slut4fics

“Why can’t you do it?” You asked as you pushed the eggs around on your plate. You had been driving the 101 for a few days, coming back home to Oceanside after working a few robberies along the coast. You and your sister had a good gig. You were ‘hostages for hire,’ actresses who would be involved with heists to prevent the criminals from getting caught. You’d sob, snotty and ugly, begging and pleading for the bank managers to just do whatever the bad men said so they wouldn’t unload their gun into your head. And you’d leave the bank with them, collateral so that no one would follow you. Then, they’d drop you off on a corner somewhere with a wad of cash and a professional nod. And your mother always said those acting lessons were a waste of money.

“Jerry has a scheduling conflict.” Your sister explained.

“Fucking Jerry.” You scoffed around your bite of breakfast. You watched a car drive past the diner window and switched which hand held the phone to your ear.

“Hey,” She warned, “It’s not a bad job, alright? Simple jewelry store robbery.”

“When has a Cody job ever been simple?” Never. 

“Just do it..please? We need to stay in their employment.” You drank from your coffee mug. 

“They don’t like me.” You said softly. It wasn’t untrue. You had worked with the Codys once several years prior. The job went fine, you did your duty, but one of the sons just kept looking at you during the planning and the meetings and even during the getaway drive. Pope, you learned, had a staring problem. After that, they only called your sister for their needs. You had conflicting feelings about it. On one hand, you felt a bit jilted. Your sister made good money working for them, and you were cut out because…well, that was the thing- you had no idea what you did wrong. You had asked her once, why they preferred her. She said something about them not trusting you around Pope. Which you took to mean that they didn’t trust you. Pope always made you a little uncomfortable with his intensity, and you were sure he wasn’t exactly fond of you. He always treated you as an outsider. That was the other thing. You weren’t going to force yourself into a space that you clearly were not welcome in. And you didn’t mind not being next to that creep. 

“That’s not true.” Your sister countered. But it was weak. You heard her sigh on the other end of the phone. “Dude, please. I’m asking this as a favor, okay? Officially.” Your eyebrows raised with interest. A favor from your sister was valuable. She was the kind of person who did not offer those lightly. She would literally do anything. So, after draining the rest of your coffee, you sighed. 

“Yea, alright. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

---------

“We don’t bring in outsiders.” Pope’s mouth was in a hard line, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back in his chair. His brow was heavy over his eyes and his nostrils were flared. Craig ran a hand through his hair before leaning closer to his brother. You could tell he was getting irritated.

“They’re our only option, okay?” Craig hissed, jaw clenched. “We need drivers.” “Why can’t I drive?” Pope tilted his head and Craig took a deep breath. 

“You know why.” His voice dropped a few notches. And they exchanged a look, the true meaning of which was lost on you. But you gathered that, the last time Pope had been the getaway driver, something had happened. After a few moments of silence, Craig huffed and pushed himself up from the table. The chair screeched on the concrete patio. “I’ll get them caught up on details.” With that, he stomped away, leaving just you and Pope at the iron outdoor table. You could feel the design of the chair digging into your thighs. When you stood up, you’d have an imprint of flowers splashing across your legs. Pope’s gaze landed heavy on you. Searing. Intrusive. 

“Why are you here? Where’s your sister?” He bit out, gravelly voice catching on each syllable. You pushed down the annoyed scoff that threatened to spill from your mouth.

“Scheduling conflict.” You tried to make your tone amicable, but you weren’t sure if you succeeded. Pope just blinked in acknowledgment. “Do you-” But Pope didn’t hear the rest of your question. He was already walking back to the house. You rolled your eyes and shook your head.

---------

The job began as normal. You walked in thirty minutes before the planned time, scanning the jewelry display cases. One of the workers came over after a few moments, asking if he could help you. You told your story, how you were looking to get your mom a necklace for her birthday. A realistic story that was forgettable. He was about to take out a cushion of golden pendants when the door slammed open. Craig, Pope, and Deran stormed into the shop, guns up and shouting demands. You let adrenaline crash over your nerves and your legs began to shake. You gave a scared look to the counter clerk, who looked on the verge of tears. You moved to escape, but a strong arm curled around your stomach. It pulled you back into a broad chest. You flinched with the force of it. His grip was a little tighter than you were expecting and you wriggled against him, but he didn’t budge. His thumb brushed the underside of your breast. Fucking Craig and his handsy-

“You press that panic button, I’ll kill ‘er.” The rough voice was right next to your ear. That…wasn’t Craig. It was Pope. Genuine confusion made your performance more believable. The plan was for Craig to take the lead with you as hostage. They changed it without consulting you. But you didn’t have time to think too hard about it. You had a job. The tears came easily. 

“P-Please,” You begged the clerk, whose gaze snapped from the gun Pope held, to your wet eyes. “Please don’t let him hurt me.” The clerk nodded frantically and stepped back from the counter. Pope jerked his head to the side, motioning for the man to join the rest of the people in the store lying on their bellies. Pope watched as he moved, pulling you in a semi-circle so that you could both survey the scene. Craig was circling the pile of patrons on the ground while Deran supervised the manager filling up the bag with the diamonds. Your breathing was uneven. Not just because of the performance you were putting on, but because of Pope’s hand, which was starting to slide further down your stomach. An innocent repositioning. So you hoped, anyway. You shifted against him and he huffed in your ear, just low enough that only you could hear. 

“Stop squirmin’.” Just to spite him, you thrashed again. Your ass glided against his thigh and a sound purged from Pope’s throat. An annoyed grunt, perhaps. You couldn’t decipher it. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw one of the patrons squirm on the ground. You sneakily dug your fingers into Pope’s arm, gesturing with your eyes to where he was slowly moving his hand to his ankle. And then people started to scream.

It all happened so fast. The man pulled a gun from his boot and jumped to his feet, aiming for Craig. Pope called out to his brother, who whirled around and shot the guy before he could fire. Unfortunately, the man was standing right in front of you and the gunshot splattered blood all over you and Pope. Horrified shrieks cut through the atmosphere. Deran ripped the bag from the manager and called for everyone to go. Pope dragged him along with you, kicking and screaming. He paused for a moment before exiting the building, turning to face the crowd. His thumb pulled back the hammer. The click sent a shiver down your spine that settled in your belly. Not all of it was fear. But you weren’t going to unpack that. “Anyone follows us, you know what happens.” He threatened. And then, the thick back door closed behind him. 

Craig should have listened to Pope. He should not have brought in outside drivers. Because the car was already driving away with Craig and Deran in the back seat. You and Pope had to just stand there, watching the van tear away into the street. 

“Oh, fuck.” You gasped. Pope still had a grip on you, but he tucked the gun into his waistband. From inside the building, you heard the alarm. Great. You looked to Pope, whose eyes were trained on where the van turned onto a different street. His jaw twitched and his eyes flicked around, calculating the next best move. He huffed and grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a jog. “Where are we going?” You asked, struggling to keep up with his pace. Pope didn’t answer, just kept moving. 

---------

The motel was run-down. With maybe three cars in the parking lot and leaves floating in the pool. Pope had deposited you on the curb while he went in to talk to the owner. You watched a pair of crows fight over a moldy bagel. The sky was getting darker with each passing moment. The door behind you jingled and Pope emerged, room key closed tightly in their fist. 

“He said we could stay the night.” He said plainly, gesturing for you to stand.

“Why do we have to stay? Can’t we just find a way home?”

“I don’t have a phone on me, and it’s best to lie low. We can get home tomorrow. Come on.” You rolled your eyes but followed. You figured he had a better grasp on the necessities of this kind of situation than you did. When Pope unlocked the door to the room, you genuinely let out a laugh. 

“You cannot be serious.” The room was dingy, peeling wallpaper and green carpet lit by a half-dead lamp. But the worst part about it was there was a single queen bed in the center. “One bed?” You looked at him with disdain. He just shrugged, but you noticed the vein in his neck pulsing harder. 

“It’s all he had.”

“Really?” You sneered, pointing to the empty parking lot. “You believed that?” Pope grumbled and roughly shoved you inside the room before shutting the door and locking it. You stood there for a moment as Pope slid past you, hurrying to the sink to immediately wash his hands. You flopped onto the bed, but Pope snapped his fingers at you.

“Get up.” He ordered. You were on your feet instantly, arms behind you, and looking with horror at the comforter.

“Why?” You gasped, trying to see what the issue was. “What’s wrong?” When you looked back up, Pope had shed his sweatshirt and was pushing his jeans down to the ground. “Uh….” you couldn’t think of anything else to say. Not when there was a big, bulky man (that you always found a little attractive) in his underwear standing in front of you.

“Take off your clothes.” He said it clinically, like he was telling you to put away the dishes.

“I’m sorry, what?” You scoffed. “No, I’m…no, Pope, I’m not undressing in front of you.” Pope rolled his eyes as if you were being unreasonably difficult.

“We have to ditch our clothes.” He gestured at you. “They have blood on them.” You looked down at your outfit. Sure enough, the man’s blood was splashed across your abdomen and thighs. Heat rose to your cheeks. Fuck. He was right. You knew he was. “I’ll look away,” he promised, and turned to face the wall. You just stood there for a few moments, staring at his curled head. “Are you done?” “No!” You almost laughed. “I’m not doing it! I…I don’t have anything to change into.” Your words were soft. Without hesitating, Pope pulled his shirt over his head. You ignored the way your heart kicked when his bare torso was revealed. Freckled skin pulled taught over hard muscle. He held out the shirt to you.

“We’ll get you some new clothes when we get back tomorrow,” He rasped, nodding at you to take the shirt. “You can wear this. It doesn’t have blood on it.” When you tentatively grabbed the fabric, he found a trashbag and shoved his jeans and sweatshirt into it. You sighed in resignation and began to undress. You took off your shoes, unbuckled your pants, and replaced your shirt with Pope’s. 

“Alright,” You told him, balling up the clothing and putting it in the bag when he held it out to you. Pope’s eyes flicked down for only a moment. His gaze moved from the sliver of underwear visible by your hips down to your socks. Both articles were covered in little strawberries.

“You’re matching.” Pope said simply. In that stupid monotone voice you could never decipher. Your nose wrinkled in annoyance.

“Shut up,” You bit back, but the heat in your cheeks spread even further with each passing moment. You hurried to one side of the bed and crawled under the covers. Not only because you were ready to sleep, but because you didn’t want to spend another moment under Pope’s assessing gaze.

You patted the side of the bed that was still made, gesturing for Pope to sit. Instead, he looked at the chair in the corner of the room. His fist clenched and unclenched, fingers twitching nervously as his eyes flicked from the torn upholstery to the dark stain that covered half the cushion. He sighed and walked to the wall, pressing his back against it and sliding to sit on the carpet. He pulled his knees tight against his chest. Your gaze lowered. 

“Listen,” You sighed, “I know you don’t like me or trust me, or whatever, but-”

“Who said that?” Pope asked, brow furrowed and mouth pinched. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Craig. He said they didn’t trust me around you.” Pope’s nostrils flared with a deep breath and his gaze lifted to look out the window.

“I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that I’m dangerous. I would never hurt you.” In fact, you doubted you could hurt him even if you tried. You knew his reputation.

“I know.”

“So will you please just get in the bed? It’s a queen. It’ll be fine. And cleaner than sitting all night on a carpet that hasn’t been cleaned in…who knows how long. At least the sheets are fresh-ish.” Pope’s lips quirked to the side. It took a few heartbeats, but he cautiously climbed into the bed, on top of the covers, and sat with his back straight against the headboard. He pressed his hands together and rested them in his lap. His bare chest rose and fell calmly. He forced his eyes to stare at the wall across the room. 

The exhaustion of the day settled over you and it was officially night outside. You shimmied down into the bed further and pulled the covers over your shoulders. You muttered a g’night and closed your eyes. Several minutes passed, filled with the steady hum of the air conditioning and the occasional whoosh of a passing car.

“It’s not that they don’t trust you.” His voice was quiet and you were so close to sleep you almost didn’t hear it. 

“What?” You murmured groggily.

“Before,” He continued, watching you as you pushed yourself up to look at him. “You said Craig didn’t trust you around me.” You nodded. “But that’s not true.” “What are you talking about, Pope?” You were tired, just wanted to sleep. You didn’t have the energy for his little games. 

“They don’t trust me around you.” His eyes darkened and it made your throat go dry. 

“W…Why not?” You squeaked out. The beginning traces of panic began to pump your heart. Pope remained still, heavy gaze becoming a touch more sinister.

“Because I’d do this.” He leaned forward, pressing his mouth against yours. You inhaled sharply with surprise. The kiss wasn’t rough. In fact, it was little more than his lips simply resting on yours. Pope pulled back after a few heartbeats. He just looked at you. You blinked at him, jaw slack. He worked the muscle in his jaw as he waited for your response, fingers neatly intertwined with each other and resting on his stomach. And just before his face fell with disappointment, you grabbed his cheeks and pulled him back to you. The second kiss was sloppier, clashes of teeth and tongue as you tried to find a rhythm. But it wasn’t long before Pope was resting his weight on top of you, licking into your mouth and only parting for breath and to take off your shirt. You shimmied off your underwear and tossed them to the side. You were so lost in the kiss, you didn’t realize he had taken off his boxers until you felt the hot skin of his head poking at your entrance. 

“Is this okay?” He breathed, nose slotted beside yours. 

“Please,” You nodded eagerly. “So wet for you. Need you so bad.”

The first roll of his hips punched the air out of your lungs with a breathy moan. The thick length of him pressed against each and every one of your nerve endings, flooding your body with searing pleasure. Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders as Pope paused to give you time to adjust. 

“F-Fuck!” You gasped, eyes wide, “You’re…You’re so big.”

“I know, m’sorry,” He apologized between kisses along your jaw line. “Let me know if it’s too much.” After a few moments and several deep breaths, Pope began to move again. Each thrust sent sparks up your spine. Your toes went numb every time his cock found the most sensitive spot inside you. You were mewling, whimpering, begging for something you couldn't verbalize. And the entire time, Pope held himself up, hands planted on either side of your head, and just stared at you unblinking with his bottom lip caught in his teeth. His abdomen rolled, pulling his cock out of you and then pressing back in with a rhythm that made you see stars. Your arousal matted both of your pubic hair and you saw sweat began to slip down the inside of Pope’s arms from his exertion. One of Pope’s fingers came up to nudge your clit. “Cu…Please cum f’me.” He whispered, rubbing tight circles that had your walls fluttering around him. It didn’t take long for the hot band to snap in your abdomen. You arched into him, cumming with a cry of his name. As you spasmed around him, the lock of his eyes began to falter. His lids fluttered as you gripped him impossibly hard, short breaths pitching upwards into moans. When you rode out your orgasm, he abruptly pulled out, tugging on his dick twice before ropes of cum splashed onto your chest. Pope watched each twitch of his spent cock with half-lidded eyes and a heaving chest. Your head fell back and your eyes closed, trying to regulate your breathing. But you gasped when you felt Pope’s wet tongue drag across your breasts. Your eyes opened, watching as he lapped his spend from your smooth skin. He paused every now and again to suck on your still-hardened nipples, earning a quiet whimper of overstimulation in return. When you were deemed sufficiently clean, Pope pressed a kiss to your sweaty forehead and climbed off you. He tucked one arm beneath the crook of your knees and one around your back. He carried you into the bathroom and started the shower. As the warm water kissed your skin, he murmured in your ear.

The sun was scattering sunbeams over the hardwood of the apartment's floor, your feet casting shadows along the wood lining. You’d woken first, lightly reopening the slated blinds to open the gates to the mid afternoon luminescence. You moved to the space by the kitchen, the small balcony which you never stepped foot on for no particular reason.

“Morning sweetheart” there he was, jack abbot, stark fucking naked. Doing yoga.

“FUCKING HUH-!” you stumbled back, hand slapped over your face as you immediately moved over to the safety of the couch. You could hear his distant belly laugh at your reaction, your whole body buried under the fluffy blanket as you attempted to eradicate the image of your attending and roommates asshole from your mind. 

“I didn’t think I was that hard on the eyes-” Jack laughed as he moved into the apartment, a robe wrapped around his body. 

“Context- context abbot-” your hands rubbed at your shut eyelids, “I wasn’t expecting straight hole on a fucking tuesday morning- i know I don’t know whats normal and whats not normal but there is no WAY that that is normal-” your hand shook as you pointed at him.

“I’m sorry I thought you were aware of my naked yoga habit given the entire ER knows-” he smiled down at you stropping on the couch with his arms crossed over his check. His smile softened as you finally broke into a small laugh, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that normal thing…”

“You can not segway hole to deep conversation about my traumatic childhood-” maybe jacks dark humor manner of coping had rubbed off on you a little too hard. 

“You know I'm glad you’ve come out of your shell, less so that I seem to always be at the butt of all your jokes-” he grinned as you scrunched up your face with your groan “pun unintended” 

“I don’t like talking about it…” you sighed, eyes locked onto the overhead lighting of the fancy place. “Describing ages 0 - 18 as a childhood in context to me is…inaccurate…” 

“Inaccurate…” he carefully sat on the couch so as not to expose himself to you unintentionally again. “You know I have a great therapist-”

“Ha. no.” you forced a smile, slowly bringing yourself up to your feet to literally leave the conversation. “I don’t do shrinks-” you huffed moving to the kitchen as if you were able to prepare anything but scrambled eggs. 

“I used to think the same-” he followed, having grown up constantly listening for footsteps you’d gained the ability to identify people from their gait. Of course Jack’s prosthesis made him especially easy to identify.  “After I lost my leg…and the PTSD got really bad.” 

Your hands rested back on the island with a roll of your eyes “yeah because you went to war- your leg got blown up- you lost your wife for fucks sake!” your hand clasped over your heart with a small shake. “I had a sad life, yeah whatever- I’m alive- I’m in one piece-” you looked over your body “yeah i freak out when you leave me alone but thats cause i’m immature-”

“Stop it.” Jack cut in, his mean stern attending face taking over his visage. “Drowning in a paddling pool and drowning in the ocean aren’t all that different- you still drown.” he had to duck his head to get into your eyeline, a habit built off the fact that you refused to make eye contact in day to day discussion. “You’re not just sad you’re traumatised.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m just overreacting- whatever attention I didn’t get has me stuck like this and that's my problem.” you weren't angry per se, jack could tell that much, you veered more into the uncomfortable box. 

“What are you feeling right now?” Jack leaned back against the counter, eyes narrowing as he stared at you.

“What?”

“Tell me the emotion that you are feeling right now. And I won't make an appointment with the shrink for you.” Your chest tightened up at the threat, mind worrying to come up with a sufficient answer to the question. 

“I-” you huffed, looking down into your hands as if the answer was snuck into your palm like you were cheating on a grade school test. “Not happy.” were the words that decided to leave you. 

“Are you sad?”

“No?” you retorted, unsure in yourself what this tension in your back was, the way your words were caught on a ledge coming up your throat and out of your mouth, the slight aching in your skull. To explain why you wanted to punch a wall, or bite your first, not out of anger but something else deeper than that. 

Jack watched the clogs manually turn in your brain, carefully moving over to stand in front of you, his arms opening wide to pull you in. Your head bobbed slightly as he pulled you into his chest, his palm resting at the back of your skull to stabilize it. “I’ll go with you…just let me take care of you.”

……..

“This is ridiculous…’ you mumbled staring at the chart the stupid shrink had sent you home with. A big wheel of emotions broken down into subsections, as a grown adult you’d never thought anyone was going to bring you back to the basic chart you’d give pediatric patients to describe how they felt. You threw it down onto the coffee table, collapsing onto the couch with a huff. “It's infantilising.”

“It’s a tool. Which you need” jack sighed “same way i need my leg you need your…chart.” He waved his hand at the laminated piece of paper. 

“And this shit about a diary- when do i have- have time for a diary- and reparenting my innerchild- bullshit- I parented myself the first time why do I have to do that again!” you huffed as Jack leaned over to pick up the chart.

“Would you say you’re feeling….” his eyes scoured the chart for a word he could pin this emotion to in your brain “frustrated?”

“Yes. yes i’m frustrated…” you rolled into a pillow as he threw the blanket over you haphazardly. 

“Progress is progress.” he snatched the TV remote before plopping down onto his armchair and slipping off his prosthetic leg. “Do you want food? I’m thinking of ordering something. I'm feeling lazy today…” 

“Whatever you want is fine…” you mumbled with what you know adeptly identified as frustration. 

“Alright.” he tapped on his phone far too loudly for your liking as you rolled onto your back, the conversation with the therapist looping in your brain. The way she’d made you describe your childhood, what you remembered at least. 

“My mom wasn’t a bad mom.” you declared to the room, not even to Jack in particular, not to say he didn’t perk up at the statement. “She was ill, she didn’t mean not to take care of me…” a tear trickled down the corner of your eye, “she’s the reason I went into healthcare because that was easy- taking care of someone when they needed you was easy…” 

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “Where was your dad?”

“Fuck if i know…when he was around he was never any good…” a frog settled in your throat nails digging into your forearms as flashes of your life when your father was home flashing whenever your eyelids shut to blink. 

“You’re safe…i’m here.” Jack spoke through the chaos in your mind, his hand lightly gripping your foot to remind you he’s there. 

“Yeah…” you rolled to face him pulling the blanket back over you properly.

“Cool…” Jack sighed with a small smile “what are we gonna do for thanksgiving?”

“Oh…”

“We’ll invite the night crew over for a thanksgiving day lunch, can we host it here?” Jack queried seeing your pensive expression. 

“Have you ever had a real thanksgiving growing up?” you shook your head as Jack let out a small sigh. “Then it’ll be a first I guess…”

“Lotta firsts here…” you mumbled. 

“Yep.” 

……

The table was covered in food, a sight so seldom witnessed by you. In fact it was harder to see the mahogany of the table with the dishes and placemats laid out. The apartment was filled with people, the noise comforting yet overwhelming. You’d watched TV whenever you had the chance growing up, fixated on the holiday episodes and parties the actors would play out. The comfort was “This is gonna put us into a food coma before work…” Shen sighed, staring over the table with his hands settled on his hips. 

“Food coma? Is that an actual thing?” you muttered to yourself, pushing past people, gravitating over to Jack who was buried in a conversation about work with Ellis and Lena. “When are we gonna eat?” your stomach grumbled loudly, giving away your hunger as you looked over at everyone. You’d surveyed the table, trying to figure out the best possible spot to sit to reach all of the food as quickly as possible, the most reach, the most variety. 

“I could eat?” Lena smiled, guiding you over to the table, arm slung around you happily squeezing you into her side with a kiss to the crown of your head. You slipped into your self assigned chair, knee bouncing as your hands trembled on the table. “Should we say what we’re thankful for?” she folded a napkin over her lap, a move you instantly followed. A small smile on Jack's face as he watched the movement. 

“I am thankful for my new roommate…” Jack started his eyes finding yours “and I am thankful that someone is in my life who has shown me to appreciate all the little things-” you forced yourself to swallow down the cry that wanted to escape you. “-and for showing me the world is so much wider than the ER” a tear rolled down your cheek as the group began clapping, mateo hugging you into his side.

“Your turn” Mateo pushed your shoulders, it was how you imagined it would feel to have a brother teasing you. 

“Um…I've never really done this before…” There were a couple tilted heads as you looked up at Jack “I’m thankful for…finally having-” your voice cracked, eyes moving up the ceiling. “-the family i never thought…i would ever get to have-” your chest rose and fell as more tears fell, your eyes moving around the table “for showing me- that being cared for isn't a burden-” Lena’s hand wrapped around yours under the table squeezing three times. Your heart physically burned as you spoke, tears flooding down your face “im sorry-”

“Don’t be sorry…no one wants you to be sorry…” Parker spoke clearly, her eyes bearing into yours as you wiped them with your sleeves. 

“Thank you so much-” you managed to sob out as mateo pulled you in for a long hug, jack rounding the table to stand at the back of your chair, reaching around to give you a good long squeeze. A kiss pressed onto the side of your head with a soft “so proud of you kid…”

By the time everyone said what they were thankful for there wasn't a dry eye, Lena announcing “all this crying is making me hungry…lets eat…” you moved so quickly it felt like no one could actually see you move. Your eyes moved to the chicken which was placed right in front of Jack whose eyes latched to yours. “Slow down…we aren’t gonna take it away, there's enough for everyone here…” Jack loaded chicken and turkey onto your plate.

The rest of the lunch/dinner passed as conversation filled the apartment, it was unfamiliar yet not unwelcomed as the clock ticked into the afternoon and evening hours. “We should get ready for work…we’ll meet you at the ED…” Shen sighed,  people filtered out, the door finally clicking shut.

Jack wasted no time moving over to you, his arms squeezing around you as he swayed back and forth slightly. Burying your face in his chest as he hummed, the vibrations regulating as the crusted tears wiped away on the cotton of his polo. “I’m so proud of you…” his cheek rested against the top of your head.

“I’m just so happy…” you muttered as he grinned.

“I get acne.” You shrug, in lieu of an explanation and Trinity can’t seem to shut her mouth—jaw still hanging as she looks from you to the nearest bottle that reads Low pH Good Morning Cleanser. You see Trinity’s stare, “That’s for my morning routine.”

“You do all of this? Every day? Twice a day?”

“Uh, yeah? What else would I do?”

Trinity blushes, hand rubbing at the back of her neck. “I don’t know, just splash your face with water? Maybe.”

You are stunned dumb. Blinking at her with the sporadic pace of what you could only describe as the morse code equivalent of a keyboard smash. How did you not know this about your girlfriend? It doesn’t feel like a pertinent question, a make or break like ‘do you want kids?’ or ‘would you sleep closest to the door—no matter what side of the bed that is—and protect me from any intruders that might try and murder us?’, but it does somehow feel like something that you should have known before the 3 month stage of your relationship.

The life of an ER doctor strikes again.

“We’ll have to start you out on something more delicate, I don’t want to overwhelm your skin. Would you say your skin is more oily or dry?” You drop from your perch on the sink, washing off your hands and gently taking Trinity’s face into your hands. “I’m thinking maybe we just exfoliate today and see what happens. And some moisturiser, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Trinity takes your vacated seat, getting on her tippy-toes to reach the lip of the sink. Her feet swing like a little kid’s as she watches you pick out the different bottles, turning them in your hands, weighing them, before either putting them back down with a shake of your head or giving them over for Trinity to hold. “Uh, this feels like more than just exfoliating.”

“Well, I have to cleanse your skin first. Gets all the icky stuff off your skin, and then we can exfoliate. I just—you’re a doctor, don’t you tell your patients about the importance of skincare?”

“Normally they come in with more problems than bad skincare.” Trinity hums, eyelids fluttering shut as you start gently rubbing what she suspects is the oil cleanser into her skin. It doesn’t smell of anything in particular, which means she can get the perfect whiff of you. She hadn’t realised how much she enjoyed the smell of you until she was stuck in the ER, and the cloying smell of antiseptic and iron bombards her senses.

Being in your apartment just solidifies it, being surrounded by your smell; whatever fruity body spray you had fallen in love with that week, the smell of your deodorant—usually something gentle, like vanilla, or that Wild deodorant with the smell ‘Thunderstorm’ which Trinity didn’t know was such an obvious smell until she was tucked under your arm and pretending she wasn’t turning her nose closer to your armpit whenever she got the chance.

She could almost curse the Pitt for denying her more time with you. For times like this, intimate and so pitifully mundane that if she told Dennis how lovestruck she was from you simply caring about basic skincare, he might send her upstairs for a Psych eval.

And he almost does, when he sees her the next morning, scrutinising her as she leans her elbows upon the desk at Central. “Since when did you know how to moisturise?”

“Uh, around about the same time you learnt how to keep your scrubs free of bodily-fluid, Fuckleberry.”