was naked, and it distracted you all through the walk to get his pants, fishing for his phone. Not that he cared, he only finished your glass of water.
Your hormones were going crazy, begging you to climb your husband like a tree but you still managed to answer the phone. “Michael's phone.”
“Jesus what's it take to get you to pick up a phone!” Dana said in a way of greeting.
“Oh, hi Dana, how are you? Sorry, we were... busy.”
“Yeah busy my ass, listen you guys need to come back.”
“Why, what's happening?”
Robby heard the worry in your voice and turned to look over his shoulder.
“Your kids are here, Casey's hurt.”
“So let me get this straight: You're letting Jack sign your cast first, then Carter, then John, then me!” gasped Noah.
The family had made themselves at home at in the small room, Casey in the bed like the queen of the castle though even queens needed sleep.
Carter was watching his sister come in and out of sleep while John stayed close to her side, stroking back her hair. They'd put her in the list for the OR, it was backed up enough that by the time she got in her eating wouldn't have been a problem. In three more hours he'd have to get back to Presby and carry on a shift. He should've used the time for napping but found the hospital chairs not so comfy.
Casey nodded, as if proud.
“It's John's fault and he gets to sign it before me!”
“He didn't steal my favourite crayons!” she said.
Jack raised his brows at Noah. “Crayons?”
Noah stuttered with all the eyes on him. “I was taking notes.”
“In crayons?” asked Jack.
“Colour helps you retain information! Look it up!”
There was a gang of laughter before the doors burst open.
Robby was first into the scene and you were close behind.
“Dad!” said Casey.
“Hey, sweetie,” he greeted, by-passing everyone else in the room to press a kiss to her forehead, keeping a hand on her fine arm. “What the hell happened?” he asked to the room.
John and Noah fell into your side, trying to be safe there away from the wrath of their father. “She- she was on the trampoline and she fell, broke her wrist.”
“Distal fracture,” corrected Carter.
“Why weren't you looking out for her?” Robby asked as he took Jack's stethoscope from around his neck, pressing it to her chest as if there could be something wrong and as if they hadn't already checked.
“I-I turned my back for a second,” said John.
“It's okay,” you said, stroking back John's air just a little.
You walked past the boys, greeting Carter quickly before you set on the edge of Casey's bed. Your daughter had your eyes. “Hey honey, how are you feeling?”
Robby gave her another kiss on the forehead before stepping away and letting Jack- the closest thing the kids had to an uncle- take his place. There was a small wave of his hand and the boys- even Carter- fell into step. “So tell me why not even five hours into the trip with your mother we're called back in because you let your sister get hurt?”
“He didn't let her get hurt, dad,” Noah defended. “It could've happened whether or not John was watching her.”
Robby's hands ran up and over his face, pulling at the lines of age and worry. Deep down he knew that was true and the boys knew he knew that. It didn't change that Casey had been hurt and ended up in the hospital. If it had been one of them- Carter, John or Noah- Robby and you would have drove with the same speed.
“Okay, okay,” Robby nodded. “And who let her have pizza when she's in line for the OR?”
John and Noah turned to Carter.
Robby frowned. “Are they teaching you anything at Presby?”
“Dana said the OR was backed up!”
“Don't drag me into this kid!” called Dana from the open door and over the crowd that had formed.
On second look Robby spotted Whitaker, Javadi, King and Santos at the door with Samira- all of who knew you and Robby well, knew you had a flirty thing going on yet had no idea the life you'd shared and continued to create behind the scene.
Next to them stood Langdon, the one holding the door open for them all to see. The one that did know and had even played a hand in Casey's birth.
“Holy shit,” said Whitaker.
“You have kids?” asked Javadi. “Like actual, real-life off springs?”
Carter frowned, looking from the crowd to you. “Why do they seem so surprised at that?”
You smiled, leaning your head on Casey's as she babbled about the accident and everyone she wanted to sign her cast (including barbie herself). “Well, we didn't really mention the whole kids part.”
“So nobody knew we existed?” asked Noah, offended. “What happened to pride and joy?”
“What happened to pain in my ass?” said Robby, lovingly. At least, Carter thought it came off that way. “Okay- yes, yes,” he said addressing the crowd. “We have kids, we didn't say anything because well frankly it was none of your buisness-”
“I knew I saw a younger Robby!” said Santos. Her phone was in hand and clicking with the sound of a picture of the room- specifically Carter-before anyone could stop her.
“It's not like I don't have my hands full with you lot already,” Robby mumbled, rubbing at his temples. “But yes, we have four beautiful children, anything else?”
There was a clear of a throat. Surprisingly not from the crowd of doctors but from behind him. From you.
“What?” asked Robby.
You gave him a pointed look.
He'd said four kids. Had he got it wrong? Somewhere along the lines it did get hard to keep track of them all. Who had exams when, who was in line to follow in their footsteps in practising medicine, who wanted a dog for christmas, etc.
Just in case, Robby did a head count, counting his kids off on his fingers: Casey, Noah, John, Carter. Casey, Noah-
It wasn't till he looked at you and saw your hand lingering over your stomach that he realised.
He thought back to the wine you'd declined at dinner last week, to the morning sickness you'd tried to hide from him, to the way you said there were things to talk about when you had a chance alone. After four, Robby should have been good at spotting the signs.
Five children it would appear.
“Congratulations, brother,” Jack was first to say, smiling in amusement that you'd caught your husband so off guard. Again.
John and Noah were next in clapping him on the back before attending to you in the same celebrations.
Robby took it all red in the cheeks as Santos started to clap behind him, Whitaker following un-sure a beat behind her.
“Jesus, dad, can you keep it in your pants for once,” joked Carter, standing at his full height next to him.
Robby shrugged, arms folding over his chest. “Takes two.”
Noah frowned. “Ew.”
Casey, the poor girl with the broken wrist, wasn't sure what was going on. “Takes two to what?”
The room fell silent. You pursed your lips, looking to Robby for some explanation.
Carter patted his dad on the back, slipping out of the room.
John smirked. “Yeah, dad, takes two to what?”
Robby glared. “Son, lets talk about your grounding.”
You’re a nurse at St. Thomas and Chibs keeps ending up in your ER with increasingly ridiculous excuses for why he’s injured.
The first time you met Chibs Telford, he was bleeding on your trauma bay floor and swearing in three languages.
You were twelve hours into a fourteen-hour shift at St Thomas' Hospital ER, your scrubs smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, and one of the interns had just cried in the medication room because a patient screamed at her over wait times.
So when the paramedics rolled in a tall Scottish man with a split eyebrow and blood soaking through a flannel shirt, you barely looked up from your chart.
“Thirty-something male,” the paramedic said. “Bar fight. Possible broken ribs. Vitals stable. Refused pain meds because apparently he’s ‘not a wee bitch.’”
The patient pointed weakly toward the paramedic. “That’s no’ what I said.”
“Close enough.”
You finally glanced over.
And paused.
He was… striking.
Not pretty. Not polished. Nothing soft about him. Scars carved across his face. Dark hair hanging damp around his temples. Leather kutte tossed over his lap with a reaper patch visible beneath the blood. Eyes soft even through obvious pain.
Dangerous, your brain supplied immediately.
Your exhausted brain supplied right after: unfortunately hot.
“Name?” you asked professionally.
“Filip Telford.”
“Age?”
“Depends who’s askin’.”
You deadpanned. “The woman deciding whether you’ve got internal bleeding.”
“…Forty-eight.”
“See? Wasn’t hard.”
His mouth twitched.
You pulled gloves on and moved toward him. “What happened?”
“Fell.”
The paramedic barked a laugh loud enough that another nurse looked over.
You lifted an unimpressed brow.
Chibs sighed dramatically. “Fine. Got punched.”
“Why?”
“Man was upset.”
“With?”
“A variety of things.”
“Did one of those things include your face?”
Another twitch of amusement.
“You always this friendly, nurse?”
“Only with patients actively wasting my time.”
You started cutting away the bloodied shirt before he could protest. Bruising bloomed across his ribs already, ugly purple spreading over tattooed skin.
And Christ.
The man was built like he’d been carved out of bad decisions and whiskey.
“You fractured anything before?” you asked.
“Aye.”
“How many times?”
“Yes.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
His eyes sharpened immediately at the sound, like he’d discovered something interesting.
You ignored it.
“You allergic to anything?”
“Hospitals.”
“Mhm.”
“Authority.”
“Noted.”
“Cheap beer.”
That finally got a laugh out of you.
Small. Brief. But real.
And something about it hit him square in the chest.
You saw it happen.
The way he looked at you afterward changed completely.
Not flirtatious exactly.
Focused.
Like he’d decided to remember you.
You didn’t expect to see him again.
Men like him came into emergency departments all the time. Fights. Crashes. Stabbings they refused to explain. Dangerous men with dangerous jobs and worse survival instincts.
Usually they disappeared back into the world after discharge papers.
But three weeks later, Filip Telford came back into your ER with a nail through his hand.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“…Again?” you asked.
“Aye.”
“How.”
“Construction accident.”
You looked at the leather kutte.
Then at the tattoos.
Then at the very obvious motorcycle boots.
“Right.”
“I’m diversifyin’.”
“Into carpentry?”
“Tryin’ new things.”
The nail had gone clean through the fleshy part of his palm. Painful but survivable.
Still stupid.
Very stupid.
“Sit,” you ordered.
Obediently—shockingly—he sat.
Your coworker Nina wandered past, glanced at him, and immediately grinned.
“Oh, your boyfriend’s back.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
Chibs looked deeply pleased by the accusation.
Nina pointed at the nail. “What’d you do this time, handsome?”
“Construction accident.”
She looked at you.
You looked at her.
Together, in perfect sync: “Bullshit.”
Chibs laughed.
Low and rough and genuinely entertained.
You cleaned the wound carefully while he watched you instead of the procedure.
“You always this accident-prone?” you muttered.
“Only recently.”
“Mhm.”
“You think I’m lyin’.”
“I think if I asked ten follow-up questions, your story would collapse instantly.”
“Aye, probably.”
You glanced up. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“Honest with you.”
The words landed strangely between you.
Not flirtation.
Not entirely.
Just… truth.
And for reasons you couldn’t explain, that was worse.
You finished wrapping his hand.
“Try not to impale yourself for at least a month.”
“No promises.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet ye patched me up anyway.”
“That’s literally my job.”
“Aye.” His eyes stayed on yours. “Still.”
The third visit happened at two in the morning.
You walked into Trauma Two and stopped dead.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Chibs looked up from the hospital bed, nose visibly broken and ice pack pressed to his face.
“There she is.”
“You cannot keep coming here.”
“Technically I can.”
“You look like someone hit you with a car.”
“Motorcycle, actually.”
You blinked slowly.
“…You drove your motorcycle into something.”
“No.”
“Something drove into you?”
“Aye.”
“That’s worse.”
He shrugged and immediately winced.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, grabbing gloves. “What happened?”
“Dog ran into the road.”
“You crashed avoiding a dog?”
“Wasn’t gonna hit the wee thing.”
You tried not to react to that.
Failed a little.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Did the dog live?” you asked quietly.
“Aye.”
“Okay. Good.”
He smiled through the swelling.
And there it was again—that sharp strange pull in your chest.
Because he looked terrifying.
Scarred and bruised and tattooed and built like violence.
But he’d wrecked his bike to save a stray dog.
You examined his nose carefully.
“Broken.”
“Figured.”
“You have a concussion?”
“Probably.”
“You say that like it’s normal.”
“Depends on the month.”
You sighed heavily.
“You are absolutely my worst patient.”
“And yet ye sound fond.”
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
You pressed gently against his ribs and he hissed.
“Bruised,” you said. “Nothing cracked this time.”
“Improvin’.”
“Debatable.”
When you stepped back, he caught your wrist lightly.
Not enough to restrain.
Just enough to stop you moving away.
His hand was warm even through your gloves.
“Name,” he said softly.
You frowned. “You know my name. It’s on my badge.”
“Aye. Your last name.”
You hesitated.
It was stupid to hesitate.
But something about him felt… dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with physical harm.
Dangerous because he paid attention.
Dangerous because every time he looked at you, you felt seen in a way you weren’t used to.
“Nurse confidentiality,” you said finally.
He grinned despite the broken nose. “That bad, eh?”
“You’d survive without it.”
“Maybe.”
But he looked disappointed.
And annoyingly, that bothered you.
After the fourth visit, your coworkers started taking bets.
“I’m serious,” Nina said over coffee. “That man is in love with you.”
“He doesn’t even know me.”
“He keeps nearly dying in increasingly creative ways to come see you.”
“That is not what’s happening.”
From the other side of the break room, Dr. Harrison looked up from his sandwich.
“The biker with the accent?”
“Yes,” Nina said.
“He asked if you were working before he agreed to stitches last week.”
You froze.
“…What?”
Dr. Patel shrugged. “Thought you knew.”
You absolutely did not know.
And suddenly several things clicked into place.
The suspicious timing.
The weirdly selective compliance.
The fact that he always somehow ended up in your section of the ER.
“Oh my God.”
Nina looked delighted. “OH MY GOD.”
“It’s not like that.”
“It is absolutely like that.”
You groaned and buried your face in your hands.
Unfortunately, your traitorous stomach fluttered.
The fifth visit involved a ferret.
To this day, you still weren’t entirely sure how.
“What do you mean it bit you,” you demanded.
Chibs sat on the bed looking genuinely offended. “The little bastard was aggressive.”
“Why were you near a ferret?”
“Friend owns one.”
“Why.”
“Ask him.”
“Did you try to pet it?”
“Aye.”
“You absolute idiot.”
“It looked friendly.”
You stared at the bite on his arm.
Then at him.
Then back at the bite.
“You’re in a motorcycle club.”
“Aye.”
“You’ve been stabbed.”
“A few times.”
“Shot?”
A pause.
“…Maybe.”
“And a ferret is what gets you?”
“Mock me all ye like, nurse, but the wee demon drew blood.”
You laughed so hard you had to sit down.
Actually laughed.
Not the tired polite version you gave patients.
Real laughter.
Tears-in-your-eyes laughter.
And Chibs looked at you like he’d gladly get mauled by a thousand ferrets if it meant hearing that sound again.
The realization hit him suddenly.
Hard.
Oh.
Oh, he was in trouble.
You learned things about him in pieces.
Never all at once.
He rode with the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original.
He smoked too much.
He drank whiskey like water.
He had a daughter he spoke about with a softness that transformed him.
He was fiercely loyal.
Protective to a fault.
Smarter than people expected.
And lonely in a way that settled deep in his bones.
He learned things about you too.
You worked too many hours.
You forgot to eat when stressed.
You hummed unconsciously while charting.
You had a habit of touching people gently even when they were difficult because you believed fear deserved kindness.
You laughed hardest when exhausted.
And despite spending your life taking care of everyone else, almost nobody took care of you.
That one bothered him.
A lot.
The sixth visit was bad.
Actually bad.
No jokes.
No ridiculous excuse.
No teasing.
You walked into trauma and your stomach dropped.
Blood.
So much blood.
Chibs sat slumped on the gurney pale beneath his beard, one hand clamped over his abdomen while another biker hovered nearby.
You recognized him vaguely from previous drop-offs.
Tall. Blond. Panicked.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathed.
Chibs looked up slowly.
And even half-conscious, bleeding through gauze, he relaxed when he saw you.
“There’s my girl.”
Your heart stumbled.
Professional.
Stay professional.
“What happened?” you snapped.
“Knife wound,” the blond man said quickly. “He wouldn’t let us call sooner.”
“Because he’s an idiot,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” the blond agreed immediately.
You cut through layers of blood-soaked fabric with shaking hands you prayed nobody noticed.
The wound was deep.
Too deep.
Fear hit you hard and sudden.
Not patient fear.
Not the detached clinical concern you were trained for.
Personal fear.
Sharp enough to hurt.
“Filip,” you said firmly. “Stay with me.”
His eyes dragged to yours immediately.
“There y’are.”
“You are not allowed to flirt while bleeding out.”
A weak grin.
“Bossy.”
“Pressure’s dropping,” another nurse warned.
Your pulse spiked.
“OR now.”
The blond biker moved aside as they rushed the bed forward, but before Chibs disappeared through the doors, his hand caught yours weakly.
Just for a second.
Enough.
And quietly, almost too quiet to hear:
“Didn’t mean t’scare ye.”
Then he was gone.
You couldn’t stop shaking afterward.
Nina found you in the supply room twenty minutes later.
“You okay?”
“No.”
The honesty surprised both of you.
You leaned against the shelves and pressed a hand over your mouth.
“I shouldn’t care this much.”
Nina’s expression softened instantly.
“Oh.”
“He could’ve died.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No, but—” Your voice cracked unexpectedly. “God, Nina, I thought he was going to die.”
And there it was.
The thing you’d both been avoiding naming.
Because somewhere between broken ribs and ferret bites and late-night teasing conversations, Filip Telford had become important.
Terrifyingly important.
He was in recovery for three days.
You visited exactly zero times.
Because that would be inappropriate.
Unprofessional.
Dangerous.
You absolutely did not stand outside his room twice during shift changes.
You absolutely did not ask for updates from his surgeon.
You absolutely did not feel sick every time someone mentioned complications.
On day four, you walked into work to find a coffee sitting at the nurses’ station.
Your exact order.
You frowned.
Nina smirked from across the hall. “Guess who’s ambulatory.”
You turned.
And there he was.
Pale still. Slower moving. One hand pressed carefully against healing stitches beneath his flannel.
Alive.
Your chest physically hurt with relief.
Chibs watched the emotion cross your face and looked strangely overwhelmed by it.
“Hi, nurse.”
“You should not be walking around.”
“Doctor said light activity.”
“This does not qualify as light activity.”
“Brought ye coffee.”
You stared at him.
At the careful way he stood like the movement hurt.
At the exhaustion under his eyes.
At the fact he’d come here first.
“You got stabbed,” you said quietly.
“Aye.”
“You could’ve died.”
His expression changed.
Softened.
And for the first time since meeting him, the joking disappeared completely.
“I know.”
Silence stretched.
People moved around you both.
Phones rang.
Machines beeped.
But suddenly it felt strangely private.
“You scared me,” you admitted finally.
The words seemed to hit him harder than the knife had.
His throat moved.
“Sorry, lass.”
You looked down at the coffee because the tenderness in his voice was too much.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Aye.”
“You keep getting injured in increasingly ridiculous ways.”
“To be fair, gettin’ stabbed was less ridiculous than the ferret.”
A startled laugh escaped you.
And just like that, the heaviness cracked.
His eyes warmed instantly at the sound.
God.
You were in trouble too.
After that, things changed.
Subtly at first.
Then all at once.
He started stopping by when he wasn’t injured.
Which honestly should’ve been reassuring, except somehow it wasn’t.
Because injured Chibs at least gave you an excuse.
Healthy Chibs showing up with coffee just to see you was significantly more dangerous.
“You know,” Nina said one morning while watching him lean against the nurses’ desk talking to you, “most people buy flowers during courtship.”
“He’s not courting me.”
At the desk, Chibs caught your eye and smirked slowly like he knew exactly what was being discussed.
Traitor.
Nina snorted. “That man looks at you like you invented sunlight.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“And you’re doomed.”
One night near the end of your shift, you found him outside the hospital smoking.
Rain misted lightly over London streets.
He looked tired.
Older somehow.
You approached carefully. “You know those’ll kill you.”
“Aye.”
“You say that very casually.”
“Occupational hazard.”
You leaned beside him against the wall.
For a while neither of you spoke.
Then quietly, he said, “Ye ever think about quittin’?”
“The ER?”
“Aye.”
“All the time.”
“But ye won’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
You thought about it.
About the exhaustion.
The trauma.
The impossible hours.
The heartbreak.
Then about the little old lady who squeezed your hand last week because you sat with her while she was scared.
About saving lives.
About making unbearable things slightly less unbearable.
“Because it matters,” you said softly.
He looked at you for a long moment.
“Aye,” he murmured. “That sounds like you.”
The rain grew heavier.
You should’ve gone back inside.
Instead you stayed.
“You know,” you said eventually, “I still don’t believe half your injury stories.”
“Only half?”
“Maybe less.”
He grinned.
Then winced because apparently smiling still pulled at healing stitches.
“You really should consider safer hobbies.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Knitting.”
“Can ye imagine?”
Despite yourself, you did.
Chibs Telford sitting in a leather kutte knitting aggressively.
You burst out laughing.
And he looked absurdly pleased with himself.
The first time he touched you outside the hospital, it was accidental.
Mostly.
You’d fallen asleep in the break room during a brutal overnight shift.
Head on folded arms.
Completely dead to the world.
Until warmth brushed hair gently away from your face.
You startled awake instantly.
Chibs froze beside your chair.
“Sorry, lass.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Brought food.”
You blinked blearily at the takeaway bags.
“…You brought me food?”
“Nina said ye forgot dinner again.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Nobody did things like that for you.
Not really.
And the terrifying part was how natural it seemed to him.
Like caring for you wasn’t a big deal.
Like you were worth the effort automatically.
“Filip…”
He looked suddenly uncertain.
“I can stop.”
“No.” Too fast. You softened immediately. “No, I just…”
Emotion clogged your throat unexpectedly.
Exhaustion made you vulnerable.
Dangerously vulnerable.
“You remembered,” you whispered.
Something shifted in his face then.
Something deep and aching.
Because he knew that tone.
Knew what it meant when people were surprised by kindness.
Slowly, carefully, he crouched beside your chair.
“You matter t’me, lass.”
The words shattered something in you.
You looked at him.
Really looked at him.
At the scars cutting across his face.
At tired blue eyes.
At rough hands capable of violence and tenderness in equal measure.
At the man who kept showing up.
Again and again and again.
And suddenly it became impossible to pretend this was casual.
“You matter to me too,” you admitted.
His breath caught.
Silence.
Then very gently:
“Dangerous thing, that.”
“Yeah,” you whispered.
It really was.
The seventh ER visit happened because he got shot in the ass.
You stared at the chart for a full ten seconds before entering the room because surely you’d read it wrong.
You had not.
“You got shot in the ass.”
“To be fair—”
“No. No, there is no ‘to be fair’ here.”
“It grazed.”
“You got grazed in the ass.”
“Aye.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose while he laughed helplessly.
“You are the stupidest man alive.”
“Probably.”
“How does this even happen?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“That is not an occupation!”
“Debatable.”
You pointed sternly. “Pants off.”
His eyebrows lifted immediately.
“Buy me dinner first.”
“Filip.”
“Worth a try.”
You were trying so hard not to smile.
And failing.
Terribly.
As he shifted carefully onto the bed, he hissed in pain.
Instantly your amusement faded.
“You okay?”
The softness in your voice seemed to catch him off guard.
“Aye.”
“You sure?”
His gaze held yours.
Then quietly:
“Better now.”
Oh.
Oh, you were absolutely doomed.
By then, everyone knew.
Not officially.
You still hadn’t kissed.
Hadn’t dated.
Hadn’t crossed the line hanging between you both.
But the entire ER knew.
The bikers definitely knew.
And judging by the amused looks you occasionally got from heavily tattooed men dropping Chibs off, they found the whole thing hysterical.
One afternoon a man with dark, curly hair and sunglasses leaned over the nurses’ station while Chibs was getting stitches.
“You the nurse?”
You looked up cautiously. “Yes?”
He grinned. “Thanks for keepin’ our boy alive.”
Before you could answer, Chibs shouted from the bed:
“Fuck off, Tig.”
“Make me.”
“You’re bleedin’ on my floor,” you called calmly. “Behave.”
Tig blinked.
Then burst out laughing.
“Oh, this is serious serious.”
Chibs looked genuinely murderous.
You had no idea why that made warmth bloom in your chest.
It happened three months after the stabbing.
Not during some dramatic moment.
Not after a near-death experience.
Not in pouring rain or under fireworks or whatever nonsense romance movies preferred.
It happened at four in the morning in a hospital vending machine alcove.
You were exhausted.
He was bruised again—minor this time, thank God.
And both of you were sharing terrible coffee while the hospital hummed quietly around you.
“You know,” you said, “normal people usually meet in bars.”
“Aye?”
“Or through friends.”
“Mm.”
“We met because you apparently view bodily injury as a hobby.”
“In my defense, ye looked pretty the first time.”
You choked on coffee.
He grinned.
“You cannot say things like that casually.”
“Why no’?”
“Because I’m holding near-boiling liquid.”
“Avoidin’ the compliment, I see.”
You looked away because he was watching you too closely.
Too warmly.
“You flirt more when sleep deprived,” you muttered.
“And ye blush when complimented.”
“I do not.”
“Lass, your ears are red.”
“Oh my God.”
His laugh was soft this time.
Fond.
Dangerously fond.
The vending machine buzzed quietly beside you.
Then he said, very carefully:
“Can I take ye to dinner?”
Your heart stuttered.
There it was.
The thing that had been coming for months.
Real.
Terrifying.
You looked at him.
At the hope hidden carefully behind humor.
At the vulnerability he tried so hard to mask.
And suddenly the answer felt obvious.
“Yes.”
He blinked.
Actually blinked.
Like he’d expected resistance.
“You sure?”
“You got shot in the ass for me.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Debatable.”
A grin spread slowly across his face.
Warm. Real. Beautiful in a rough uneven way.
And before fear could stop you, you leaned forward and kissed him.
Soft.
Brief.
Coffee and smoke and whiskey and surprise.
For one stunned second he didn’t move at all.
Then one hand cupped your jaw carefully—so carefully for a man built like violence—and he kissed you back.
Like you were something precious.
Something he’d been afraid to break.
When you pulled away, both of you looked a little wrecked.
“Well,” Chibs said hoarsely.
“Well,” you echoed.
“That seemed promising.”
You laughed quietly.
And God, the look on his face after hearing that sound while kissing you—
After a bad day, you wind up standing between Happy's legs, cradling his head to your chest, while he just breathes.
my heart hurts
also new banner, the old one will still be in use with some fics that have already got it attached, but i will slowly be transitioning over to the new banner xx
Happy's room is dark when you push the door open.
Not completely dark. Just dim enough that the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds paints everything in long shadows, turning the familiar space into something quieter than usual, heavier somehow.
The run had gone bad.
Nobody had told you details.
Nobody needed to.
You'd seen the way the club came back. The tension. The exhaustion. The grim expressions that settled over everyone's faces whenever something went wrong enough to leave a mark.
Not catastrophic.
Nobody dead.
Nobody arrested.
Just one disaster after another until every last nerve had been scraped raw.
And Happy—
Happy had disappeared without a word.
So eventually, after trying and failing to convince yourself it wasn't your place to go looking for him, you found your feet carrying you toward his room anyway.
The door clicks softly behind you.
He doesn't look up.
Of course he doesn't.
Happy always knew it was you.
Maybe it was the sound of your footsteps. Maybe it was the way you breathed. Maybe it was something worse, something far more dangerous, something neither of you had ever been brave enough to name aloud.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
You simply stand there looking at him.
At the exhaustion etched into every line of his body.
At the tension gathered across his shoulders.
At the way his hands hang loose between his knees, fingers flexing occasionally as if they couldn't quite decide whether they wanted to curl into fists.
Something painful squeezes around your heart.
"Happy."
Your voice comes out softer than you'd intended.
A rough exhale escapes him.
Not quite a sigh.
Not quite a grunt.
Just acknowledgment.
Just exhaustion.
The kind that settled deep into a man's bones.
For a moment you simply stand there, taking him in, your chest tightening painfully at the sight.
Most people gave Happy space when he was like this.
Most people knew better.
You find yourself moving toward him anyway.
You cross the room.
Slowly.
Giving him every opportunity to tell you to leave.
He never does.
Probably never would.
When you reach him, your thighs brush against his knees.
Still he doesn't move.
Your hand lifts.
Rests gently on his shoulder.
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
You'd long since stopped being afraid of touching Happy Lowman.
Maybe because you'd learned years ago that the monster everyone else saw wasn't the whole man.
Maybe because somewhere along the way he'd started looking at you like you were something precious.
Maybe because touching him had started feeling as natural as breathing.
Whatever the reason, your hand settled there easily.
Immediately, almost unconsciously, he leaned into it.
Just slightly.
The movement was so small most people would've missed it.
You didn't.
A slow breath left his chest.
Your heart cracks a little.
"Oh, sweetheart."
The words slip out before you can stop them.
For a second nothing happens.
Then one large hand lifts.
Settles against the back of your thigh.
Just above your knee.
Barely any pressure at all.
But it feels like a question.
A request.
A plea from a man who doesn't know how to ask for things.
Your chest tightens.
Without speaking, you step forward.
Moving into the space between his legs.
The reaction is immediate.
His other hand finds your waist.
Then the first follows.
Large palms spreading across your back.
Holding.
Not restraining.
Not possessing.
Just holding.
As though he'd finally found something solid enough to lean against.
You move closer.
And closer.
Until there isn't any space left between you.
Happy's forehead brushes your chest.
The contact seems to knock something loose inside him.
A long breath escapes him.
The kind that sounds dragged from somewhere deep.
Only then does he finally lift his head.
Dark eyes find yours.
God.
The exhaustion there nearly undoes you.
Not physical exhaustion.
Something deeper.
Something older.
The kind that settles into a person's bones.
"Hi."
His voice was rough.
Low.
Like it hurt to use.
Your lips soften.
"Hi, Happy."
For a second his eyes slip shut.
Just for a second.
Like hearing you answer had given him permission to rest.
Then they open again.
Lock onto yours.
And something vulnerable flickers there.
Gone so fast you almost thought you'd imagined it.
"Come here."
A laugh threatens to escape you.
"You've got me trapped between your knees already."
A faint twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth.
Then his hands tightens against your back.
Pulling.
Not hard.
Just enough.
And somehow you end up even closer.
Happy shifts forward on the mattress.
Closer to the edge.
Closer to you.
As though there was still too much distance between you despite the fact that your bodies were already touching.
His forehead drops back to your chest.
Resting there.
Right over your heart.
The tension beginning to leave him in slow increments.
You could actually feel it.
Feel his shoulders loosening.
Feel his breathing evening out.
Feel the way his grip changed from desperate to simply content.
Your fingers slide over his head.
One hand cradling the back of his neck.
The other tracing softly across the tattooed skin of his scalp.
The same way you'd soothe a wounded animal that finally trusted you enough to let itself be touched.
Immediately, another breath leaves him.
Long.
Shaky.
Almost broken.
The sound made your chest ache.
Because Happy never let anyone see him break.
Never.
Except here.
Except with you.
You don't know how much time passes.
Minutes.
Maybe an hour.
Long enough that your legs start aching.
Long enough that the sunlight shifts across the room.
Long enough that Happy's breathing settles into something calm and steady beneath your hands.
Nothing existed except the weight of him against you.
The warmth of him.
The quiet.
The way his thumbs keep moving against your back as though reassuring himself you were still there.
As though he can't quite believe you were real.
Eventually, he lifts his head.
The loss of his weight makes your chest feel strangely cold.
His eyes find yours immediately.
Like they always do.
Like they can't help it.
One hand leaves your back.
Rises slowly.
Carefully.
As though he isn't entirely certain he's allowed.
His palm settles against your jaw.
Large and rough and unbelievably gentle.
The gesture feels unbearably tender coming from him.
You lean into it instinctively.
You let your hand slide from his head.
Resting it against his cheek.
Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone.
The stubble there scratched lightly against your skin.
His eyes close.
Happy makes a sound.
A tiny sound.
A wounded sound.
Like that simple gesture had nearly finished him off.
"Baby."
Your breath caught.
Because he'd never called you that before.
Not once.
Yet somehow it sounded like he'd been calling you that in his head for years.
"Baby," he whispered again.
His thumb strokes your cheek.
His gaze searches your face.
Memorizing it.
Like a starving man looking at a feast.
"Don't go."
Your heart stops.
Because he wasn't talking about tonight.
Wasn't talking about this room.
Wasn't talking about the next five minutes.
It was everything.
Every year behind you.
Every year ahead.
Don't leave me.
Don't disappear.
Don't wake up one day and decide I'm too much.
Too old.
Too damaged.
Too difficult to love.
You could see it in his eyes.
See it in the fear hidden beneath the vulnerability.
The fear that if he finally reached for you—
You might disappear.
Your eyes burned.
"My love," you whisper.
The words escape before you can stop them.
Happy froze.
Completely.
You feel it happen.
See it happen.
The entire world seems to stop turning.
"I'm not going anywhere."
His eyes shut.
A shudder moves through him.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Just enough for you to realize how terrified he'd been.
How long he'd been carrying that fear.
The hand on your neck slid into your hair.
Holding you.
Not forcing.
Not demanding.
Just holding.
Like something precious.
Something fragile.
Something he couldn't believe belonged to him.
When you lower your forehead to his, he lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like relief.
"Baby..."
His voice cracks.
Actually cracks.
And suddenly you understand.
This wasn't a bad day.
It wasn't exhaustion.
It wasn't the run.
It was years.
Years of wanting.
Years of watching.
Years of convincing himself he shouldn't have you.
Shouldn't need you.
Shouldn't love you.
And losing that battle anyway.
You kiss him first.
Soft.
Gentle.
Barely there.
The second your lips touch, a strangled sound escapes him.
A sound so heartbreakingly vulnerable that your entire chest tightens.
His eyes close immediately.
Like he'd been waiting for this.
Like he'd dreamed about it.
Like he'd spent years imagining what it would feel like.
Then he kissed you back.
And somehow the tenderness of it felt more intimate than anything else ever could.
Because there was no urgency.
No greed.
Just relief.
Pure, overwhelming relief.
Like two people who had spent far too long pretending they could survive without each other finally giving up.
His hand tangles into your hair.
The other drops to your thigh.
Then suddenly he's pulling.
You barely have time to react before he guides you onto his lap.
A startled yelp disappears into the kiss.
He settles you against him like you've always belonged there.
Like there's never been another place for you.
When he finally pulls back, a thin thread of saliva still connecting you, his eyes search your face.
Looking.
Checking.
Making sure.
The second he finds no hesitation, no fear, no regret, he's kissing you again.
One hand slides up your spine.
The other remains steady against your back.
Your arms wind around his neck.
You press yourself closer.
Chest to chest.
Heart to heart.
A groan leaves him.
Low.
Wrecked.
"Baby."
His lips brush along your cheek.
The corner of your eye.
Your jaw.
"You're killing me."
A smile pulls at your lips.
You answer by pressing soft kisses across his forehead.
Across the lines that only appear when he's tired.
Across the man who never realized how deeply he needed to be loved.
"Feeling's mutual, baby."
The noise he makes is almost a growl.
Almost a laugh.
Almost both.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
His hands settle over your shoulder blades.
Holding you carefully.
Like something precious.
Something irreplaceable.
His eyes lock onto yours.
His hands are trembling.
Actually trembling.
And when he looks at you, there's no wall left.
No armor.
No distance.
Just love.
Terrifyingly obvious love.
"Mine."
The word isn't possessive.
Not really.
It's simply a truth.
The sun is hot.
The sky is blue.
You're his.
He's yours.
The realization settles warm and steady inside your chest.
His hand slides down your spine.
"That okay?"
The question nearly undoes you.
This man.
This enormous, terrifying, tattooed killer.
Asking permission.
Asking if it's alright for him to belong to you as much as you belong to him.
You lean forward and kiss him.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
Lingering.
When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.
"My love, that's more than okay."
The smile that breaks across his face is devastating.
Rare.
Beautiful.
It transforms him completely.
Makes him look younger.
Softer.
Happy's eyes shine.
"Your love," he whispers.
His voice shakes.
"My love."
His forehead presses against yours again.
His arms tighten around you.
And for the first time all day, all week, maybe all year, he looks completely at peace.
Hours later, Chibs goes looking for Happy.
He pushes the bedroom door open just enough to peek inside.
Then immediately stops.
You and Happy are tangled together beneath the blankets.
Your head rests on his chest.
One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist.
His cheek is pressed against your forehead.
Even asleep, he hasn't let you go.
Can't.
Won't.
For a moment, Chibs simply stands there.
Watching.
Taking in the sight of the most dangerous man he knows looking happier than he's ever seen him.
A soft smile tugs at Chibs' mouth.
Then he quietly backs out of the room.
Pulling the door closed behind him with all the care in the world.
summary: It's been a long shift for Jack—luckily, he has you waiting for him at home.
tags: fluff
word count: 800+
a/n: a little blurb written in the D:M? universe. it can be read as a separate piece but there are references (nightly singing :D) that won't make much sense if you haven't read the series. hope you like it! <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
Jack's tired.
It's been a long twelve hours in the Pitt, barely a second to sit down with one trauma rolling in after another. His leg started aching around hour five, and a dull headache started thrumming behind his eyes by hour eight.
The only thing that kept him moving was the thought of you waiting for him at home.
Through every exhausting hour of the night, he'd carried the image of you with him—your sleepy smile, the way his t-shirt would hang off one shoulder when you shifted beneath the blankets to make room for him.
He could almost feel it already: the warmth of the bed, the familiar weight of your head settling into the space between his shoulder and neck as if it had been made for you. Even half-asleep, your hand would find its way to his chest, your fingers tracing absent, comforting patterns against his skin.
It's all he's thinking about when he leaves the Pitt. It's all he's thinking about when he takes the fast way home, weaving through familiar streets with a tiredness settled deep in his bones. By the time he finally reaches his door and turns the key in the lock, he can almost feel it already.
It takes him a second to realise something's different.
The house isn't quiet like usual.
Jack hangs up his jacket to the sound of blaring music echoing down the hallway as a sweet smell drifts towards him. He slows when a softer voice joins in as he makes his way into the house.
It's yours.
Jack rounds the corner and leans against the doorway. From there, he can see you standing at the stove. You flip a pancake, then lift the spatula to your lips like a microphone, belting along completely unabashed.
His lips spread into a wide smile. For a moment, he doesn't say anything. He just stands there and watches.
You're swaying slightly to the music, completely unaware he's there. One of his old t-shirts hangs off one shoulder, and there's a faint dusting of flour across your cheek.
God, he loves you.
The song ends, and he finally starts clapping. "That was a nice performance," he grins. "Almost better than the nightly ones."
You let out a startled yelp, nearly launching the spatula across the kitchen. "Jesus. What the fuck, Jack?"
His laugh comes out tired but genuine as he pushes away from the doorway and crosses the room. "Sorry."
You glare at him over your shoulder. "No, you're not."
"No," he agrees.
Your glare lasts all of three seconds before he reaches you. His hands settle automatically on your waist, thumbs brushing back and forth over your shirt. The ache in his leg is still there. The headache, too. But being close to you makes both seem a little quieter.
He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You try to stay annoyed, but your mouth twitches. "You're home early," you mumble.
"Thank god, I was." He wraps both arms around your middle and rests his chin on your shoulder. "Would've missed the concert."
You groan.
"Encore?" he asks.
"I'm charging you for that."
"No husband discount?"
"No husband discount."
"Hm." His nose brushes your cheek, then your jaw, before he presses a lingering kiss beneath your ear. "I don't mind paying full price."
You finally turn in his arms, one hand settling against his chest. Now that you're standing face-to-face, there's no hiding how exhausted he is.
Your expression softens immediately. "Long day?"
"The longest." His forehead drops against yours. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The music continues quietly in the background while you smooth a hand through the hair at the back of his neck.
His arms tighten instinctively around your waist, and he lets more of his weight settle against you, holding you a little closer. Your hips sway gently together.
He closes his eyes. Home. This is home.
Then you gasp. "Oh, no." You twist around. "My pancake."
Smoke curls up from the pan. He watches as you rescue what is now essentially a hockey puck. You stare at it. He stares at it.
"It's a little crispy," he offers.
"It's charcoal."
"I like charcoal."
You snort. "You are such a liar." Jack grins as you point the spatula at him. "Go shower. I need to focus."
"Bossy."
"Jack."
He steals one last kiss anyway, quick and warm, then another because you smile halfway through the first one.
"Go."
"Going." His hand slides across your hip as he passes, giving you a gentle squeeze.
Behind him, he hears you start singing again before he's even reached the hallway. His smile follows him all the way to the bathroom. It isn't what he'd spent the last twelve hours imagining.
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synopsis: Trinity and Dennis ask Jack about his wife
warnings/notes: Number eleven in the widow!jack ficlet series. As always, @tanely helped brainstorm. Listen, timelines are loose in this AU. things happen when they happen. so...yeah.
wc: 1.1k
Previous Series Masterlist
Trinity sat at the computer where she was supposed to be charting staring at Robby and Abbot across the room. “Hey, Crash,” she said as Victoria walked past with Dennis.
Victoria rolled her eyes but slowed to a stop. “What?”
“You did a rotation on night shift, right?”
Her and Dennis exchanged a look. “Yeah. Why?”
“What’s the deal with Abbot?” Trinity turned on her seat to face the other two.
“What do you mean?” Victoria’s gaze moved from Trinity to Abbot and back again.
“I mean,” Trinity drew the words out in annoyance, as if it should be obvious what she was getting at without her needing to explain. “He’s cool. SWAT, the leg, him and Robby are besties. Like, what’s his story?”
“Why do you care?” Victoria was so confused as to the point of this conversation.
Trinity shrugged one shoulder. “Thinking about going on nights for a while. It wouldn’t hurt to have an in with the attending.”
Victoria’s eyes went wide before she nodded once as if that made sense. “You should ask him about his wife. He loves talking about her. It’ll totally get you points.”
“He’s married?” Dennis asked.
She looked at him. “Yeah, didn’t you notice the ring?”
“Well, we haven’t really been around him much to be fair,” he said.
Trinity smiled. “Thanks for the solid, Crash.” She hopped to her feet and patted the younger woman on the shoulder as Abbot walked past them to head into the breakroom. “You’re coming with me, Huckleberry.”
“But—What? I was helping Vict—”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Victoria rushed to assure him, waving a hand through the air. “I’ll ask someone else.”
As she turned to hurry away, she hoped they hadn’t noticed the gleeful expression on her face.
When they hurried into the breakroom, they found the attending sitting at one of the tables with a cup of coffee. “H-hey, Dr. Abbot,” Dennis greeted.
“What’s up? Why are you here anyway?” Trinity added as she grabbed an energy drink from the fridge.
Jack looked between the two of them with a frown not saying anything. Finally, he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Morning admin meeting. Now, what do you want?”
Dennis started to stutter out an excuse but Trinity talked over the top of him. “We were wondering about your wife, is all.”
“My wife.” Jack’s voice was rough, low. His gaze darted between the two of them. “Would you like to hear about my leg next? Why don’t we just rehash all of my trauma?”
Dennis’ eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open slightly. Oh no. Shit.
Trinity sat at the table. “Yes, actually. What happened?”
Jack turned his head slowly to look at the resident, an unimpressed expression on his face. “Robby crashed his fuckass motorcycle with me on the back. They had to amputate.”
Her mouth opened and closed before she said, “Oh.” She glanced at Dennis who stood behind Abbot shaking his head and mouthing the word No. “So, what about your wife then?”
“My wife was the most remarkable woman. I have never and will never love anyone like her. I will love her and only her for the rest of my life.”
Trinity swallowed hard. “What happened to her?”
Jack blinked once. Twice. “Robby crashed his fuckass motorcycle with her on the back. She didn’t make it.” His tone was flat, emotionless.
Trinty physically recoiled ever so slightly. “Listen, I’m sorry if—”
This time it was Dennis cutting her off, just as the breakroom door opened. “Dr. Abbot, we are so sorry. We didn’t mean to bring up any trauma or whatever. Seriously, we were just trying to get to know you.”
“What’s going on in here?” Robby asked.
“We were just asking Abbot about his wife,” Trinity said as she stood.
Robby narrowed his gaze. “And what did Jack have to say about the Mrs.?”
“Just about how much he loved her. It was very sweet really,” Dennis hurried to say before pushing Trinity out of the room.
“I think Crash set us up,” she said once they’d reached the hub.
“Ya think?” Dennis asked, sarcasm heavy in his voice.
“Good for her.”
Dennis just shook his head as he watched his roommate leave to check on a patient. He glanced back to the closed door of the breakroom before walking off himself. Whatever had happened to Dr. Abbot’s wife, he obviously still loved her deeply. Dennis could only hope he’d find a relationship like that someday.
Roughly an hour later, Dennis was heading back toward the hub when he saw you standing next to Robby. He briefly considered introducing himself knowing you were the other night shift attending. His gaze caught on Abbot making his way to you, bag over his shoulder. And his eyes glued to your ass.
Dennis frowned. Hadn’t the man just been extoling his wife’s virtues and now here he is staring at yours? Dennis was oddly offended on Mrs. Abbot’s behalf. He walked over to where the older man was making no effort to hide his obvious leering and stood beside him, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I thought you’d never love anyone like you loved your wife.”
Jack huffed a humorless laugh. “You got that right, kid.”
“Then what is this?”
“This is me appreciating what’s right in front of me.”
“Are you staring at my ass again?” you asked, not even glancing over your shoulder.
“I told you if you don’t want me staring at it, you shouldn’t put it in front of me,” Jack said.
Dennis curled his lip. Abbot was disgusting. He’d actually felt sorry for him and now—The thought cut off abruptly as Abbot wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple.
Robby shook his head. “Whitaker, have you two met?”
“No.” Dennis stepped forward as Robby introduced you.
He finished with, “Also known as Mrs. Abbot.”
“Oh.” Dennis processed what he’d just been told. “Oh!”
Jack just grinned as you elbowed him in the side. “What did you do this time?”
“Why do you always think I did something?”
You stared at him without saying anything.
Finally, he said, “Okay. Fair.”
“I don’t…I’m so confused,” Dennis said with a helpless look at Robby.
Robby put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get used to it.
Dennis wasn't sure about that. What he did know was that he had no intention of letting Trinity in on the information anytime soon.
