ashy reads

You jerked up, looking at him. 

Robby leant over the counter, sliding on his glasses and looked closer. 

He was too close to you to be studying you like a patient, but just close enough for his wife. 

“You eat anything today?” he asked. 

You squinted at him. “We literally got breakfast this morning.”

“Okay, okay.”

There were darkening circles under your eyes and your lips were chapped which was his first sign something was wrong: you treated moisturising your lips like some do religion. Other than that your body was slumped over a computer. You were far more active than this. 

“You sleep okay last night?” he asked.

You smirked. “Well no, not really, someone kept me up.”

Robby smirked right back, leaning back just enough to give you space. “Are you complaining?”

“No.”

Flashbacks of last night came to mind in searing heat. The sweat of your bodies, the grip he held on your hand as he fucked you into the mattress like he did most nights. 

They said your libido goes down the older you get but Robby was going through another one. His box of blue pills sat abandoned in his bedside draw- thank god. 

Robby nodded once. “Good.”

“But that saying,” you continued, swivelling in your chair to face him. Still, he didn't move. He could smell the shampoo you'd bathed yourself in this morning and his mouth salivated like a dog with his favourite treat. “Four rounds?”

Robby took a quick sweep of the area, making sure nobody was missing him and his wife as they flirted shamelessly. “You asked for it.”

You frowned. “Did I?”

“Hey!” called Dana. “Mr and Mrs Adams, we could use your help here!”

You playfully rolled your eyes and Robby backed away slowly, hands up in surrender. He watched Dana turn to at least give them a second to finish up their flirting before digging into his pocket. 

“Here- for your lips.”

A small, practically un-used tube of chap-stick fell from the palm of his hand to yours. He carried it for you, always. If you'd asked you'd know he carried an extra pack of nuts and hand cream too. 

He'd been doing so secretly since your first dates years ago. 

Of course the supplies were different but the sentiment the same.

You blushed, a bright smile coming to your face. “You are so adorable.”

Robby shook off the word like it was splash of cold water. “Yeah, don't let onto anyone, okay? Got a cold exterior to keep up.”

“Oh- of course.”

He could have stood there and watched you all day but he already felt Dana's gaze, un-wavering. He squeezed your shoulders and pressed a kiss on your forehead before slipping away with a quiet promise to himself that he'd get his hands on you later.

“You don't look so well, you know,” said Dana once the coast was clear of Robby. 

“Don't you start,” you said. “I've had enough of this the last couple days from Robby.”

“Oh yeah, you got something?” Dana's hand was gentle on your back. If you weren't careful she'd push you onto a bed, have you in a gown with a chart written up herself. She'd mother you; smother you in her care even if she wasn't a doctor. Even if you were the attending around the place. 

You shook your head and flashed her a un-convincing smile. 

You were sure it was a bug, or burn out.

You'd caught burn out like some do colds or flus. As the second attending it was your job- with Robby's- to make sure everyone was taught, that patients were satisfied (you found you were doing that part for your husband as well) and you were saving as many lives as you could. 

The careful art of delegation and avoidance was lost on you. You threw yourself into traumas like you were still a med student with something to prove.

“Okay, if you say so,” said Dana with a purse of her lips. 

“I do say so.”

“If you need anything.”

“Am I married to you or Robinavitch?” you teased, tugging on gloves and readying yourself for a room of hustle. 

Dana chuckled, backing away slowly to her station. “You should be so lucky, Robinavitch.”

Using the weight of your back you pushed into trauma two. 

“Okay, kids- what have we got?”

“Fetal heart rate one-two-eight.”

Whitaker was at your side in an instant, handing you the chart. “Woman in her late twenties, came in complaining of cramping and migraines, twenty-nine weeks along.”

“BP is one-seventy, over one-nineteen.”

The woman was on her side, a whole score of nurses and doctors around her. It was always double the team for pregnant ladies. When there were two patients to care for in a package of one.

“Six grams of magnesium going in.”

You floated around the room, Whitaker following you like some guard dog. You took in everything going on, reading stats and taking in numbers everyone gave to you. “Okay, ma'am, I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robin. It seems you have a medical condition called preeclamsia.”

The woman's eyes were teary and dark as they looked up to you in fear. “Wh-what?”

“Preeclampsia. Now that we know what it is we can help you.”

“But it was- it was just a headache,” she cried, hand cradling her stomach on instinct. “Is my baby going to be okay?”

“We are doing everything to make sure you and the baby do just fine,” you assured her, speaking a language you'd become fluent in. Diagnosis and comfort. Sometimes, when the job got tough, you wondered if you even really believed the words you were saying. They just floated from your tongue typically. 

“The thing is with your condition we have to take you up to OB and deliver this baby,” you told her. 

“OB's been paged,” Santos informed you. 

“But it's too early,” the woman sobbed, clutching at her rounded stomach like she could keep the baby there. 

“I know but the baby's pulse is strong which is good,” you told her. “And if we want to keep the ball rolling in the right direction we have to got to get to it now, okay?”

“Doctor Robin,” said Whitaker. “Labs are back in.”

“Read them to me.” You were still holding the lady's hand over her stomach, trying to comfort her. 

“Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFT's are... woah-”

“Don't hold out on us Huckleberry, what's going on?” asked Santos. 

“They're high- real high-”

“Which can mean?” you ask out to the room, remembering the hundreds of times Gloria reminded you off your status as a 'teaching hospital,'. 

“HELLP syndrome,” said Denis. 

“Point to you.”

Under your hand the patient began to tremble. A quick glance at the monitor showed her blood pressure rising. Panic, most likely, something else it could have been entirely. 

“Hey, boy or a girl?” you asked, watching her eyes flicker. “Do you know what you're having?”

She blinked slow. “Boy.”

“Any name ideas?”

Her mouth had opened to say something but instead of a name vomit spewed, rolling down the gurney and splashing your scrubs- the one time you didn't put on a gown. 

“Oh shit- she's seizing!”

Everyone and you reacted quickly in holding her, trying to calm her shakes. 

It had never happened before, you'd never had so many senses tuning it an once but the smell of her breakfast wafted up to your nose. An un-familiar roll in your stomach curdled and you pursed your lips shut, turning away and burying your nose into the still fresh part of your scrubs. 

“Fifteen litres on by mask!” Whitaker yelled. “Intubation?”

He was looking to you. 

You shook your head, unable to speak with half your focus going on calming the insides of your stomach.

“With all the seizing we can't get a read on the baby's status,” said Santos. 

Fuck- you'd have to say something. You couldn't leave a fresh doctor and student into clampsia blind. “Ultrasound,” you breathed out, still unable to face where the sick started to soak into your scrubs. “Check on baby!” 

If Santos and Whitaker thought it was strange they said nothing, following you orders and relaying what they found. 

“Doctor Robin- do we intubate?”

Another set of hands came up to help steady her and you could back away. 

Even your shoes hadn't been spared the mercy of the vomit. 

“Not yet, push keppra, four grams.”

Grabbing clothes cutters you quickly sliced at your scrub top, thankful you were wearing something long sleeved and covering more of you then a simple vest. 

With the top in shreds you could finally breath but your stomach didn't get the memo.

“Pulse Ox eighty-eight!”

Groaning, you pulled the tray out for intubation, handing it to Santos. 

She glanced at you. “Hey, you look a bit-”

“- don't say sick or I'll throw up on you,” you warned, following her around like she was your new human shield. You wondered if she'd be flattered or pissed if you admitted she was. “Push probofal.”

“Pushing.”

Eventually the seizing stopped with everything you pushed to get her stable and you moved quick. It was like putting everything else on aeroplane mode, shutting off your own systems to get hers stable.

“Intubate, get an EEG to check her brain levels. She's paralysed now but her brain could still be seizing.”

You slipped in sick, grabbing yourself on the nearest doctor and thanking them. You stayed for the intubation only then knew you couldn't hack it anymore. 

You fled the room, bumping into Samira on your way out. 

Dana jolted up. “Hey, what're you-”

“-get Robby in trauma one.”

You found the nearest bathroom, locked it and threw up everything. You hugged the toilet like it was your anchor, your body curling into the movements. Time escaped you, it could have been minutes it could have been hours but finally you fell back and flushed, wiping away everything. 

You were young, you weren't as old as your husband. You'd had less experience in traumas all together, however you were a good doctor, capable enough to be a fellow attending. 

Several substances had been chucked over you in your time. Blood, vomit, piss- some you didn't even know the name off. 

Why had today been any different?

Clearing yourself up: re-tying your hair, washing out your mouth and applying Chapstick, cleaning your shoes and wiping tears from under your eyes, you blamed it on the bagels you'd had that morning. 

It was the only logical explanation.

Leaving the bathroom you felt momentary guilt and fleeing but spotted Robby already taking your place in the trauma. 

“Hey, hun,” Dana was at your side quick, gentle and peering at you closely. “What was that about? You doin alright?”

“Yeah,” you hummed. 

“You throw up? You sick?”

“No, I-” you thought of every other time you'd lied to Dana and how it never went well. “Yes but it's probably just food poisoning. Don't tell Robby.”

If Robby knew you were sick- after already having been worried this morning- you'd be driven home in twenty minutes flat. 

“Robby always finds out,” said Dana. 

You ignored her and pushed open the door to the lounge. She didn't follow and you were left with spare seconds to yourself. 

Your hands shook slightly as you fetched a glass to fill with water. To cool yourself down you ran your hands under, splashing the back of your neck with some. You gargled water and spit it back, ready to drain the glass and wet your sudden parched mouth when Langdon appeared in the door. 

“Hey, I've got a head lac I need you to take a look at.”

Because you were an attending. Because of the kind of person you are you put down the glass and followed him.

“She just ran out?”

There was the all too familiar buzz of the sanitiser dispenser as Robby helped himself to a generous blob before rubbing it into his hands. A beat behind, Denis did the same, following in his footsteps- literally. 

“Er-yeah,” he said, working fast to absorb every bit of hand sanitiser. “She ordered the EEG and bolted.”

Robby nodded, taking it all in clinically. “You said she looked pale?”

“Yeah but, she had just been thrown up on.” 

Being thrown up on wasn't a pleasant experience but he hadn't known you to run from bodily fluids. 

“Where is she now?” Robby asked, as if Denis was the soul person to look out for you. Well, Robby trusted Denis, a gift he didn't bestow on many so he did expect Denis to keep an eye on you at all times. 

“She went to the bathroom but I don't know now.”

Robby checked the bathrooms, finding you void of those spaces. He checked the lounge where nothing but a deserted glass of water sat.

He was almost panicking when he saw the back of you and Frank in a room. 

He paused. 

You were sat next to a young girl, holding her hand. Although he couldn't hear you he imagined the softness of your voice as it always became when dealing with a pedes case. You'd always joked that if the ED wasn't so in need of two attendings at a time you'd have left his ass for pedes upstairs at once. 

Robby didn't think so. For one, you'd miss his face, for the second thing- you liked bouncing from one emergency to another, switching off and relying only on your skills. 

You hadn't been bouncing around as quick as usual the last couple days. He realised it only in that moment.

Frank was standing with his arms folded over his chest, pitching in every now and then and also getting the girl to smile. 

He didn't want to go in, break the concentration and trust you'd formed with the small child. He'd find you later. 

Whatever was going on, the two of you clearly had it handled. 

Your dreams came to you in fades. 

There was first an annoyingly weird dream about a animal circus finding it's home in the Pitt. They said work followed you home, but it even followed you into dreams which seemed just un-fair. Then there was a stork on an elephants back. How would an elephant even get in to the place?

They turned to some much more enjoyable memories that had your body warming un-consciously. 

Robby's weight pressed down into yours on the couch in your living room. You'd begged him to put everything on you, to not hold himself up and with-hold his moans. 

And because you'd asked, he did. 

Robby wasn't a light guy and you liked him like that. The weight of him crushing you, his spit swapped with yours, sweat of his body being shared and the fingerprints you could feel at your hips. 

“Oh fuck sweetheart, oh fuck!” he'd groaned out loud. 

You felt parts of him deep in you you didn't know you could feel and still you wanted more. Your locked your ankles around his backside, keeping him into you in short and sweet thrusts. 

“Oh, you like that? Jesus Christ,” he grunted into your neck, unable to hold himself up even if he wanted to. “So greedy. Fuckin' so greedy!”

“Please, Robby, please!”

Steady hands were sudden at your shoulders and a body pressed up to yours, decidedly unlike how one did in the dream. 

“Go home,” said Robby. 

You picked yourself up from where you'd dozed off, your head in your arms folded over on the counter. In front of you, the computer was blank. “Hm?”

Robby's eyes bored into yours. “Go home, you're sick.”

“It's only twelve. I'm not sick- I'm fine,” you said, waving off his hand as it came up to test your temperature in the very medical practise of hand on forehead. 

Robby shook his head. “You were dozing this morning, you're asleep now, you threw up-”

“Dana, I told her not to say anything!” You cursed under your breath. 

“Not Dana, Whitaker,” said Robby, looking at you with brows draw in, somewhere between anger (or as angry as he could get at you) and concern. “Did you tell Dana not to tell me?”

“Because you worry.” You used your secret trick of overwhelming affection to try to starve off Robby. Your hands were clammy as they held his cheeks, fingertips grazing over his beard just how he liked. He was kneeling at your side, melting into your touch. “I'm fine.”

For extra measures you pressed a kiss to his forehead and walked away. 

There was a split second of head spinning blur. The sort that had you reaching out to balance yourself. It lasted maybe two seconds but enough to worry you. 

If you hadn't taken such care in tending to Robby's own distraction he'd have clocked it and dragged you home himself. 

You maybe weren't so fine. It wasn't every day you felt as tired as you did now, and however good the night before had been Robby had given you more. Plenty. You'd surpassed twenty-fours working in the ED with no sleep so nothing could phase you. 

But being phased you were. 

The lack of sleep.... the throwing up... maybe you were coming down with something. 

You'd thrown up last week too, so it couldn't be food poisoning like you were trying to convince yourself it was. 

Robby hurried after you, the jingle of his keys and ID card and such jangling. “I'm keeping my eyes on you.”

“Sexy.”

In trauma one the two of you worked together with a score of doctors and nurses. Mrs Albany- the pregnant lady with clampsia- demanded attention. Perhaps it was a waste of two attendings working on the same patient. 

The emergency c-section you had to perform made the one patient two and as Robby worked to keep the mother alive you worked on the child, stimulating the baby boy till he breathed, wiping off the fluids and bloods and sighing when he cried out. 

Under the gown and mask you could see Robby's own dimples at you as you both saved lives. 

But the tang of iron from the uterus and child filled your nostrils and upset you close enough to tears. You were glad Esme had cleaned up the sick from early and equally as glad you had the chance to throw up your breakfast so you couldn't do it again. 

“Holy shit!” Santos celebrated, yanking off her gown and gloves next to you as you did the same, “That was crazy!”

The baby was pushed by you, heading up to the NICU, the mother following, a pulse low but steady, heading up to the OR.

You ducked away from Robby as he followed the pair out. You took Santos with you, a pushing hand on her back. “Yeah, it was- listen I've got a patient that needs blood results quick, you think if I get it you can rush it up to labs, on an ASAP basis.”

Santos frowned. You knew what she was thinking before she even had to say it. It was a boring job, her skills were better off etc. 

“Please?” you asked. 

It took a roll of her eyes but she agreed to. 

Five minutes later you had a vial of your own blood handed to her. 

An hour later Santos found you, Ipad in hand. 

“Hey, got the results for your patient,” she said. “Where are they? What room? I couldn't see them on the board?”

Dana would have had something to say about taking your own blood and getting it to labs without telling anyone. Robby too. As attending you should have been chastising yourself but there was no time for that. No need, either. 

Doctors made the worst sort of patients, especially when they felt they didn't need to be one. 

“Er, she left, discharged herself,” you lied quickly, trying to get a gage on the results that were cradled in your arm.

“Bummer. I wanted to give her good news. Or bad.”

“What?”

“She's pregnant.”

You stopped in you tracks. 

It took Trinity at least four more paces before she realised you had. 

The blood works showed just that. High HCG levels, you red blood cell count was high. Along with the nausea, vomiting, dizzy spells it made sense. 

You were pregnant. 

Inside the stomach that had been churning all day sat a life fully depending on you to take care of it. Suddenly none of your med school training mattered. Nothing you'd ever down before mattered. Looking after patients was one thing. You didn't have to go home with them, check they drank enough or ate enough, didn't have to check in with their boss they were taking it easy. 

You struggled to look after yourself. 

Throw a baby in the mix and you were doomed. 

Chuck in Robby and you were-

Robby. 

Jesus Fuck. You'd never spoken about kids. You'd only been married a year and were still in what some considered the 'honeymoon' phase.

“Everything okay?” asked Santos. “Did I miss something in the results?”

You cleared your throat. “No. No, that all... looks good. I'm just gonna take a small break. Quick one. Thanks.” 

“Hey, Robby!” Denis called as he walked out from the ambulance bay. “Congratulations!” 

“Thanks, Whitaker.”

It took Robby seconds to pause and think. What was he being congratulated for? The fact he went outside for some air? It wasn't impressive. Was it the quick life saving procedures they'd made on mother and son that sent them both upstairs alive? That was over an hour ago and Denis had been in the room. 

Robby back tracked to Whitaker. “What am I being congratulated on, exactly?” he asked. 

Whitaker looked at him like he was crazy. “The good news.”

Good news? The last good news he had was marrying you a year ago, and Whitaker had been at the damn wedding crying more than his own grandmother. 

Robby shook his head. 

“The good news, you'll be a great dad.”

Robby chocked on his breath, leaning on the counter. “Wh-what?” he chuckled in a breath. 

“You're pregnant? I mean, not you, obviously, I-I know how it works. But you're having a baby, that's-that's what they say and I just wanted to say well done. Or not well done! No, that came out wrong, jus-”

Robby had let him stumble on his words as he tried to figure out what he was saying. The baby? What baby? “Denis, what are you talking about?”

He looked around quickly for you but couldn't see you. 

“Oh my god, you didn't know, you didn't know did you?” Whitaker's face paled, his entire body sinking. “Santos told me, she told me not to tell anyone but I-I figured I could tell you! I guessed- oh god, did I just tell you your wife is pregnant?”

His wife...

Pregnant...

And Robby was finding out from Huckleberry!

Robby took a step around the counter and Denis stumbled back into his chair. “Are you telling me she's...”

Whitaker nodded when the words failed him. 

Robby thought back to the sickness you thought he'd missed last week, the way you fell asleep at the computer earlier and the general exhaustion. He tried to think back to what night could have been 'the one' but somewhere along the line you'd both stopped being careful. Condoms were abandoned in draws and your pack of contraceptive pills were still full.

“Doctor- Doctor Robby? Do you need to sit down?” Denis asked. 

Robby waved him off and gave himself one minute to compose himself. He knew panic, it was an old friend he'd lost contact with over the years, yet it returned to him then. 

“Where is she now?” he asked. 

“Oh, I don't- I don't-”

“Huckleberry!” he tried not to expose his fondness of the nickname Santos had given him but it slipped out in the most desperate of times. 

Denis gulped, knowing this. “Exam room three.”

Robby nodded and made a be-line, Casey was asking him a question as he passed but he held up a hand, ignoring her. 

Santos stepped out the room, closing the door and stopping when Robby almost collided with her. “You can't go in there.”

Robby inhaled a deep breath. It was one thing having Whitaker be the one to tell him you were pregnant. It was another to have Santos blocking him from seeing you. “Doctor Santos if you don't let me through you will miss every trauma that comes through those doors.”

Luckily, he knew how to work Santos. 

Her arms budged over her chest. “For how long?”

Whatever you had promised her to keep him out must have been just as grand a prize. “Till I see fit now let me in.”

It was like a western stand off for longer than Robby would have liked. Every second he spent out of your room was longer you were spending alone. 

Eventually, Trinity sighed and gave up. “Okay, fine, whatever, but she promised me first dibs at a REBOA for doing this. I expect that to still stand.”

Robby pushed through the room and snapped back the curtains finding you at the edge of a bed, the wand of an ultrasound hidden under your top and the grey scale picture of a baby on the monitor. 

To your credit you didn't flinch or move as he stood there.

“Lets be real this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing.”

In five minutes Robby had wiped down your stomach of the gel, had helped pull your top down and sat with you on the edge of the patient bed, the curtain back to being pulled over and hiding the two of you from traumas and agitated patients and doctors alike. 

“How long have you known?” asked Robby. 

There was no anger, no mean undertones. It was frightening rather blank, the way he spoke. You'd always prided yourself on knowing how to tell when he was in a good mood or bad from the smallest of tics he had. 

He'd trained them out of himself apparently. 

Yet- he'd given you his hand and you'd pulled it into your lap, holding it and trailing your own fingers over his. 

“The time's now-” you peeked over him at the clock over the door. “- about an hour and thirteen minutes.”

He shook his head, scoffing out a smile that pronounced his wrinkles. “Why didn't you come to me?”

You sighed, shrugging your shoulders. “I thought I was just sick, you know? So I thought I'd get some bloods and see.”

“Did you do the bloods yourself?”

You looked at him and that was telling enough. With the hand that wasn't with yours he rubbed at his temple in aggravation. So far there'd been little to no talk about the baby growing in your stomach but more concern about how you'd gone to finding out. 

“You should've got me,” he said. 

“Well if I thought I was pregnant I probably would have.” You tried to joke but it fell flat. 

“Probably?” he repeated quietly. 

Silence went by with only the ticking of the clock as company. 

You held onto his hand, readying yourself for the question yet to be asked. “Are you mad at me?”

Robby shook his head but didn't look at you.

“Annnnd are you mad at...” you couldn't say baby yet. Didn't know if giving the clump of cells in your stomach a name would scare him off. 

With the hand in your lap his fingers entwined with yours and clutched tight. 

“I know we never talked about kids and this wasn't planned in the slightest,” you said even if you knew Robby had stopped pulling out months ago, favouring the way you felt when your walls swallowed him up. “You can be angry.”

“You keep asking if I'm angry, do you want me to be?” he asked, finally a touch of emotion in his voice as it rose an octave. “Are you mad?”

That was the question. It wasn't planned, but it wasn't unwanted. You couldn't say that seeing the way mothers caressed their stomachs when they came in with spotting or concerns didn't have you thinking of your own child one day. That talking to that little girl with the head lac earlier with Frank didn't cause a pang of longing in your heart. 

You'd never tried to pretend you didn't want everything with Robby. Even if you've never discussed what everything was to each other. 

“When I was in med school I thought I'd have it all worked out long before now,” said Robby. “Marriage and kids. Maybe on my second marriage by now.”

You dug your elbow into his ribs, rewarded with a quick, breathless laugh. 

His eyes creased as his face scrunched up. “Didn't work out. Guess I... gave up thinking it could.”

“Then you met me, right?”

Robby looked at you. His eyes were like glass as he looked you over, his lips titled, cheeks red under his beard. He looked- if you didn't mind saying so- like a man mesmerised. He nodded. 

“I thought you didn't want kids,” you said. 

“Do you?” he asked, eyes boring into yours. 

“Do you?” you threw back to him. 

He squeezed your hand and gave you a look. 

“I think I do,” you admitted, quietly, as if you could take it back if it displeased him. “I don't know if I'll be good at it. I hardly have time to look after myself, let alone a baby. And I don't want to be one of those people that gives up work for kids cause I love my job but... I think I could love a kid, too.”

Robby nodded along with what you were saying, a smile brightening everything you thought looked dark in him.

“Do you want kids?” you asked. 

“Oh, kids?” he teased. “You're so sure its twins already?”

You rolled your eyes as he nudged his shoulder with yours, rocking the both of your bodies. 

“I want everything with you, I said so much in my vows, didn't I? You thought I was lying, Doctor Robin?”

You couldn't help but smile at the nickname he gave you and was proud to call you. After all, calling out for two Robinavitch's in an emergency proved difficult quickly. “I don't believe your vows included, I want to fuck you so hard and deep you get pregnant within the first year of marriage.' ”

“Dirty mouth, cussing like that,” said Robby, his eyes drifting down your lips as he bit down on his own. “Have to sort that out before the baby gets here.”

“Lucky we have eight months to train it out of me.”

Robby's nose had just brushed yours before he was pulling back, studying you again. His gaze drifted to your stomach, wondering if the manifestation of your nights had started to show. “You're a month along, already?”

You clocked your head side to side. “Give or take a week or two.”

“Eight months it is.”

Robby kissed you, licking into your mouth and breathing you in with deep breaths. His large hands held your cheeks and kept you in, all but drowning you in lips and touch and love. He tilted his head aside, kissing you deeper. 

At once the doors banged open and arguing voices drifted in. 

Robby pulled back with his head lowered in disappointment while you licked the taste of him off your lips. “I swear to god, these kids-” he grumbled as Denis and Trinity stumbled in. 

“Seems like you got the dad thing down already,” you said, hand rubbing up and down in his back. 

The intruders had a hoard of things in arms. Denis was carrying a large bear in hand that almost drowned him as he struggled to hold him. The bear was holding a blue heart sewen into its paws while Trinity was struggling in pulling the pink balloons in. 

It seemed they'd already made bets on what baby they wanted you to have.

“We er, wanted to get you these,” said Denis. “Sorry for ruining the surprise.”

“I'm not sorry, I didn't do anything,” said Santos with a scoff. 

“You told me,” pointed out Whitaker. 

“Yeah and I told you not to tell anyone, fuckleberry then you tell the dad!”

“I thought he knew!”

“I told you in confidence!”

“You were laughing while you were telling me! That wasn't every confident!”

“Oh my god, it's a figure of speech!”

You laughed at the two of them, hiding your face in Robby's scrubs as he leant his head back toward you. 

“It doesn't matter, I'm walking- running- running in,” you said breathless down your phone, busy stuffing your bag with whatever you'd need, none of which was food for the shift. You'd recently ran out of the energy bars Jack had recommended.

Everyday you said you'd prepare something nice, some risotto or something and take it in. Every morning you collapsed from exhaustion and ran out of time to make anything that resembled a 'meal'.

“ I've got it here, I'll be around in ten, ” Jack said.

Your bag slid down your shoulder as you paused. “Got it? Got what?”

“ Your address. ”

“How do you have my address?”

He chuckled down the line. “ Remember I ubered food to yours, two weeks ago? You've probably still got leftovers in your fridge. ”

Ah. You remembered. One of those times you let slip your terrible routine and he sort to fix it, sending you over prepped meals that- he was right- were still littered around your fridge.

“Right, yes. You should delete that.”

“ Comes in handy, sometimes. In emergencies, ” he said. “ I'll pick you up in ten, bye. ”

There was no time to argue as the call ended promptly after that.

Jack Abbot was a caring man. Something you were learning the hard way. You knew he'd given Ellis his spare room when she was evicted from her apartment, he'd even let her re-decorate, got her fresh blankets and sheets. You knew that Shen's favourites snacks were always stocked up in the lounge. You always knew that he was first to spot Lena getting tired and was always there with a coffee.

It was just like you knew he knew all those little things about you too.

He knew when your bus got in across from PCMT, always there to escort you over the road and back again at the end of the shift. No matter how long or gruelling it had been he would wait with you, rain or sun. He knew you had a bad sleeping habit so he told you herbal remedies in teas and even brought some for you. Annoyingly they worked and every time you had one you were forced to think of Jack.

You knew that if he said he was picking you up- he was.

There was nothing wrong with his affection.

You just didn't know what to do with it.

The night shift was still new to you. You'd only joined since their nights had gotten wilder, even too wild for the 'weirdest and wildest' to handle so you'd made the swap six months ago to help out. You were used to Robby's ways of doing things: of his careful watch over his residents with happy thumbs up or disapproving shakes of his head.

Jack trusted in his residents to take care of patients, but didn't when it came to themselves.

You rushed around, finding your pens and stethoscope and phone that you'd just put down for a second. Soon enough Jack had texted saying he was coming up (he somehow already had the code to your apartment complex).

His knuckles rattled softly and you rushed to grab the last of your things, including a book marked with 'Abbot, J' that you had yet to get round to reading.

“Hi,” you greeted.

You'd expected he'd come up just to be a gentleman, figuring the two of you would just head back down.

Jack squeezed by your attempt at baring him from your place and walked into your small and cramped apartment. “Hey.”

You tried not to be surprised, shutting the door behind him. “I've got everything, we- we can go.”

“I jussss wanna check-” the kitchen was just to the right and he opened your fridge door, grinning. “I was right. Still got the leftovers.”

There were many containers stacked, some full, others emptying. All marked in his handwriting from his meal prep he shared with you.

“Yeah, I haven't got round to sorting it,” you said. “Sorry, I didn't get around to eating everything. It's really good though.”

Jack smiled, reaching into your fridge like it was his own. “Hey, I made you a lot, didn't expect you to eat everything. Just wanted to make sure you had a choice. Did you like the Linguini? I tried a new recipe.”

Jack moved around your kitchen like he'd been living in your space forever. He was confident as he re-arranged your food, throwing what had gone out of date away and washing his hands in your sink, taking a towel hanging up by a cupboard like he knew it was there and drying.

“Er, yeah, it was nice, we can go, you know,” you said.

“You started reading it?” Jack asked, gesturing down to the book in your hands. “What do you think of it?”

“Oh, er, no. I haven't had the chance to start it. I was gonna give it back to you,” you said.

Jack shrugged. “It's yours, keep it.”

It was not yours. It was his. It was one of his favourites if the several dog-eared pages and annotations were anything to go by. It was a title he'd recommended to you and handed you a month ago but you'd only managed to flick through and get a vague understanding of the characters names only.

“But I mean- I don't know when I'll get round to reading it,” you said, loitering outside your kitchen.

“It's okay, I've read it a thousand times, keep it till you do.”

Wasn't he worried you may never get round to reading it and he might not ever get it back?, if your forgetful memory was anything to go by.

Jack finally abandoned your kitchen, passing by you. “Shall we?”

“Thanks for the lift. You really didn't have to,” you said as you left your apartment building, the sky already darkening and where others came in from their long days of work, yours was only just beginning.

“It's on my way,” he shrugged.

“It's out of your way,” you pointed out, knowing Jack was a complete different way to PCMT then you.

You saw his eyes roll as he opened the passenger door for you, nodding for you to get in.

“Just take the lift.”

“Thank you.”

“Word is you and Abbot arrived together,” said Dana.

You groaned.

There was a lot to like about the night shifts. It felt more of a team work than day did sometimes, you loved working with everyone just as much as you did day and you liked how still it got in the night sometimes. But you missed Dana who watched out for you like a mama bear. Still, she made time to always check in with you before she headed out.

Her jean jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her hair pinned back neater and keys in hand but she still greeted you like it was the start of the day.

“He gave me a lift, the buses are on strike.”

She smirked. “Nice of him.”

“I've told him not to do it again.”

“Oh yeah, how'd he take that?”

He'd shook his head and laughed, constantly brushing off every thanks you made and offer of any aid you could give. He seemed wholly un-bothered by the inconvenience you'd caused.

“Jack's a good guy,” said Dana.

“That he is.”

“You deserve someone like him.”

You weren't sure where Dana got that idea. You also didn't know why you couldn't believe her. Why every time Jack turned up when things were going bad, or why every time he showed he cared you felt scared.

And you'd never really had the time to un-pack that.

You looked up to Dana, folding your arms over on the counter. “And what about what he wants?”

“Well for that you'll have to ask him,” she said with the all knowing look in her eyes. Her hand was gentle on your shoulder as she squeezed. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Night.”

You thought you'd have a chance to view the patient charts that were swapped over to night shift but Jack was next, standing in Dana's space.

“What did mamma bear have to say?” he asked.

“Oh you know, the usual,” you said. “Trying to give me life advice that I won't follow.”

He huffed a chuckle. “I could've told her that, saved her the time.”

“I listen to your advice-”

He levelled his gaze onto yours.

“- I try to.”

His brows rose up. “You brought anything in for food tonight?”

You were about to answer, ready to prove him wrong, finally.

Jack interrupted you. “Anything other than that caramel coffee you like?”

He could read you like a book. You don't know how he found the time to know so much about you, to observe such things you wouldn't even notice unless he pointed them out.

Your silence was an answer.

“I brought extra, we'll have it later.”

He said it so confidently, leaving little space for any arguing on your end.

“Will we?”

“Yeah,” he said, stretching out on the counter. “I'm thinking a midnight picnic, trauma two? Might even get lucky with a GSW as company.”

You laughed and when you looked at Jack he was smiling. It was a soft kind, the sort that smoothed his face and made him seem younger and lighter. The kind that you took home with you and re-played as you fell asleep slowly.

You would never admit how long Jack spends in your mind. Somehow it felt like he already knew.

“You, um, you didn't braid your hair today,” said Jack, straightening up and drumming his knuckles on the counter. His gaze only faltered on yours for a second.

This was something you knew you did, carefully creating a routine for washing your hair that meant you didn't have to do it every day after work. Enough baby powder or dry shampoo meant you could get away with two washes at best.

“No, I guess I didn't.”

“It's gonna annoy you, being in your face all day.”

“I'm sure I'll manage.”

Jack didn't listen. He picked up your wrist- the one you kept a hair tie around- and slid it onto his own before going behind you.

“Jack, what are you doing?” you asked.

“Helping you.”

“You don't have to, I'll shove it up.”

Jack grumbled. “Let me work.”

His fingers grazed your neck as he brushed back your hair, the callouses on his hands rough against you, eliciting some sort of warmth in your body. Thankfully he was behind you and couldn't see the blush absolutely coming to your cheeks.

Jack took care of those around him, but he'd never touched anyone else's hair, never stood in the middle of the nurses station where all could see to braid someone's hair.

You felt him work, the weight of his gaze on the back of your head and his fingers moving through your hair like a cool summer evening breeze.

Across the way, Lena peered over her glasses at you with a smile.

“Lena's staring,” you said, unable to focus on any work till Jack's fingers were out of your hair.

Jack hummed. You knew that concentration from the amount of times you've seen him focused. “Lena always stares.”

You noticed Crus and Matteo passing by, both watching and pointing. You were sure Crus made some obscene make-out gesture and only hoped Jack didn't see. You were sure, if anyone else had asked he'd have done the same.

Though you hadn't technically asked.

“I'm sure you have far more important things to do than braid my hair, Abbot.” The lights in the Pitt seemed brighter, burning down on you like spotlights.

“Nothing more important right now.”

Your neck stretched as Jack pulled at your hair lightly to get it all in place. Curiosity ate at you, wondering where he'd done this before but the idea of knowing- like you had any right to- shut you up before you could speak.

Eventually he finished and his hands fell on your shoulders.

“There. Ready to be a hero?” he asked, spinning you around to him.

Your feet scuffed along the floor. “What? Am I the Robin to your batman?”

His lips quirked up and he moved his head side to side like weighing up his options. “More like the Lois to my Super-man.”

You sadly weren't versed enough in comic to know if that was a good or bad thing.

Jack was attending to a young girl when you walked in. Honestly it was starting to get comical how you turned up around him or he you. Some would call it magnets and as you met Jacks gaze as you stepped in you knew the ‘people’ meant Jack.

He looked at you, taking a quick note of the fact you still had your braid in even hours into the night. Jack smiled.

“Miss mermaid this is who I was telling you about,” said Jack.

The young girl- maybe five, maybe six- looked up at you as Jack slowly pulled at the thread bringing the skin of her knee together.

The chart had told you she'd taken a nasty fall on the playground and her teacher had brought her in, still trying to get in contact with the parents while Jack kept her company, cleaning her scraped knees and the gash just below.

“Hello,” the little girl waved. There wasn't even any tear marks on her cheeks but there was a small mark of blood at her little lip and her hair was falling out around her face.

“Hello miss mermaid,” you greeted, realising quickly the name came from her little mermaid top she wore.

“We were just talking about you,” said Jack, glancing quickly at you.

You blushed, wondering what Jack had to say about you to a small child. “Oh?”

“You and Crus played mermaids that time at the beach, remember?”

The girl giggled and Jack smiled over her shoulder at you.

“It wasn't- it wasn't mermades,” you excused.

That day was one of sweltering heat and lingering gazes. The night shift had took a trip to the beach on one of the hottest days of the year, enjoying the day for the day-shifters that couldn't. You'd gotten a lift with Matteo who'd brough Victoria Javadi along as she had the day off anyhow.

There was sand in places you didn't know sand could get, beach balls that somehow were pierced before you could even blow them up and gazes shared with Jack.

Maybe it was the bikini you wore that was so different from the scrubs. Maybe it was the fact Jack was un-characteristically insecure about his prosthetic leg being exposed to all and you'd told him nobody cared, that everybody cared more that he couldn't enjoy himself. Something had changed that day, settling in you like a pebble at the bottom of a lake thrown from a great height.

Since then, you and Jack had never looked at each other the same way.

But you and Crus hadn't been playing mermaids.... exactly. You swam around a lot and sort to collect more sea shells than the other. You just didn't call it mermaids.

“Will I be able to play mermaids again?” asked the little girl brushing hair out of her face with clumsy hands.

“Absolutely,” said Jack with great enthusiasm.

“And run faster than all the boys in my class?”

Jack chuckled, so did you. “Of course, but you'll have to rest up first.”

“Give the boys a chance to catch up, huh?” you suggested, plucking a leaf out of her hair.

“I like running fast,” she said.

Jack worked on the stitching, back to concentrating.

You sat down on the other side of the bed, gently reaching over to pluck bits of leaf and dirt from her hair. “So do I but sometimes we got to take things slow to not get hurt.”

You hadn't realised the meanings of the words until Jack halted his movements, glancing at you.

So you supposed there was a double meaning.

Jack's gaze was heavy.

“Tell you what, miss mermaid, Doctor Abbot here is better at braiding hair than he is stitches,” you said after a clear of your throat.

“Rude,” Jack mumbled.

It took a little convincing but you managed to swap places with Jack, gloving up and taking the tread he'd started at. He took your space on the bed and gently worked the child's hair into something neat while you carried on her stitches, close enough to being finished.

The both of you worked in silence as you each concentrated on your separate endeavours. All the while the young girl sat in between you hummed to herself, some Disney song.

“That's my favourite,” said Jack half way through when he must have realised what song she was humming.

You were still trying to understand it when part way through they changed to 'Under the sea'. You had to all but hold her leg from swinging as she sang loudly, causing you to laugh.

“Why not singing?” asked the girl.

“Yeah, why not singing?” Jack asked

You shook your head. “I don't know the song.”

Jack made a 'pfft' sound like he didn't believe you and 'little miss mermaid' did the same, blowing a raspberry.

Eventually you finished up the stitching, coincidently the same time Jack finished with his braiding.

A nurse- Bridget- walked in with the young girls teacher, eying the two of you between her. “You braiding Matteo's hair next?” she teased with a glint of wicked amusement in her eyes.

Jack moved up from the bed just as you also stood, discarding of the tools you'd used. “Only if he asks nicely.”

“Her parents have been informed they're on their way,” said the girls teacher.

“Perfect,” said Jack, holding either end of his stethoscope slung around his neck. “We are going to leave you in the very capable hands of Bridget who knows many more Disney songs than we do. Don't go without giving me another song.”

The girl laughed, her new braid slung over her shoulder. “I won't.”

Jack smiled and held the door open for you as you left with a small wave and him trailing behind you.

Lena was at the nurses station, answering calls and dishing out work while others walked around the two of you, busy with their own nights that existed by itself in the Pitt.

You hadn't realised you and Jack were heading for the break room till his arm stretched out and he pushed the door open over you.

“Are you really telling me you didn't know the song she was singing?” he asked.

“Of course I knew the song. I wasn't going to sing and embarrass myself,” you said, pulling out the mug you always used and Jack's favourite, finding the coffee pot newly brewed.

“Like I'm any Phil Collins,” scoffed Jack as he pulled out two containers from the fridge.

You frowned, sitting at the table. “Who?”

Jack looked at you, swinging the door shut. His brows rose high, crinkling his forehead. “Phil Collins? Turn it out again.... In the air tonight... The music on Tarzan?”

“Is he the dad of Lily Collins?”

Jack slid into the seat across from you. “Who?” He passed you over a full container of some sort of quinoa. It wasn't just left overs, it was a carefully calculated portion to match his.

You stared down at it like you were trying to decide if it was poisoned while Jack had already had a spoonful of his own.

It felt strange, to be sitting in a secluded room of the chaos and eating with him. Though at work, it felt oddly domestic. It felt- annoyingly- like the right thing to do. You wanted to eat from his container and wash it, hand it back to him. You wanted to know where he kept all his Tupperware, the kind that fell from cupboards at every open of the door.

“You cooking for me now?”

Jack shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “It's quinoa. Hardly cooking.”

You took a careful spoon.

Like he'd been discreetly watching as soon as you swallowed he spoke.

“You like it?”

“It tastes... kind of...”

“Healthy?”

You looked at him, feigned aghast.

Jack smirked, jaw working as he ate his food. “Come on, if it weren't for me you'd still be living on pizza's and take aways. At least this way you save a couple bucks and eat good. For a doctor you should know how important that is.”

“What are you so worried about what I eat for?” you mumbled, more wondering to yourself.

“I like to take care of you.”

He admitted it softly, a slight shrug to his shoulders like it was nothing. Like looking after you, a simple colleague- maybe a friend if you were lucky enough- was a simple feat. As if you didn't struggle to take care of yourself. Jack worked the same shifts, even more as an attending and cooked for himself, did yoga in mornings and even went out as a SWAT team member.

“Why?” You pushed the grains around in the tub.

“Why what?” he asked.

Daring to glance at him, you found Jack looking at you, arms rested on the table, his freckled biceps pulling at his scrub top.

You shook your head, taking another spoon of the food.

Any other time some emergency would be called to save you. Nothing as such when you really needed it. Of course you were glad nobody was being rushed in hurt... but still.

“Why do I like looking after you?” Jack repeated. “Because it's you.”

At that, you smiled. Not through happiness, more sympathy. “Because I can't look after myself?”

You knew you slept a lot, didn't take as good care of yourself as you could have. There were healthy and easy meal ideas sat in a folder in your phone, gathering dust. There was always laundry in a pile, dirty and clean, to go to their respective homes. There were friends waiting to make arrangements you never got around to making. You weren't easy but you didn't think you were so bad someone else had to come in and save you.

Jack paused, his face falling. “That's not what I meant.”

“Sure it is, you can admit it,” you shrugged, the food he's kindly shared turned to ash in your mouth. “I know I might seem like a mess to you, to someone so put together and... older, but I really do have my life managed. You don't have to add me to your to do list.”

“Woah, woah, woah, I never said that. That's not what I meant at all.”

You laughed. It felt better than feeling so embarrassed. “It's okay-”

“- no, no, that's not what's supposed to be going on, I... ”

Jack cared for people, you knew that. It was just apart of himself.

So you were almost distraught inside when you realised he didn't like you anymore than Shen or Ellis. He just looked out for you cause it was something he had to do.

“I'm not actually very hungry right now,” you said, pushing the lid back on and leaving it for him.

Jack was just as quick as you were to his feet. “No, no, wait- wait, hey-”

His pushed the door closed as you only just opened it an inch.

You looked at him. Your stomach was tight, uncomfortably so.

“Let me- let me try again, okay? I didn't think this through.”

“There's nothing to think through, just wait-”

Shen appeared at the door, trying to get in but Jack was surprisingly strong in keeping the door barred. “I need my coffee.”

“Give us a minute, Shen,” said Jack with all his attending commanding voice.

“But-”

“- a minute!”

You caught sight of Shen looking to you for help before walking away, head down and probably with his bottom lip jutted out like a kicked puppy. “Shen won't get far without his coffee.”

“Shen can wait till we're done now listen,” he said and leant against the door, watching you close. “I like taking care of you, I do, I really do. Not because I think you're not capable of looking after yourself, you are, I know you are it's... I just...”

You waited.

There was nothing.

Jack looked at you with all wide eyes and tension held in his arms. It's like he wanted to say something but ... couldn't.

One more minute and Shen would tear the place apart for coffee.

“You're a nice guy, Jack, you just don't have to be that nice.”

Jack let his arm fall from the door and you evacuated.

The sun had started to rise and you were so close to getting out the door, so close to running from the day's problems. Day shift had turned up, somewhat bright eyed and bushy tailed to take the days stresses though you weren't sure they could take Jack's insistence to talk to you away.

You were inches away from leaving when Jack called for you.

There wasn't the desperation to talk to you, it was the sort he used in traumas, only.

“I need you, GSW to the chest!”

The both of you ran in, gowns pulling on and gloves next as you pushed through the doors.

It was all the usual to you: too many doctors in one room, so much talking and orders it fell on your ears like music you knew all the words to.

“Woman in her twenties, multiple GSW's,” Robby called out. “Pulse ox eighty!”

The doors shut behind and the team of you all took your roles like a practised routine.

“Three... two... one- move!”

All together you lifted her over.

There was blood blooming on her shirt, a tear in her jeans. There was a black eye and what looked like a broken nose if the cut over the bridge and the slant of it was anything to go by.

You'd seen enough of these to know when they were accidents and when they weren't.

Her back hit the bed and the sharp beep of life being lost echoed.

“We've lost her pulse!” shouted Robby.

Without being told you climbed up, hands coming together and hammering down on her chest. For a split second you felt the ghost of Jack's hands, helping you up before they were gone like a summers breeze.

Looming over her you could see the injuries better. And worse.

“GSW, right-sided, she needs a central line,” you announced.

Jack moved around you and the patient, already preparing himself for the central line before you'd called for one.

“BP's dropping out! Pulse Ox is eighty-five!” Robby called.

“She's got tension pneumo,” said Jack without shouting and everyone heard. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recognised that authority he demanded with the simple sound of his voice.

“Crash cart,” said Robby. “Charge to one hundred.”

You waited till you heard the buzz of the cart and felt the heat of the panels before moving.

“Clear!”

The sound of her pulse was quiet and the rhythm was odd but it was there, slight bumps in a green line.

You climbed down, landing next to Jack as he readied with a fourteen needle.

“BP's seventy Ox,” said Jesse.

“Day shifters trying to cramp our style,” said Jack as he slid in.

Robby tutted. “Trying to make sure you don't get all the fun.”

Jack straightened next to you. “Ok, I'm setting up the chest tube, you're gonna set me up with a thirty-two French. Get a mig of atropine and a need a unit of O-neg.”

Two units were hooked up.

“We need to get the chest tube in and stop the bleeding.”

It was all a flurry of hands and tools as the chest tube was in, as the chest was packed with gauze at the right flank where the bullet had tore through her chest. It was a close one, but the sort you could save with nimble hands and careful concentration.

“Okay,” Jack uttered as the both of you loomed over her. “I know we're fighting and I don't like that-”

“We're not fighting and now's not the time,” you said.

Robby was on the other side of the bed, giving the two of you a look. “I agree.”

Jack waved him off, focusing on you. “I'll strike you a deal, we save this woman's life. You get breakfast with me.”

You glanced up, wondering if anyone had heard, though you were sure by now Jack's attempts at asking you on a date was one of the worst kept secrets.

Robby was watching from the other side, arms over his chest and his brows raised.

“You strike a hard bargain there, Abbot,” you mumbled.

“May as well say yes, either way you're saving lives.”

“Why cause you'll die if I say no?”

Jack looked at you. As usual there was nothing giving away if he was joking or not. “Yeah.”

It would have been a pretty poor time to joke.

Five minutes later she was stable.

Blood bags hung slowly draining, rags and gauze of blood littered the ground and torn off gowns were thrown haphazardly around. The patients pulse was steady and beating with the promise of years of life ahead. There'd be challenges, you don't get shot and not have to face even more hardship.

But there was life.

And that was the most rewarding part of the job.

“Good job,” said Robby, peeling of his gloves. “I'm gonna get some air.”

“Then go home, right?” asked Jack as everyone slowly moved away.

Robby only made a rude gesture as the doors closed and left you and Abbott to peel away the blood stained gowns and gloves.

Jack turned to you, un-fazed at the life he'd saved. “You want to go from here or do you want me to drop you off at yours and let you change first?”

You stared at him.

It was almost unfair, his charisma in spite of it all. You didn't stand a chance. When Jack said he was going to save a life, he was going to do just that. It was an added bonus to take you on a date.

Your head was shaking but your lips were curling up.

Jack backed out of the room, leaving you with a thumbs up.

You didn't know why you lingered with the body. You were a resident who had one patient on the go, you should've picked up another. You should've left the trauma room for the surgical consultation.

Yet you wanted to start a chart, wanted to find a name for the girl.

As you walked over, checking her BP which sat safe at one hundred over sixty, her eyes fluttered open, dry lips parting and murmurs exiting.

“Hey,” you dropped your voice gently. “You're safe now, you're at the hospital. Can you hear me?”

You held her head steady as her eyes fluttered but didn't open wide enough to meet yours.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You listened close but got nothing from the grunts.

The doors to the trauma room pushed open.

A small girl stood there, early twenties or even late into her teens. She wore a hoody, blood soaking up the sleeves. She didn't introduce herself, instead, she stared.

“Is she alive?” she asked.

Beyond the broken nose you could see the resemblance in the unconscious on the bed and the one that stood ahead of you.

“Do you know her?” you asked.

“She's my sister.”

“Well your sister was shot in the chest, she's lost a lot of blood but she should make it-”

You heard the gunshots before you saw the gun.

Jack had stripped off the gown stained with blood and pulled off his gloves next, trashing them in a bin.

“That was some way to ask a girl out,” chuckled Robby as he followed his movements in yanking anything with blood on him off.

Jack shrugged. So far nothing that he'd planned the day had gone to plan, asides from saving lives yet that was his plan every day. When you'd called he was already at the hospital but you'd said about the buses and he put his keys back in at once. He thought finally. He'd been waiting for a sign to try to take you on a date, seeing's as the food and books and recommendations and days out weren't enough.

Now, he'd saved a life and got a date.

“So what's next?” asked Robby. “You perform a resuscitative thoracotomy and ask her to marry you?”

“If you have one let me know and I'll see.”

Robby chuckled, patting him on the back when three gunshots rang out.

Everyone ducked.

People screamed.

Where suddenly dozens of people stood everyone was down in lumps, covering heads and ducking for patients.

Jack hovered, not quite down but ready to move. Gun shots were nothing, enough to lull him to sleep. These shots were like any other but they echoed in his ears and richoeted in his heart.

They came from behind him.

From the room he'd just left.

“Where'd that come from?” he asked. He knew.

Robby's hand pushed at his chest, already moving past him. “Trauma two!”

You.

“No!”

The two of them took off toward the room.

A lady exited. It wasn't you. It wasn't the patient. It was a third un-familiar party.

She turned at the sound of heavy footsteps and rose her gun at the two.

“Gun!” someone screamed.

Robby was still holding onto Jack as the two of them skid to a stop in front of her. Somewhere someone was crashing and Jack couldn't see you or hear you.

There were three shots.

He knew three shots were enough to kill.

Jack raised his hands, showing he was harmless and helpless. “Please,” he begged. “Is she alive?”

The girls eyes were hard and full of hatred. The gun was steady in her hands. She was calm, completely but there was no doubt the gun shots were hers. “Not anymore.”

“Oh god-”

“Woah-Woah-” Robby caught Jack with one strong arm as his knees gave out.

You were dead? Some girl- hardly an adult- shot you? Why? To tear out his own heart?

It was already gone.

“Jack? Jack, brother, listen to me,” Robby was trying to talk to him but nothing was going through to him, like a signal lost.

The girl turned and left quickly, making sure everyone knew she had a gone when they all knew she wasn't afraid to use it. The shots must have rung out through the entire hospital.

Robby helped Jack up and as soon as the doors leaving the Pitt closed they rushed in.

The harsh sound of beeping was bouncing off the trauma walls where blood was splattered and a pool of that same blood dripped down into a puddle under the patient.

“Oh my god.” Jack found you at once, using the walls as a crutch as you stumbled your way through the room. He was at your side at once, arms around your trembling body and holding you- moving with you even as you tried to walk.

There was blood all over you and you'd paled dramatically.

Jack coaxed you into staying still, grabbing your cheeks to get your attention. He ignored the pain in his leg that had come from the run, the giving out and now as he crouched to get a look at you. “Hey, hey, hey, look at me- let me look at you. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you?”

Robby had already rushed to the patients side, what doctors and nurses that had gained control over themselves joining him in trying to save her life again. “Ah shit, looks like PEA! Amp of antropine, amp of Epi!”

Your eyes darted over to where the chaos ensued, even as Jack tried to get you to look at him.

“You won't ... won't get her back!” your voice was shaky and hoarse from a scream he hadn't heard. “Blew her god damn brains out.”

“Come here, okay, let's-let's-” Jack's arm was around your shoulder and he was moving you out, trying to help pulling off your bloody gloves while keeping an arm on you.

There was blood and something else on your gloves. Blew her brains out. And you'd tried to scoop them back in.

When the bright lights of the hospital met you your body grew still in his arm.

Jack was familiar with trembles, with blood and PTSD. He wasn't used to any of it in you. In everything he'd learnt about you, he hadn't learnt the subtle art of comfort. “Let's get you some air, let's get you cleaned up-”

You pushed out of Jack's arms, pulling and tugging at your scrub top soaked in blood and all but ran into the women's bathroom.

He heard retching as the door closed.

Jack shook his head, ready to follow you when Dana appeared in front of him, hand on his chest.

“Take it easy, take it easy, I'll check in on her.”

He could still hear you throwing up when Dana slipped in.

The sun was high in the sky, casting the roof of PCMT in an orange glow. The sky burnt in its colour but all you saw was red.

One moment the girl had been crashing, the monitor still beeped in your head. Her body had jerked up to the sky before you got a rhythm back and then- just as you did with any patient- you got hopeful. It seemed in the clear to do so, you'd helped patients come back from worse and you always had hope.

Nobody that worked in the ED could live without it.

Then- it had took three bangs for you to drop to the ground but not before being smeared in blood. You didn't even know what was happening as the ringing ran out in your ears. You'd met the ground with a hard thump to your head. When your vision cleared you saw the shoes rush out of the room.

Your guiding as a med student was doing no harm, saving lives and you'd dropped and put your life ahead of your patients.

What kind of doctor did that?

The cowardly type- you.

“You're in my spot,” said a voice coming closer.

Jack.

His voice soothed the nerves in your body that had been on edge since the accident. Everything made you jump, but him.

“It's a nice spot,” you said as loud as you could, knowing your voice still wasn't back. Or loud enough.

“Yeah,” he said, getting closer. “But usually I like to be on the other side of the rail. And on my feet.”

You were sat on the edge of the roof, not on the edge close enough for anyone to worry but apparently that didn't stop Jack.

He huffed, behind you now. “Please, I'm an older guy, my heart can't take it. Can you come over?”

If your feet weren't like weights pulling you down maybe you could have but you were struggling to feel any part of you.

You admitted as much, quietly. “I can't move.”

You'd moved quick when faced with the gun, dropping to save your own skin. Since then moving had been difficult, like you'd used every muscle in your body to push yourself and now you were locked.

Jack moved in a blur as he ducked under the rail and slowly set down next to you. He was silent, only his breathing calming you. “Did you get checked over with Robby?”

You nodded. “The ringing'll go away in a day or two.”

“Yeah.... it always does.”

You looked at him and Jack was looking at you. The grey stubble of his beard never looked greyer and his eyes were dull, small half moon bruises of sleep marked there. His hair was ruffled and he smelled dully of hospital.

This was a man that had saved more lives than you could count and severed in tours ... and he was taking time to check on you.

“I'm sorry,” you didn't know you had cried till Jack's arm was around your shoulder, bringing you in.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his arm tight on you. “What are you sorry for, huh?”

“I didn't save her, I-I should've tried. Should be reasoned with the shooter and I just-I just dropped down and you-” your breathing was ragged, the cries frequenting. “-you've done so much, lost your leg for damn sakes and I just dropped.”

“Hey,” he snapped. It wasn't un-kind. It was stern in ways he had to be in the as a night attending. “You did everthing you could.”

You looked at him. He really meant that though. “I dropped down!”

“You saved your life,” he reminded you. Jack's arm was still tight on your shoulders but his other hand held your cheek, making you focus on him. “You acted on instinct. If you hadn't your patient still would've shot and you-” Jack's breath caught. His eyes were glossed over. You'd missed the redness around his eyes. “- you'd have been shot and I couldn't live with that. I-I couldn't.”

Jack wiped away his tears, wiping yours next. He chuckled dryly at the both of your tears.

“I lost my leg in a tour,” said Jack. “Where guns and shooting is part of the job. It's not in a hospital. You did what you could.”

It still didn't feel right. It still felt like the cowards way of doing things.

“Look at me, look at me-” he nudged your gaze to his. His eyes were wide and implored you to look at him. Really look. “You did what you could and I know a patient died and I know-I know it's hard but...”

He sniffed.

“But what?” you mumbled. How could there be a but in any of this?

He held your cheeks tighter, smudging your cheeks just that little more. Jack let out a shaky exhale. “But I am so happy you're okay. I am so fucking glad.”

His dimples were hardly there as he gave you a sorry smile.

Your head fell into his chest and he brought his arms around you, holding you, shushing you as you cried. Cried for your patient, for the shooter, for the way you dropped. None of which maybe could be forgiven but all of which were valid.

Somewhere in the crying Jack held you tighter and moved the both of you back away from the ledge. You let him, even helped in scuffing your feet and pushing away till the railing hit both your backs.

“You're okay, I got you, I got you.”

I got you. He'd always had you, if he hadn't had you today what would you have done? Nothing crazy but you might have stayed up on the roof all day, be dead on your feet by the night. Jack had always had you and when he did you'd all but told him not to.

“I'm sorry.”

His hand ran over your hair. It had come lose but still remained in the braiding. “You don't have to be sorry, you don't.”

“No about earlier, in the lounge,” you said, holding onto him. “You were being nice, you've always been nice and I... I was horrible-”

“- you weren't horrible, no-”

“- you've been so kind to me and I don't even say thanks-”

“- you have actually, quite a few times- ”

“- I don't know why you put up with me-”

“- well, it helps that I love you-”

If there was one way to shut your rambling up, it was that.

You still had a vice on his scrub top but you looked up to him. For the first time- you think ever- Jack had to look away from you.

“What?” you asked.

Jack's jaw ticked and he clocked his head. “I didn't mean to say that.”

Disappointment chocked you. Of course it would just slip out, heck Jack was comforting you, he'd say anything.

“Oh.”

“I do love you,” he said and you looked at him with something akin to hope as you moved your head away. “That's why I've been looking after you, that's what you do when your- when your in love. My... my wife taught me that. I was just scared you know cause.... I haven't been in love since she died.”

It wasn't often Jack talked about his wife but when he did he talked. He'd talk anyone's ears off about her and once or twice you'd been that person.

“I'm sorry.” This time you weren't sure what you were apologising for, you just were.

Jack looked at you with a mocked frustration.

You cringed. “Sorry, I should- I should stop saying that.”

He hummed and nodded along with you, a tiny smile on his lips, the chapped parts cracking from the salt of his last tears. “I never meant to make you feel incapable, I know you can look after yourself. But I want to.”

You laughed at yourself, wiping at your cheeks and snot. “Why? I'm a mess.”

Jack took your cheek in the palm of his hand. “No, you're not. Not to me.”

Jack kissed you so slow and sweet on the edge of the roof with the sun praising upon the both of you. He didn't push his feelings into you, he let you feel them in the gentle press of his lips and the hold of his hands.

Your shift was almost over.

You messaged Dana, who was about to start the day shift, asking her to grab you a caramel latte on her way in.

You: good morniiiiing queen of nurses, u coming today? Grab me a caramel latte on your way, please? Need some sugar :(

Dana: sure honey

Dana: be there in 10 minutes

So, doing the math, you had already proactively administered a dose of insulin. The insulin was actively circulating in your body, perfectly calculated to counteract the sugar spike from the coffee you were about to drink. You knew that a coffee like that would raise your blood sugar significantly, so you injected the exact dose to keep your glucose within range.

The only problem? Dana was late.

30 minutes late.

You were sitting at the main desk, trying to quickly update the latest data before you could leave. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, but your mind was elsewhere.

Without the caramel latte to balance the insulin, your blood sugar was actively plummeting. Fast.

Dr. Jack Abbot, your attending, your boss and, for the last year, your boyfriend, was waiting for you.

He was already signed out, leaning against the counter with his jacket over his arm, ready to walk out to the parking lot together.

But as he watched you, his medical instincts kicked in. You had typed the same single sentence three times, deleted it, and were now just staring blankly at the monitor.

"Hey," Jack said. "You've been on that same line for ten minutes. Let's go, doll. Shift’s over."

You didn't answer. The world was rapidly losing its edges. The lights of the ER seemed to stretch into blurry halos, and the chatter of the nurses sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. You were dissociating hard, fading into an unresponsive silence.

Jack’s posture shifted instantly with intensity, one of a man who knew your medical history by heart.

He moved around the desk, dropping into the empty chair right next to you. He reached out, grabbing your hand.

"Hey, Dr, look at me," Jack commanded gently. He used his other hand to turn your chin toward him. Your eyes were glassy, your pupils wide and slow to react. "What's going on? How is your blood sugar?"

"I- I think.. Dana..." you mumbled, your tongue feeling heavy, as you looked at your watch. "Oh, she's late."

"What does Dana have to do with this?" Jack's eyes narrowed as he scanned your pale face.

"I took insulin," you whispered, the realization finally breaking through your own fog, bringing panic. "For a caramel latte. From Dana. But she isn't here. My glucose was dropping a little."

"Jesus Christ, you prebolused for a coffee that isn't even in the building? I told you to do not take insulin until food is in front of you during shifts."

He didn't waste another second.

He checked your app.

40 mg/dl

Jack stood up, grabbed your arms, and guided you up from the desk chair. You stumbled, your knees buckling, but his strong arm caught you around the waist, hauling you into the break room.

"Sit. Do not move," he ordered, his authority absolute.

Jack went over to the break room fridge, pulling out a carton of juice. He grabbed three sugar packets from the coffee station, tearing them open and dumping them straight into the juice to supercharge the fast acting carbs.

He sat in front of you, placing one hand behind your neck to support your head while holding the straw to your lips.

"Drink. All of it," he murmured.

You took a sip, the overwhelming sweetness hitting your tongue.

Your brain, starved of glucose, screamed for it; so you drank half the carton before Jack gently pulled it back so you wouldn't choke.

"Slow down, doll. You're gonna choke."

He watched you, keeping his hand wrapped tightly around yours, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

"Good girl. Let it hit your system."

For a few minutes, the break room was quiet except for your heavy breathing.

Gradually, the fog began to lift. The edges of the room sharpened. The distant underwater feeling receded, and the warmth returned to your cheeks.

"There you are," Jack breathed, a visible wave of relief washing over him. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, leaning into his touch as the last of the haze cleared. "I thought I had the timing right."

Jack sighed, his hand moving from your forehead to cup your cheek.

"You are a terrible patient," Jack said, his voice was entirely serious. "You're a brilliant R4, but you know as well as I do that if you want to be a doctor here, you have to take care of yourself first. You can't save anyone out there if you're collapsing at the charting desk."

You swallowed hard, nodding against his palm, feeling thoroughly cared for. "I know. You're right."

"Damned right I am," he murmured, his gaze softening as he handed you the rest of the juice. "We're checking your glucose again in twenty minutes. Then, I'm taking you home."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

This day wasn't out of the ordinary for you.

Jack had been called into the hospital, so you decided to run some errands instead. Just another walk through the city, another stretch of pavement leading you towards your favourite café. The street was bustling with lunchtime rush, people brushing past without even looking up, all of it so normal you stopped noticing anything outside your immediate line of sight.

You don’t see the window workers until it’s already too late.

There’s a shout, somewhere overhead, sharp, distant, dismissed instantly by your brain as background chaos.

Then something shifts overhead.

A shadow.

A sudden loss of control.

Like something heavy slipping when it shouldn’t.

You look up.

The bucket tips over the edge, half full, unbalanced, too far gone to recover.

You have no time to react.

It drops straight down.

The impact is immediate and brutal, striking the top of your head with enough force to erase thoughts.

Air leaves you all once.

Your body goes back with force, the concrete of the sidewalks rushing up before you can even register that you’re falling. 

You don’t feel the landing.

You’re already gone before your body makes contact.

The ambulance door swings open hard.

Two paramedics rush in with a stretcher.

“Female, roughly mid-thirties–struck by falling debris,” one of the paramedics calls.

Whitaker is already moving.

“Trauma Two is open,” someone shouts from the nurses’ station.

The stretcher rolls in fast.

“Unconscious on scene,” the paramedic continues. “Hasn’t come around yet. GSC eight.”

Monitors are attached within seconds.  An IV is started. Hands move quickly, practiced, efficient.

Whitaker is at the bedside now, eyes already scanning your injuries.

“Witness said that the window cleaner’s bucket fell from a height,” A paramedic informs. “She went down immediately.”

“ID?” Whitaker asks without looking up.

“None,” the paramedic says, already reaching into his pocket. “But we found this on her.”

He places a chain into Whitaker’s hand.

Dog tags.

Whitaker’s focus sharpens instantly.

That changes everything.

He takes them without hesitation, already thinking they’ve just been handed the easiest part of the case. A name means history, allergies, blood type, everything they need.

“Good,” he says under his breath, almost relieved. “We got lucky.”

He flips the broken tags over.

And stops.

Abbot. Jack.

O Negative.

Fuck.

For a second, the noise of the room is completely drowned out, as if it had been pulled underwater.

 He reads it again, more slowly this time, in case the name changes.

It doesn’t.

“...Jesus,” He mutters, barely audible.

A nurse glances over. “You know her?”

Whitaker doesn't answer right away. His grip tightens slightly on the chain, metal pressing into his palm like letting go of it would make this situation even worse.

Because this wasn’t luck.

This was a problem.

A large one.

But more importantly, a very specific one 

“Page, Dr. Robby,” he says, voice sharper now. “And Dr. Abbot. Now.”

The nurse moves immediately at the order.

Whitaker set the tags down carefully on the tray beside you, as if they were the most important thing in this room.

Robby arrives first.

He doesn't rush in. He lets his residents lead, but the moment he steps into Trauam Two, the atmosphere shifts anyway.

“What’ve we got?” he asks, pulling on a pair of gloves.

Whitaker doesn't answer right away. 

Not because he doesn't know what's going on, but because he can’t quite find the words that fit.

Instead, he shifts slightly so Robby can see you.

Not the monitors. Not the chart.

You.

​​Robby’s expression changes instantly. Subtle, but complete. The kind of shift that happens when a doctor stops seeing a case and starts seeing a person.

He steps closer without even thinking.

His hand finds your wrist automatically, checking your pulse. His other hand moves to your eyes, checking pupils, clinical instinct kicking in.

“Found down,” a nurse says quickly. “Struck by falling debris—window cleaner’s bucket. Unconscious on scene, brief loss of consciousness, GCS eight.”

Robby nods, but there’s a little delay in it, like the information is landing half a beat too slow.

His hand stays on your wrist a fraction longer than necessary.

“I paged Abbot.”

“How—” he starts, confused, the word barely out.

He doesn’t finish.

Because Whitaker lifts his hand, the broken chain rests between his fingers. 

Just enough for Robby to see it clearly.

Dog tags.

Everything in Robby’s expression shifts. Not shock. Recognition. Then something worse. Like the entire situation snaps into place all at once.

“...Oh no,” he says quietly.

His eyes flick back to you immediately.

Because this isn’t just some random patient.

This is Jack’s wife.

Robby straightened slightly, like his body was trying to catch up with what his brain already knew.

“No,” he says under his breath, already shaking his head once. “No-no, no…”

Whitaker starts to say something. “Robby—”

But Robby isn’t listening anymore.

His attention shifts toward the door like he can feel it before it happens.

“He’s coming,” Robby says, more to himself than anyone else.

A pause.

“Fuck.” Robby exhales through his nose, one hand dragging over his face as he looks back at you again.

You’re still unconscious. Still pale. Still completely unaware of who's about to walk in.

Whitaker tries again. “Robby—”

And that's when it finally clicks in his head.

“He can’t see her like this,” Robby says, firmer now, like he’s locking onto the only thing that matters.

Not like this.

And he’s already halfway to the door, trying to get there before Jack does.

Robby barely makes it halfway across the room before the door pushes open again.

Jack.

He’s already moving fast, eyes ready to assess the situation before anyone even speaks.

“What do we have?” he asks, breath just slightly off from the rush. “You paged me.”

Robby steps in front of him, blocking the doorway without hesitation.

“Hey”

Jack frowns, thrown off more by that than anything else. “What are you doing?”

“Jack-”

“Move,” Jack says, sharper now, trying to step around him to assist the patient.

Robby doesn’t. “You can’t go in there.”

That stops him.

“What?” Jack let out a short, disbelieving breath. “Robby, what are you talking about?”

Behind him, the room keeps moving. Voices, monitors, motion, but Jack can’t see any of it past the barrier in front of him.

“Just—wait,” Robby says, quieter now.

“No,” Jack shakes his head, already trying to step around him. “No, don’t page me and then tell me to wait. Move.”

Robby shifts just an inch, and for a split second, it is enough.

An angle opens up.

Just enough for Jack to see.

There are doctors and nurses,

The bed.

You.

Unconscious. 

Blood matted into your hair, dark against your skin. Clothes still damp, clinging in the wrong places. 

Everything in him stops.

The sound of the room drops out completely.

“…No,” he breathes.

Robby moves immediately to block his view again.

“Jack,” he says firmly. “You can’t—”

“That’s my wife,” Jack cuts in, voice breaking under it despite his effort to hold it together. “What happened?”

He tries to move forward again. His brain tries to process what he is seeing. His weight shifts subconsciously to his real leg to ground him. But it all hits at once, too fast, too much.

“…No,” he breathes, barely there.

“Jack,” he says, low and steady. “You can’t—”

Robby stops him, hands on his chest this time.

“You cannot go in there,” Robby says, stronger now. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know,” Robby answers. “But you will if you make a mistake.”

That lands.

Not because it calms Jack’s nerves, but because it forces clarity through the panic.

If he treats you like this… he could make it worse.

Jack’s breathing is uneven. His eyes keep trying to find you past Robby’s shoulder.

But he can’t.

“Let us do our job,” Robby says, quieter now. “We’ve got her.”

Jack doesn’t move.

Doesn’t agree but doesn't try to push past him again either.

A long, stretched-out second passes.

Then Jack steps back.

Just one step.

Like it costs him more than anything else today.

Robby watches him carefully, like he expects him to surge back towards him.

But Jack just… goes still.

The fight drains out of him all at once, as something snapped.

He turns away without another word.

The roof is silent when Robby and Whitaker find him.

Jack is at the edge, hands gripping the metal railing, shoulder tight. Not leaning over, just holding on. Like it’s the only thing keeping him in place.

The city stretches out in front og him.

He doesn’t turn.

They both know he heard them.

Robby glances once at Whitaker, then back to Jack.

“She’s stable,” he says.

No response.

Whitaker steps a little closer. “Vitals are holding. We’re sending her for CT—possible concussion, maybe a small bleed, but nothing immediately life-threatening.”

Still nothing.

Robby moves a little closer, not too fast.

“She’s going to be okay,”

That gets a reaction.

Barely.

Jack exhales slowly, the sound rough, like he’s been holding it in too long.

He doesn’t turn around.

“…Did she wake up?” he asks.

“No,” Whitaker answers. “Not yet.”

Jack nods once.

Silence returns, wind cutting across the roof.

Whitaker hesitates for a second, then—

“She had your tags on.”

That lands differently.

Something in Jack breaks, just a little.

A quiet, breathless laugh slips out of him, completely out of place against everything else.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough.

He shakes his head once, like he can’t believe it even now. “She hates rings.”

A tear slips down before he can stop it.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

He just stands there, staring out at the city, holding onto the railing like it’s the only solid thing left.

Back in your room, everything is calmer now.

Monitors still beep steadily, machines still running, but the urgency is gone, replaced with something calmer. Controlled

Jack hesitates in the doorway before stepping in.

He takes you in slowly this time, like he’s afraid moving too fast will break the moment.

A sudden movement pulls his focus.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m here.”

Your brows pull together slightly, a small reaction to the sounds of his voice.

Then your eyes flutter.

They open slowly.

Heavy.

Disoriented.

A small sound escapes you when the lights make contact with your eyes.

“Easy, babe,” he murmurs. “Don’t try to move too fast.”

You blink a few times, trying to focus.

Everything hurts. It’s too bright, too loud. Your head is throbbing.

“...Jack?” Your voice is rough, barely there.

“Yeah,” Jack says quietly, catching it. “Head’s gonna hurt. You took a bucket to the head.”

Your eyes finally land on him, and you just stare as if your brain is trying to catch up.

“I’m here,” he says again.

Relief flashes across your face. Small. Real. Your shoulder loosens, and seeing him suddenly makes everything feel less chaotic.

“You look mad,” you murmur weakly. That gets a faint breath out of him, almost a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I was.”

His hand finds yours carefully, grounding you.

“But you’re okay,” he adds. “That’s what matters.”

Your eyes drift shut for half a moment, exhaustion pulling at you.

“Mm,” you hum faintly. “Feels like I lost a battle.”

Jack huffs under his breath. “You did,” he says. “Badly.”

A faint smile tugs at your mouth, even through the ache.

“Rude,” you whisper.

Then your fingers shift against the sheet.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Yeah?”

Your eyes flick to his chest.

“…Not on me,” you murmur.

Jack looks down at you. “What?”

“The tags,” you say, voice still rough but more alert now. “They’re not on my neck,”

You expect them to be there; they have been for years.

Jack exhales through his nose,  almost amused.

He reaches into his pocket.

Carefully, he pulls out the chain.

His dog tags.

Worn. Familiar. Still his.

He places them gently into your hand.

“That’s how they identified you, Mrs. Abbot,” he says quietly.

That makes your expression shift, softening, something warm and tried underneath it.

Then your eyes drop the break.

The link halfway down snapped from the impact.

“Oh,” you murmur. “It’s broken,” 

 “Yeah,” he answers. “We’ll fix it.”

You study him for a second, still holding onto the chain lightly as if it grounds you.

“Thankfully,” you murmur, “the government likes labelling their property.”

That gets a quiet breath out of him.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod faintly.

“Very official,” you add. “Important documentation.”

Jack shakes his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“And what,” he says, voice lower now, teasing, “are you properly of?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“You.”

The teasing fades out of his expression for a second, something quieter replacing it.

“…Yeah?” he asks softly.

Your grip on the tags tightens just slightly.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Been that way for a while.”

He holds your hand a little tighter.

“Good,” he says quietly.

Then, softer:

“Keep it that way.”

Your eyes start to drift again, exhaustion pulling at you.

“Wasn’t planning on changing it,” you whisper.

Jack’s thumb moves once over your knuckles.

And this time, neither of you says anything else.

It was like all of Jack’s dreams had come true at once, and if he’s being honest he has had a fair few of them since you came into the ED three weeks ago. His hands had barely fluttered over the hard metal beneath your shirt before they had been disturbed and his hands were retreating, but already Jack knew this was going to be better than anything his brain could conjure up. He couldn’t bear to let you go now that he had you, even if you were currently standing talking to your roommate whilst he mouthed at your neck. Jack was exactly where he wanted to be, you’d turn your attention back to him in a moment. Jack could be patient, he had been patient for over a year.

“Let me make sure she gets in a cab okay.” You pressed your lips to his ear, Jack couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him at the contact. “And then how about you take me home with you and I’ll let you see these for real.”

What happened next resulted in you letting out a squeak that Jack would catalogue and saviour for the rest of his life. Before your mouth had retreated back from beside his face his hands were on your waist again, spinning both you and himself around so that his back was now against the wall and you were firmly held against his front, ass to crotch. His arms snaked around you, landing on your stomach as he mouthed again at that little spot beneath your ear.

”I can wait.” He breathed. His eyes flicked up to your roommate who was waiting by the curb for her cab. Jack wished the damn thing would just hurry up already, then he could get you back home. He was already half hard in his jeans, and was certain you could feel him when he felt the minuscule way you rubbed your ass against him. Faint, barely there, like you hadn’t even really meant to do it. Your body reacting without your mind's consent. It almost tugged a groan from his throat and his hands gripped harder at the soft skin on your waist.

Finally the car pulled up and Jack was almost vibrating with excitement. Arguably it had only been two minutes since your friend had ordered the Uber, but by god those were the longest two minutes of his entire life. Jack was polite, he was nothing if not a gentleman, so he did the gentlemanly thing and waited for the car to pull away from the curb before he spun you in his arms and pulled your hips flush with his.

“Do I get to take you home now?” He flashed you a sly grin.

—————————————

You could almost see the countdown ticking away in Jack’s head, and you weren’t even facing him. He waited the exact amount of seconds it was considered polite before he spun you and pulled you close again, his hand gravitating back to your chest as he asked if he could take you home with what could only be described as a shit eating grin plastered across his face.

”Don’t you need to tell your SWAT buddies you’re leaving?” You teased.

“They’ll figure it out.” He kissed your jaw line. “I’m a big boy, I don’t need permission to leave.” He spun you around again, he really needed to stop doing that, you were getting dizzy and everytime he did it sent a wave of electricity through you. His hand interlinked with yours as he pushed off the wall and set off walking, practically pulling you down the street towards his car.

”Slow down.” You giggle. “What’s the rush?” You’d reached his car, an obnoxious oversized truck you will absolutely be bullying him about owning in the morning. He pushed you against it, closing the space between you once again. Jack’s lips meet yours and you realise that despite everything that has already happened this is the first time he’s actually kissing you. You practically melt. His lips are plush against yours, his stubble tickling your chin ever so slightly. The feeling is intoxicating and exhilarating, a soft moan escapes your lips. Jack pulls away, but only far enough to press his forehead against yours.

”You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He breathes and it feels like a confession. Something so juxtaposingly tender compared to what you had just been doing.

”Oh yeah?” You smirk, tilting your head just a little to nudge his nose with your own. Your fingers had looped into the belt loops of his jeans, needing something to hold onto.

”Yeah. Since you transferred over to the night shift last year.” He nods, his breath fanning out against your face.

”I win then.” You giggle. Because even now you can’t help but tease.

”What?”

”My first night shift rotation intern year. The night you talked me through my first lower extremity fasciotomy. It was the way you were standing over my shoulder talking in my ear, I was gone from that moment on.” You chuckled and Jack dove in to kiss you again, bruising. His mouth pressed against yours with as much force as he could muster.

”Get in the car.” His voice was low, as he pulled the door open beside you.

~~~

It was almost amusing to you the way Jack couldn’t keep his hands to himself. That one simple request of ‘can I?’ outside of the bar seemed to have opened the floodgates. His hand is on your thigh the entire drive back to his, gently caressing up and down the entire time. A few times, when you’d hit a red light his hand would trail higher, not enough to give you any satisfaction just enough to tease you. It was driving you insane. Eventually his car turned onto a quiet neighborhood street and Jack pulled up outside of a modest single story home.

You suddenly became quite nervous. This was actually happening. You were outside of Jack’s house, about to go inside. When you pulled Jack out of the bar to stand with you whilst you had a smoke you had no idea that this was where the night could lead. Yet here you were, and realisation was just now sinking in. Jack gave your thigh a small squeeze.

”You coming in then?” He smiled. He still had that shit eating grin on his face, the cat that got the cream, and well how could you say no to that?

”Uh huh.” You hummed sliding out the door. As you walked to the door you felt him squeeze your ass, it made you jump just a little. The chuckle that rumbled out of him was worth the embarrassment.

—————————————

His restraint in the car had honestly been miraculous. Somebody had ought to make him a saint just for that, for the way he managed to never let his fingers trail too high up your leg. Never close enough to where he wanted to get to that it would distract him from driving all together. Even if he so desperately wanted to throw caution to the wind and slip a finger inside of you the whole way back, just to know what you felt like.

You looked down right sinful in that skirt as you walked ahead of him towards his home. He hadn’t paid it much mind earlier, too preoccupied with what lay above the waist, but now he was kicking himself for not noticing the way it accentuated the curve of your ass beautifully. So forgive him if he reached out to give it a squeeze as you walked, and forgive him if his heart fluttered at the way it made you jump.

Jack had barely closed the door before he was pushing you against it, slotting himself between your legs. Now that he had tasted your lips he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live without them. He was like a man starving as he ran his tongue across your lower lip, begging for entrance, for something more. You granted him access, and he dove straight in. A groan he couldn’t stifle bubbled up his throat and into your mouth. You were delicious, and all Jack wanted to do was take. His hips rolled against yours and you let out the most beautiful little gasp he’d ever heard, breaking the kiss. Jack pulled you away from the door, walking you backwards across the hall towards the living room, peppering your lips with kisses as he went. He could take you straight to his bedroom, but it felt so far away now, the living room was closer. He pushed you through the open doorway, flicking the light on without turning his attention away from you, and guided you towards the couch. In one fell swoop he was sitting down and pulling you with him to straddle his legs.

”Hi.” You breathed as you situated yourself on his lap, his hands caressing your back.

”You doing okay?” He raised an eyebrow. He wanted to make sure you weren’t second guessing this. As much as he wanted it, he had to make sure you were right there with him.

”Yeah.” You smiled, catching his lips as you rolled your hips. He was fully hard now, the cotton of your underwear dragging across the bulge in his jeans. He left kiss after kiss across your lips, cheek, jaw, before making it back to your neck nipping at the delicate skin there. The way you gasped and hissed was like music to his ears. Jack’s hands were on your waist, playing with the hem of your top. He knew what he wanted. What he’d craved for the past three weeks, and it was right in front of him now ready to be unwrapped like a Christmas present.

”Let’s take this off, yeah?” He rubbed the hemline between his fingers, itching to lift it up and over your head. The nod you gave him was the only confirmation he needed.

It was like Christmas and his birthday all rolled into one. The way your boobs bounced in front of him from the movement of stripping your top off. If he was twenty years younger he could have cum just from that sight alone.

”Jesus christ, you’re beautiful.” Jack was awe struck. Nothing he could have ever imagined compared to the sight in front of him now. The way your nipples pebbled from the cool air hitting them, and the silver bars jutting through each one. He would be seeing that in his sleep for weeks. His thumb caressed over the pink nub.

”What’s the verdict Dr Abbot?” Jack won’t comment on the way his dick twitched in his pants at you calling him doctor outside of the hospital. “Are they everything you hoped they would be?” He didn’t have words. In lew of a response he leant forward and attached his mouth to one instead, sucking your nipple and the piercing between his teeth. Letting a moan ripple out and vibrate around you. The metallic taste in his mouth was addictive as he sucked and grazed his teeth against you. The sounds you were making were downright delicious.

————————————-

You don’t think you have ever been this wet in your life. You were sure you had soaked through your underwear, and if you moved right now there was sure to be a wet patch on the front of Jack’s jeans. You had never met somebody so obsessed with your piercings before. Sure, they always got a good reaction from the people you slept with. You hadn’t met anybody yet who had turned their nose up at them, but Jack revelled in them like you just presented him with his last meal on death row. You were sure he would be content to stay here all night just doing this. You weren’t opposed to the idea either. The way he licked and sucked and dragged his teeth across them, you were starting to wonder if you could cum just from this alone. He removed himself from your boob with a slight pop before diving straight in for the other one which was met with your breathy inhale as your hands came to grasp at his hair. Digging your fingers into the curls by the nape of his neck he let out another groan. It vibrated through your chest and made your hips roll against him again. Just from feel alone you could tell he was going to be big, and that only served to make you wetter.

”Please.” You gasped, you weren’t sure for what but Jack did. He unlatched himself from your tit to look at you. His hands were back on your waist.

”Come here sweetheart.” He crooned, shifting you so that you were positioned on one leg instead of staddling his waist. “I’m going to play with these for a little while longer, Yeah? You just sit here looking pretty and ride my thigh. Can you do that for me?” You didn’t answer for a second, so Jack took the initiative and pulled your hips forward. The drag of his jeans against your pussy was heavenly. The gasp shot out of you without warning. “There you go. That’s what you needed.” His mouth went back to your tit. The hand on your waist guiding you back and forth along his thigh whilst the other came up to squeeze the tit he had left unoccupied. The feeling was heavenly.

You weren’t sure if you could cum from just this alone, but it honestly felt worth it. It all felt so good to the point it was dizzying. You stayed like this, grinding down on his thigh whilst he lavished your boobs with attention, for a few minutes before you found your voice again.

”Jack please.” You gasped. “More, please.” You needed something, anything. You were so turned on, you needed him to touch you. Reluctantly he removed his mouth from you.

”Okay baby, okay. I know.” He cooed, cupping a hand under your jaw and swiping his thumb across your cheek. “Let me take care of you.” He smiled. Then before you could even register it he was flipping you, laying you out on the couch and settling between your legs.

Your skirt had ridden up to around your waist now and you couldn’t help the giggle that came out.

“What’s so funny sweetheart?” Jack looked up at you from where he was pressing kisses into your thighs.

“If I’d have known this was where my night was going to go, I’d have worn nicer underwear.” You chuckle, looking down at the plain cotton panties you were wearing. Jack didn’t dignify that thought with a response straight away, choosing instead to bite at your inner thigh. He kissed over the top of your clit and it sent shockwaves through your core, your back arching ever so slightly at the contact.

“Well if you don’t like them, how about we just get rid of them all together?” He looked up at you from between your legs. You nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact with him and watched as the grin spread across his face. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged, shifting as he went to get them off your feet. Once they were off he tucked them into the back pocket of his jeans without giving it a second though. It was almost incredulous.

“Are you planning on keeping those?” You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Souvenir.” He shrugged. You tipped your head back and laughed at the audacity of it. The laugh was short lived though, quickly turning into a gasp as Jack licked a long stripe along your cunt.

“Fuck.” You groaned, the muscles in your stomach contracting at the sensation. Jack just hummed and licked again, saviouring the taste of you. One hand gripping your inner thigh, the other settled against your lower stomach.

It wasn’t fair. You were beginning to believe there truly wasn’t anything Jack Abbot wasn’t good at. You were seeing stars as he sucked your clit like a man starved. Your fingers were curled in his hair, holding on for dear life, and every time you dared to look down you could see the way he was rutting against the couch. If his devilish tongue wasn’t sending you over the edge then the sight of that alone would. You were practically writhing beneath him and then he decided to nudge a finger into your hole. All of the air in your lungs escaped at once, your back arching off of the couch as you let out a long moan. He barely gave you a moment before a second one was joining the first. His fingers were incredible. The perfect balance of long and thick, reaching places inside of you that you’d never explored as he pumped in and out at a nailbitingly slow pace.

“You gonna cum for me sweetheart?” He asked when he came up for air. Your juices slick across his chin and lips.

“Kiss.” You breathed out, winded. “Please.” And well who was he to deny you that? His fingers still inside you, Jack moved up your body to catch your lips with his own. The taste of his mouth and your arousal causing you to clench down around him.

“You like being able to taste yourself?” His voice was gravelly, a little hoarse from eating you out. At the same time he crooked his fingers, prodding at that velvety spot inside of you that made you see stars. You gasped and pushed his head back down, back to where you needed him the most. He dutifully obliged, attaching his mouth back onto your clit and sucking hard.

“Jack.” You panted.

“Gonna need you to cum for me before I can do anything else.” He said. It wasn’t a request, more an incentive. He blew cold air over your sensitive nub, the sensation making you full body shiver, before going back to the task at hand. His fingers had picked up pace now and you were barrelling towards your own release at a terrifying pace.

“I’m close. So close.” You could feel it pooling in your stomach. The elastic band wound tight, right on the precipice of snapping. He curled his fingers again and sucked hard. Your orgasm flooded your body. Your thighs snapped close around his head, your fingers a death grip in his hair. Jack let out a guttural groan as the sensation washed over you, stomach constricting and releasing over and over again as he brought you through it, fingers gently pushing in and out, tongue lapping over you serenely. You think you might have forgotten how to breathe as you gasped for air beneath him.

“You okay?” He asked, looking up at you once you’d release his head from your iron grip.

“Holy shit.” It was almost a giggle. If you had the energy left in your body to giggle.

“Oh, I’m not through with you yet baby.” He wiggled his eyebrows. How did he have this much stamina? You felt like you’d just run a marathon. You guess that Jack must have seen the exhaustion written on your face, because before you’d even had the chance to respond he was picking you up bridal style and walking you back out of the living room, down the hall and to his bedroom. You didn’t have the energy to argue with him about carrying you.

———————————

There were many things in life Jack was, a quitter was not one of them. His cock sat heavy and throbbing in his jeans, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to fuck you before you’d cum at least once. And god what a blessing it was to be able to experience it. Being suffocated between your thighs, you hands clenched so hard in his hair he thinks he might wake up with a bald patch, the way your cunt clenched and pulsed around his fingers. It didn’t matter if he died then and there. Jack was exactly where he wanted to be. Nothing in the world could have pulled him away from that.

You looked entirely blissed out on that couch, but Jack knew the main event was still to come. He had to be inside you, now. So he did the polite thing and carried you through to his bedroom, instead of making you walk. Depositing you down on the bed as he made quick work of removing his shirt before sitting on the bed to take his leg off before his pants. He felt the way the bed dipped as you crawled over to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and planting feather light kisses along his shoulders and the back of his neck. It was so delicate and tender, it sent a shiver through his body.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked. You had dropped your head onto his shoulder now, arms wrapped around his chest, just holding him as he tried to wiggle free of his jeans.

“Uh huh.” You hummed, content. Oh, what Jack would give to have you like this everyday for the rest of his life.

“You might want to find that second wind, because I’m not done yet.” He was being smug, he knew that. But who in hell would not be smug after making you cum? He turned where he sat and flipped you backwards, laying you out on the bed for him. It was like a switch flipped behind your eyes. The ones that had been content and sleepy only a moment ago were now looking at him like he was something to eat.

“You sure you can keep up, old man?” You challenged, and yeah that was definitely a challenge he wanted to take. He rolled his hips against your core. The only barrier between you being his boxers. His restraint was wearing thin.

“Those are some bold words for someone who was almost falling asleep on me thirty seconds ago.” He smirked, hovering over you now.

“Are you always this mouthy? Trying to distract me whilst you get it up?” There was an evil glint in your eye. Two could play at that game. He dropped his head down beside your ear.

“I think you know well enough what my mouth can do, don’t you sweetheart?” He dragged his clothed erection against you again, moving his head down to get his mouth around you tit once more, pulling a gasp from your lips.

“Would you just hurry up and fuck me.” You pout. You looked downright edible, he couldn’t deny you any longer if he tried.

Jack didn’t even give himself enough time to properly discard himself of his underwear, just shoved them down to below his balls as he fished his dick out. He watches as your eyes expand when you see him. It was enough to make him preen. Jack knew he was relatively well endowed, but the look on your face was enough to send anyone’s ego through the roof.

“Don’t worry. I’ll go slow.” He shrugged, teasing. You just rolled your eyes and huffed. You were so easy to rile up.

He pressed the tip of himself against your slit, rubbing it back and forth between your folds to gather up your slick and use it as lubricant. You felt amazing and he hadn’t even put it in yet. His eyes flicked up to you as you hummed and wiggled your hips, enticing him in. Slowly he pressed the head inside, both of you gasping in sync at the feeling. As he slid in slowly he could feel you stretching around him. Your walls hot and slick, trapping him in your velvety heat.

”You feel incredible, just sucking me in.” He groaned, unable to stop himself. As he bottomed out he had to pause to catch his breath, if he wasn’t careful he was going to finish too soon and be unable to savor this.

”You're not all talk now, are you big guy?” You were still being bratty. He had no idea where this energy had come from but he loved it. He pulled back and snapped his hips forward harshly. The whine you let out sung in his ears. So that was the pace he set. Sharp deep thrusts over and over again as his head fell onto your shoulder. His hand was back on your tit, squeezing and rolling your nipple between his thumb and finger as he punched into you. You were like putty beneath him and he wanted to keep you like this until the end of time.

”Oh, baby I’m close.” He groaned against your sweaty neck. The salt of your skin on his lips.

”Come in me.” You whined in that high lilt. “Come in me, please.” Jack didn’t think he’d be able to pull out if he tried.

”Yeah? Yeah.” He nodded frantically as his balls began to tighten. Just a few more seconds. His hips stuttered and his teeth clamped around your shoulder muffling the frankly embarrassing whimper he let out as he spilled inside of you. There were a few more lazy thrusts as he milked the last few drops out, your pussy pulsing around him helping the process along before he was collapsing on top of you.

—————————

The sound of your phone ringing woke you up early the next morning. It was still dark outside, making in an ungodly hour. You groaned as you rolled over. Who on earth was trying to call you on your morning off? You fumbled on the nightstand trying to find the phone without opening your eyes. Finally you found it and answered the phone, bringing the device to your ear.

”Hello?” You asked, voice still groggy.

”Who is this?” The voice of Dr Ellis came through the phone.

”What do you mean? Ellis, it’s me.” You were thoroughly confused now. “You called me?”

”Oh, my god.” She gasped. “Tiger, I called Jack sweetie.” You pulled the phone away to look at it. This wasn’t your phone.

”Oh.” Was all you could get out.

”Shen!” You heard her shout away from the phone, her voice slightly muffled now. “Yo! Jack finally grew a pair.” You let out a groan. This was going to be all over the ED within the hour.

”I can say with no uncertainty that there is no growing needed in that department.” You huffed and Ellis wretched on the opposite end of the line. Good, if they were going to try and embarrass you then you were going to make them all uncomfortable. Jack rolled over, awake now, and nuzzled against your bare chest.

”Who was that?” He asked, his voice sleepy.

”Ellis. It was for you.” You sighed and placed his phone back down. He just burrowed deeper against your boobs.

You’d barely stepped through the door before you were pulling the slightly sweaty sports bra off from underneath your shirt, breathing a sigh of relief at finally being free from the constricting material. You knew your roommate wouldn’t mind. You had both seen each other in various degrees of nakedness over the years, a nipple through a tight sports tee was nothing new in your apartment. You threw the garment straight into the washer as you passed by on your way to the living room where you assumed your roommate would be waiting for you. After all, you had one more episode of your current Netflix binge left to watch, and you knew she would still be up waiting for you.

The living room was dark when you opened the door. Odd. Your roommate never had the lights off. In fact it had been a point of contention between you when you’d first moved in together whilst you were still a medical student. She would walk into a room, turn all the lights on and then leave them on when she left. It had stressed you out more than you’d liked to admit as a student just barely scraping by from month to month, but the habit never left. So the fact that the living room was not illuminated right now was setting alarm bells off for you. You flicked the light switch on regardless.

”Hello? Are you alive in here?” You asked as you walked in, hoping that she had just fallen asleep after a hard day at work. There was a small groan from the bundle of blankets on the couch. In an instant you were crouching down beside where she was laid. ”Hey. What’s going on?” Your roommate was pale and clammy from the small amount you could see poking out of the blankets. You pulled them off of her, despite her argument, in an attempt to further check her over. “Tell me what’s going on.” You insist, quickly going back into doctor mode as your eyes scan her body.

”It’s just a stomach ache. I probably just have food poisioning.” She mumbled.

”Have you puked at all?”

”A couple times.” She shrugged, wincing again at the pain.

”Okay, I’m going to press on your stomach here. Tell me if it hurts.” You begin prodding at her stomach, pressing a few times before she screams out in pain. Guarding and tenderness in the lower right quadrant. These were tell tale signs for appendicitis. You had to get her to the ER now.

~~~

Through sheer will and determination you managed to drag your roommate out of the apartment and down the stairs to your car. You hadn’t stopped to put a coat on either of you, and barely managed to slip your crocs —the ones you only ever wear to take the bins out— onto your feet. It wasn’t until you had situated your roommate in the backseat of your car did you realise that she was only wearing socks herself. Oh well, shoes can wait right now. From the quick exam you were able to give, her appendix was set to burst soon if you didn’t do something, so shoes were the least of either of your worries.

You set off driving, placing your phone in the holder on your dashboard. It was a miracle it had still been in the pocket of your leggings and not discarded somewhere when you entered the apartment. You wouldn’t have thought to grab it again in the rush to get to the car.

”Hey Siri, call Ellis.” You speak to your phone as you keep your eyes on the road. Every few seconds your eyes flick to the rear view mirror to check in your roommate in the backseat, but aside from that your eyes never leave the road. No point getting into an accident before you make it to the hospital.

”Calling, Ellis.” Siri chimes and the ringer begins to buzz out.

”Come on.” You mumble. “Come on, pick up.”

”Sorry, the person you are trying to call is unable-“

”Siri, hang up.” You all but shout. “Call Shen.”

”Calling, Shen.” Your phone began to ring again on the dash board. You weren’t particularly religious, but in that moment you prayed to anyone you could think of that somebody would pick up. On the third ring the call connected.

”Hey Tiger, what’s up?” Shen’s voice filled the car. It was a stupid nickname really. On your second night shift rotation as an intern you’d squared up to a notoriously stern cardio doctor, the shouting match had been heard throughout the ER. The incident had landed you the nickname Tiger and needless to say it had stuck around in the years since.

”Look, Shen, I’m on my way into the ER with my roommate; query appendicitis. She’s in a bad way, thing feels ripe to burst. I’m gonna pull up in the ambulance bay, so can you have someone ready to bring her in? We’re about six minutes out.” You ramble off as you concentrate on driving.

”Shit, yeah. Okay. We’ll be standing by.”

”Okay, thank you. See you in a few.”

”See you soon.” Shen hung up the phone then, and the car was silent once again.

As promised Shen was waiting with Ellis and a gurney when you barreled into the ambulance bay. You had the where with all to pull up as close to the wall as you could get so that any incoming ambulances would not be impeded by your car, and you wouldn’t have to move it straight away. You stumbled out of the drivers seat whilst Shen and Ellis pulled open the back seat and dragged your roommate out onto the gurney.

”How long has she been like this?” Ellis enquired.

”I’m not sure. She was on the couch like this when I got home about fifteen, twenty minutes ago. She was fine when I left this morning, so anywhere within the twelve hour range.”

”Right, let’s get her inside.” She nodded, taking hold of one side of the rails to guide the gurney inside. You follow behind them as they march through the ambulance bay doors.

”Jack, what’s open?” Shen shouted as you stepped inside the ED, the air con basting against your cool skin from above. A shiver ripped through you and goosebumps marbled your skin at the sudden change in temperature.

”South 15’s free. What’ve we got?” Jack Abbot asked. You reel off your roommates name and age as you walk through the ED, as well as the reason you had brought her in. Jack looked at you then. Your face was still on your roommates, so you did not see the way his eyes cast down to your chest and quickly averted again when he realised what he’d just seen. The silhouette of two nipple piercings poking through your skin tight gym top.

Your roommate was put onto morphine, and labs were sent off to confirm a diagnosis. Just as you assumed, it was in fact appendicitis. She would be taken up to surgery for an appendectomy as soon as an OR was free. You were sitting by her bedside. Jack stepped into the room.

”Any news from surgery?” You asked him. His eyes could not find yours, they instead landed on the monitors by your friend's bed.

”Come on, walk with me and I’ll fill you in.” Jack smiled. You weren’t sure why you needed to leave the room, but regardless you stood from your chair and followed him as he walked through the ward. “Surgery said they should be able to take her within the hour, so they’re going to come down soon and get her prepped and take her upstairs.” He filled you in. He had walked you over to the lockers on the opposite side of the ED.

”That’s good. I wasn’t expecting such a quick turn around if I’m honest.” You sighed. “Where are you taking me?” You asked as he stopped by the row of lockers.

”Sorry, I just needed to grab something.” He smiled half heartedly. “Yeah, they’ve not been too busy tonight so your friend got lucky.” You watched as he punched in the code to his locker and retrieved a fleece jacket from inside. Oh, okay. Fair enough. The ED was a busy place and speaking to you was as good a time as any to retrieve something he needed. “Here.” He pushed the fleece towards you. You were confused. Why was he giving you his jacket?

”Thank you?” You questioned. “Sorry, what’s this for?” You took the jacket from his hand regardless.

”You, um.” He stumbled over his words. “Sorry, you just look cold wearing that.” You see the way his eyes flick downwards. In a second you follow them and realisation sets in. You took your bra off when you got home. You took your bra off, and you're wearing a skin tight gym top. You’re wearing a gym top that leaves nothing to the imagination in the ER where the air con is always blasting and now your nipples and the piercings attached to them are practically jutting out for the entire ward to see.

”Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” Your arms come up to cover your chest as your face blazes bright red. In an attempt to save your dignity you swivel around on the spot to face away from the night shift attending.

”You came in in a rush. I don’t think anyone will hold it against you.” He chuckles as you pull the fleece on and zip it up to the neck.

————————————————

Jack absolutely should not have been thinking about you. He should not have been thinking about the piercings beneath your shirt and the way he craved to see them outside of the confines of your shirt. It was wholly inappropriate, but every time he closed his eyes in the days following all he could see was the outline of those pretty buds, and the tantalising metal that lay across them.

Jack Abbot was not a believer in love at first sight, and you were a testament to that. You were someone who had snuck up on him. Quietly, slowly, until one day he realised that his whole world was orbiting around you and he couldn’t pinpoint when his center of gravity had shifted. He barely noticed you in the beginning. An R1 doing a compulsory night shift rotation. He’d traded his last intern off to the day shift for the month and gotten you as replacement, the same way he did every year. You were just another intern. If he noticed you at all it was in the way he noticed all of the interns who wandered onto his shift. He noticed the way your sleep was out of sync when you first began, the way you stumbled over your first few ‘weird and wonderful’ night shift cases as he liked to call them, the ones that truly took a minute to become desensitised to because how on earth had somebody done something so stupid? You were just another intern, barely on his radar outside of somebody to monitor and keep a steady eye on.

It was during your R2 year that you really began to register to him. You’d asked to switch over to the night shift for a period of time. Jack quickly found out that your mother was ill and your family needed the help at home whilst your father worked so you had agreed to switch to nights so that you could help back home in the day. It was slightly concerning to him, he had no idea when you slept, but you seemed to make it work. There were no tell tale signs of burn out, or that you weren’t getting enough sleep. So he let it slide, and if he gave you the easier cases to work on during your stint there then who was he to mention it? All too soon though you had become a part of his day, an integral part of the team. Your laugh across the ED could light up his mood, your childlike wonder at medical mysteries was infectious, and your poise in the face of ‘sensitive cases’ became a reference point he instilled in all his future interns. You were like a beacon of summer sunshine in the cold dark of the night shift, and you’d crept up on him like the first rays of morning.

Jack’s feelings towards you were a secret to nobody except yourself, something the rest of his team took great pleasure in ribbing him about. Something they were able to do quite easily now that you were firmly back on the day shift. Which was how they’d ended up here. Only two hours earlier he’d been talking to you by your locker, him just arriving and you on your way out, two passing ships in the night. That was how all of his shifts began now. A quick conversation about your shift, how the day had been, what your plans were for the rest of the night, and on occasion how your mothers health was holding up. He only got you in glimpses these days, and pined after you for the duration of his shift until your steady presence was back with him at hand over the next morning.

~~~

Ellis had a bad habit of leaving her phone on the nurses station. Jack had warned her multiple times that one of these days it was going to get stolen, but still every night without fail he would see it sitting there. He’d been in Trauma 2 with a nasty MVC accident. The patient was on their way up to surgery and he was tossing his gloves into the bin by the doors as he sauntered back over to the nurses station. He already knew the buzzing phone on the desk would be hers. The ringing died before he got to it though, oh well. Ellis could deal with whatever it was during their next lull. Except then another phone was ringing, from somewhere to his left. A coincidence surely.

”Hey Tigar. What’s up?” Shen spoke. Jack’s head turned. What were you calling Shen for in the middle of his shift? His eyes met Shen’s and he raised an eyebrow in an inquisitive manner, what could he say? Jack was nosy.

”Shit, yeah. Okay. We’ll be standing by.” Shen sighed. Jack waited for him to hang up before he spoke.

”Everything okay? Was that-“ His voice trailed off. If something was wrong with you, he didn’t want to think about it.

”She’s fine old man, chill. She’s bringing a friend in, recons it’s appendicitis. Says they’re about five minutes out.”

”Right.” Jack tried for nonchalant. “I’ll see what’s open. Grab Ellis and be ready when she gets here.”

”Yes boss.” Shen chuckled, shaking his head and wondering off. The tension left Jack’s shoulders then. It was okay. It wasn’t you who was ill or hurt. That put his mind at ease some as he found Lena and made sure there was a room ready on standby for when you got here.

”Jack, what’s open?” Shen shouted as he and Ellis reemerged into the ED, gurney in hand and you trailing behind. He had been trying to catch up on his charting, and desperately trying not to think about the fact that you would be walking through those doors any minute. Now here you were.

”South 15’s free.” He called out to them as he jogged over. “What’ve we got?” Doctor mode. Be the attending, he reminded himself. He could talk to you when they’d cleared your friend. It was only natural that his eyes would fall on you as you spoke. That is what we do when somebody is speaking. We look at them. What wasn’t natural was the way his eyes scanned down. Down to the stretchy nylon of your shirt that hugged your curves in all the right places, and in a cruel twist of fate showed off perfectly one asset of yours that Jack was not aware you possessed. There on either side of your chest, two little bars of metal that were poking through the soft fabric of your shirt. His breath hitched just a fraction. Ellis caught him. Of course she did. A smirk plastered on her face as his eyes met hers. Oh they were going to rip him a new one for this. Jack just grimaced and carried on walking.

~~~

“All I’m saying is that if there was a betting board on this, then that is not where I would have placed my money.” Jack heard Ellis laugh as he walked back over to the nurses station half an hour later. The labs had come back on your roommate and the diagnosis confirmed. They were now just waiting for a surgery slot to open up so that they could get her upstairs. She was stable for now and on morphine, so it was just a waiting game at this point. Jack had left you by her bedside. You were off shift, but he knew you’d want to keep an eye on her vitals whilst you waited.

”What are you two nattering about?” Jack sighed as he slumped down in his chair. Ellis was currently gossiping away to Bridget instead of charting or picking up patients. He ought to scold her for it, but the night had been pretty tame so he’ll let it slide just this once.

”Oh, just the pretty hardware your favourite resident is sporting.” Ellis smirked. “I know you spotted them too.” He didn’t need to look at her to know she was wearing a Cheshire Cat grin right now.

”I have no clue what you’re on about.” He mumbled as he typed in his work up for a patient he barely remembered the name of.

”Oh come on, cap! I know you saw them. Hell I think half the ER could have spotted those. I just never pegged our little tiger to be a piercings girl. Especially-“

”Okay.” Jack cut her off. He’d heard enough. “This conversation is wholly inappropriate to be having right now, and plus I think your labs are back on your patient in central 8. So why don’t you go follow up with that and leave the poor girl alone.” He pushed the chair back away from the desk and stood up, frustration coursing through him now. “I’m going to go get an ETA on surgery coming down.” He mumbled as he skulked off.

It was jealousy that was running hot through his veins. That wasn’t a mystery to him. The confusing part was jealousy over what? Jealousy that other people had seen them as well? That he hadn’t actually seen them at all, and he probably never would? That now he knew what was sitting there just below your top and he would never actually get to see them, touch them, know what they felt like in his mouth? You had just opened his eyes to a whole host of fantasies he never knew he wanted and he couldn’t have any of them. Now the whole of his team was talking about you, and in a twisted way he wanted this for just himself. He didn’t want them all to know, but he had no claim on you and he never would. Still he didn’t want anybody else to see. So he pulled you from the room and walked you over to his locker whilst he discussed your friend's condition. He had to put a stop to this, stop everybody from looking. They shouldn’t be allowed to look. He tried to keep his voice neutral as he punched in the code to his locker. You were still talking about your roommate, it was endearing how much you cared.

”Here.” Jack pushed his jacket towards you, tried not to think about you wearing something of his. He was just trying to protect your modesty here. You looked between the jacket and him, confused.

”Thank you?” You raised an eyebrow as you took the garment from him. Thumbing the soft fabric in your hand subconsciously. “Sorry, what’s this for?” The realisation hit him then. You didn’t know. Of course you didn’t. In the rush of everything going on you were more focussed on your friend than you were yourself. Of course you hadn’t stopped to consider what you were wearing right now.

”You, um.” He faltered. Jack didn’t want to embarrass you here. He wanted to choose his words carefully. “Sorry, you just look a little cold wearing that.” His eyes betrayed him by flicking downwards again. Grasping one last glimpse of those little metal bars poking through. Your eyes tracked his line of sight, and Jack watched as the look of horror plastered itself across your face.

”Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” It could almost be described as a squeal you let out as your cheeks bloomed bright red and your arms crossed your body to cover your chest. Jack would consider your reaction to be downright adorable if he couldn’t see the embarrassment written on your face. You spun on your heels before pulling his jacket onto your shoulders. He couldn’t hold back the chuckle any longer.

”You came in in a rush. I don’t think anyone will hold it against you.” He tried to soften the blow before you turned back around. God you looked pretty in his clothes

———————————————

Thankfully the rumour mill in the Pitt is ever turning and you only had to endure one snarky comment from Santos the next morning before something else had caught everybody’s attention. And needless to say it wasn’t even a bad comment from her. You had definitely heard worse from the R2 in the almost two years she had been in the ED.

”So, I heard a rumour from Ellis that you came in last night and gave the night shift a bit of a show.” She wiggled her eyebrows as you shoved your bag into your locker.

”Oh my god.” You groaned, dipping your head forward.

”No! I think it’s cool, seriously.” She backtracked. “I’ve been considering getting mine done for a while. I actually wanted your opinion.”

“On whether you should get your nipples pierced?” You asked. This felt like a trap, there had to be a joke coming here.

”Do they hurt? I mean I know they hurt, all piercings hurt obviously. Everybody says that nipples are one of the worst though. So what’s your opinion? Do they hurt?” You couldn’t help but laugh at that.

”Yes, they hurt. The second one hurts more than the first, because you know what to expect. Also don’t make the mistake I did, if you’re going to do it make sure you go when you don’t have anything else to do that day. I got mine on a whim before a six hour waitressing shift and was doubled over in pain the whole time. Those fuckers are sore for a good few days after you get them.” You giggle at the memory.

”Ouch, noted.” Santos grimaced.

”Yeah, that was not a fun shift. Also I was on with my creepy boss who kept asking me if I was feeling okay, and obviously I couldn’t tell him or he would have made some weird sleazy joke so I had to lie and tell him I had a migraine.”

”Girl, I feel you on the creepy boss.” Santos laughed.

”You best not be talking about me.” Jack smirked as he walked over to his own locker. You tried your best not to let the smile creep onto your face. Now that you weren’t fretting over your roommates health you could enjoy being in Jack’s presence again. To say you were harbouring a crush on the man was putting it lightly. You had been infatuated with him since your first night shift rotation in your R1 year, and your feelings had only steadily grown as you’d gotten to know him better over time.

”Okay, I am outta here.” Santos said before walking away again.

”No. Reminiscing on an old boss I had in college when I was still waitressing.” You chuckle.

”Ah.” He nodded his head “And what led you to that conversation?”

”Oh, Ellis told her about me coming in last night, and my-“ You pursed your lips and looked down. “-awkward wardrobe choice.”

”Hmm.” He hummed.

”She was grilling me about them, asking if they hurt to get. I was telling her not to make the same mistake I did and get them on a whim before a shift.” You filled him in.

”Well I think most people could have told you that.” He shook his head.

”What can I say? I was nineteen and kinda stupid.” You giggle. “Oh! I have your jacket by the way.”

”Nah, you can keep it. I think it shrunk in the wash, it fits you better than it does me.” The statement could have made you laugh, the jacket was visibly too big on you, with sleeves that needed to be pushed up over your hands and a hemline that fell around your thighs.

”Are you sure?” You asked, now holding it in your hand.

”Yeah, it’s yours.” And well, he didn’t need to tell you twice.

~~~

Three weeks later and your roommate was back to full health. You both had the day off work, and you had planned to go out that night to celebrate her newly removed appendix and her making partner at the law firm she worked for. She had tried to play the achievement down, citing that it was only a non-equity partnership and not full equity but that didn’t matter to you. It was still a huge milestone for her, plus you had no clue what the difference was anyway. In the end you compromised on going out for drinks at a local bar and keeping it ‘lowkey’.

You had been riffling through your wardrobe for a good fifteen minutes trying to find something to wear and you had come up empty handed. Who knew you actually needed more clothes than just hospital scrubs and old sweatpants and hoodies? Evidently, you didn’t.

”Hey!” You shouted through the paper thin wall of your bedroom. “Can I raid your closet for a top to wear?” You stood in the middle of your room and waited.

”Yeah, babe. Just come in!” She shouted back and you made your way over. You entered her room wearing just a brown leather mini skirt and your bra. “Is that the skirt you’re wearing?” She asked from where she was sitting on the floor in front of her mirror.

”Yeah, I never get a chance to wear it.” You nod.

”I think I have a top that will go perfectly with it actually.” She scrambled off the floor and began rummaging through her wardrobe trying to find the aforementioned top. With a gasp she turned around and presented to you a burgundy halter top with a plunging neckline. That was actually perfect. You took the top from her and threw it on. “Yeah, no, the bra’s coming off, you look like a middle schooler who can’t dress themselves.” She laughed as she gave you a once over.

”What do you mean?” You pouted looking in the mirror.

”You can’t wear a halter neck and have your bra straps out. Anyway your tits are nice! Show off those piercings.” She ribbed you. You considered it for a moment before conceding.

”Fine, whatever.”

The bar you had agreed to go to was about a ten minute walk away from your apartment. Which puts it about half way between your apartment and the hospital. That was fine, it was a Saturday night which meant that most of the people you worked with would be on shift tonight anyway, and the younger day shift group never came to this bar. They preferred to go out to clubs when they went out. The place wasn’t overly busy when you arrived, but it was lively. It took you a minute to find a free booth and sit down, your roommate leaving you there so that she could go and get you drinks. That was when you saw him. Sitting two booths away from you was Jack Abbot, with whom you could only assume were a few of his SWAT buddies.

”Oh, you’re joking.” You groaned and hid your head in your arms.

”What? What’s going on?” She asked as she slid in across from you.

”Behind you, two booths over. My fucking boss.” You hiss.

”No way!” Her eyes lit up. “Which one? The hot one you’re pining after or the other one?” You looked up just long enough to glare at her.

”Not the other one.” You huff. She cackles at that, catching Jack’s attention who looks over the shoulder of the people sitting between you and catches your eye. You flash him a courtesy smile and look back at your friend. “I hate you so much.”

Needless to say, the top you’d borrowed was drawing a lot of attention towards you. With its low cut that showed off your cleavage and your piercings that proudly pressed against the clinging fabric, it was definitely gaining you a lot of unwanted attention as you walked back and forth to the bar each time you needed a new drink. Namely the skeezy looking guy who was sitting across from you at the bar, and seemed to have no issue with just openly staring every time you went up there. It was making your skin crawl. The worst part of it all, you had reached the point in the night when you really wanted to go outside for a smoke. You couldn’t risk him following you out there, and you didn’t want to give up your seats if your roommate came with you. You were stuck at an impasse. Just as luck would have it though at that moment you saw Jack getting up and heading towards the bar.

”I’ll be back in a minute. I'm going out for a smoke.” You tell your friend and head towards the other end of the bar where Jack is standing waiting to be served.

”Hey. Sorry, I know you’re with people, and this is kind of a weird question, but will you come outside with me whilst I have a smoke?” You place a hand on Jack’s arm. “That guy down there has been staring at me all night, kinda giving me the creeps really, and I don’t want him to follow me outside if I go on my own.” You chuckle awkwardly.

”Why doesn’t your friend go with you?” He asked, eyeing your friend who was still sat in the booth.

”I don’t want us losing our seats.” You shrug. “Please?” You tack on looking up at him through your lashes. He just smiles at you.

”Yeah, sure, come on.” Jack’s hand came to rest on your lower back as he guided through the bar and towards the door. A quick glance over at your roommate as you passed and you shot you an obnoxiously oversized wink. She was teetering on the edge between tipsy and drunk, you were going to have to cut her off soon, but first you were going to enjoy this unexpected turn of events.

”Thank you.” You spoke first, back against the brick wall, cigarette dangling precariously from your bottom lip as you fished your lighter out of your purse.

”Well, I couldn’t let some creepy guy follow you out here and try and harass you. Especially when you look like that.” You don’t miss the way his eyes flick down to your chest. It took everything in you not to fold your arms across them, the cool night air was surely only exasperating the problem. You knew you shouldn’t have taken your bra off, straps be damned.

“Oh, god.” You groan, breathing out the plume of smoke that had settled in your lungs. ”This is the second time in a month you’ve seen me like this. I really hope you don’t think I make it a habit to go around braless in public.” You giggle. The alcohol was loosening your senses, making you bolder.

”You could make a habit of it if you wanted.” He shrugged in that flirty tone he sometimes used with patients. “I mean I don’t mind, but maybe not at work.” His eyes had gone dark, pupils dilating in the dark to almost completely cover the hazel you loved so much.

”Yeah?” You breathed quietly, taking a very sudden interest in flicking the ash off of the end of your smoke. You heard him take a step closer to you.

”Personally, I think you should get rid of every bra you own. Just never wear one again.” He was right in front of you, shoes almost touching. Your eyes were still on the ground.

”I mean that’s certainly one way to improve patient satisfaction scores.” You tried to joke. The sound of his laugh reverberated through you. “I think you might be a little bit drunk, Dr Abbot.” You finally looked up at him. His hand came to hold your waist, fingers pressed delicately against the sliver of skin between your top and skirt, as he ducked his head down to your ear.

”I’ve only had two beers.” His voice was low, it sent a shudder through you. His hand trailed up and down your side. “Can I?” He asked. You weren’t sure exactly what he was asking but you nodded all the same. He could do whatever he wanted. His other hand joined the first on the opposite side of your waist, both now trailing upwards until they were cupping the swell of your breasts. Your breath hitched. His eyes had never left yours. “Yeah?” He nodded at you, checking in.

”Yeah.” Having been given the go ahead his hands moved again, still cupped in place his thumbs moved to caress over your nipples. Still over your top, ever the gentleman, but you knew he could feel them and the metal beneath.

”I don’t think I have stopped thinking about these since you came into the ER that night.” He mumbled, as though he were more thinking aloud than talking to you at all. The sensation was feather light but your head tipped backwards against the wall nonetheless. The cigarette in your hand fell to the floor, half smoked and long forgotten now. “I had to give you my jacket because it was pissing me off that everybody else was getting to see them as well.”

”I can still give you that back if you want?” Your voice was breathy.

”No. I like seeing you wear my clothes. I want to see you wear it every morning when you come into work.” His face was against your neck now, speaking the words into the soft skin beneath your ear. He placed a tentative kiss there, then another and another, trailing down your throat, hands still firmly in place gave a light squeeze. The sensation kickstarted your brain, reminded you that you had hands of your own that could move or more correctly could move his. You placed your hand over his, picking it up and sliding it into your shirt, giving the go ahead for him to have a better feel. “Jesus Christ.” He groaned as he finally got to touch. The soft nub of your nipple contrasting the hard metal that stuck through it. His head dropped onto your shoulder, body fully slotted against your own, your own hands now grasping at the sides of his shirt keeping him there.

The sound of somebody clearing their throat to the left of you startled you to your senses. You and Jack turned your heads at the same time to find your roommate standing there awkwardly.

”I think I’m gonna call it a night and head back home. You don’t have to leave if you’re um, busy, but I’m going to head back.” She said, trying not to look at Jack, whose hand had thankfully left your boob, but was now kissing your neck again. The man really had no shame.

”Um, yeah. Okay” You gripped at Jack’s waist, he was making it really hard to think. “How are you getting home?”

”I’ll walk, it's ten minutes from here.” She rolled her eyes.

”No. Get a cab. If you’re going back without me I want to know you’re safe.” The logical part of you took over. You had seen far too many drunken accidents on walks back from bars and clubs come through the ED.

”Okay, fine.” She pulled her phone out and ordered an Uber. You turned your attention back to Jack.

You flexed them carefully, trying to look as unaffected as possible while the nurse unwrapped your improvised bandage. You weren't sure who she was. You'd heard about multiple doctors and nurses, but none of the descriptions seemed to fit her.

“Yeah.”

Unwrapping it hurts far more than the cut itself, anyway.

“Okay. Sit tight. We won't keep you waiting long.”

You nod, rewrapping your hand and pressing down again, just like he taught you. And when the door opens a moment later, you see him.

It's not cinematic. There's no slow motion, no dramatic swell of music, no sudden zoom-in. Your brain just takes half a second too long to catch up.

Robby is across the hall, near the nurses' station, hugging Noelle.

Not a quick hug, either. They're standing too close, fitting together in a way that's painfully familiar.

Your stomach drops and you look away immediately, as if you've touched a hot stove. As if looking any longer might make it real.

But you're not surprised.

Hurt? Absolutely. Surprised? Not really.

You knew about Noelle. Knew enough to pretend it didn't bother you when it probably should have.

Still. Eight days.

Only eight days -as far as you know- and he's already back with her. So much for the seven-week itch. Somehow he'd made it a few months with you. Looking at him now, you weren't sure whether that was supposed to make you feel better or worse.

You shake your head, determined not to have a breakdown in front of thirty strangers waiting to be treated.

So you step outside.

You spend a few minutes drafting a message to your boss, explaining that you might need half a day tomorrow -or at least a few hours- because you have no idea how long it'll take before a doctor finally sees you.

You hit send, and less than a minute later, you swear you hear your name.

When you look up, you try not to frown.

It's Jack.

Then again, this is the ambulance bay. Any doctor could be here.

Still, he's not wearing scrubs, and he's way too early for the handover.

“What the hell happened?”

“Hi to you too,” you say dryly, trying not to look affected.

You'd missed Jack. That was one of the less obvious downsides of the breakup. Somewhere along the way, he'd become one of your closest friends.

And seeing how worried he looks makes your throat tighten.

He steps closer, already reaching for your wrist.

“How long has it been bleeding?”

“Not that long.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“...Okay, like two hours,” you admit.

“Jesus Christ.”

“It wasn't that bad, I'm in triage. A really nice nurse already looked at it-”

“Not anymore.”

Or maybe that's what he says.

Before you can argue, he's steering you back toward the doors.

You barely register what happens next. As soon as you get past the triage, Jack says something to a nurse you vaguely recognize as Dana. She nods, glancing at a computer screen, and he asks her to page Langdon since he never clocked in for his shift.

You're not really listening. The image of Robby and Noelle is still haunting, replaying every time you blink. Their hug... the ease of it. The history in it. How easy it seemed to slip back into.

And for one awful second, you wonder if you've been looking at it all wrong.

Maybe you weren't the one who got replaced. Maybe, for a little while, you were the replacement. The pit stop. The distraction.

The room is too bright and everything is too loud. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that harsh, clinical glow that always seems to make headaches worse. The exam table crackles beneath you when you shift, the thin paper sticking slightly to your skin. This is the last place you wanted to be.

Your hand is still wrapped, but the bandage is not doing much anymore. The gauze is damp, a dull red stain spreading through it while Jack stands nearby, arms crossed, glaring at it.

“You really waited?” he asks again, as if he still can't quite believe it.

“I didn't think it was-”

“That bad?” he cuts in.

You shrug.

“I handled it.”

“You were bleeding for two hours.”

“It sounds worse when you say it like that. It wasn't that dramatic.”

“You're in the ER.”

Before Jack can continue, Dr. Langdon steps in, already pulling on a pair of gloves. And honestly, you've never been more grateful for an interruption.

Because you know Jack... or at least, you think you do. He wouldn't let it go. He'd ask why you waited so long. Why you didn't call Robby. He'd keep pulling at the loose threads until he got to the truth, and right now you're not sure you can survive another person looking at you too closely. Or worse, with pity.

You know Jack never liked whatever was going on between Robby and Noelle. Maybe Robby kept the details to himself. Maybe Jack has no idea that the same girl who came before you apparently came after you, too.

Or maybe he knows.

“Alright,” Dr. Langdon says, flashing an easy smile.

Truth be told, he's even more charming than Robby described. There's something boyish about him, softened by confidence and experience. It's a dangerous combination.

And no wedding band. Interesting!

“Let's take a look at Abbot's VIP.”

So he knows who you are.

You immediately offer your hand, asking him to call you by your name.

You thank him, too. You know he must be busy. Hell, the whole department seems one bad shift away from complete chaos.

Langdon smiles and starts unwrapping the bandage, and as the cool air hits the cut, you hiss through your teeth.

Beside you, Jack leans forward despite himself, and Langdon shoots him a look.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

“Okay,” Langdon says as he studies the wound for another second. “Yeah. That's deep.”

“Oh, I love hearing that,” you mutter playfully.

Langdon doesn't react, though. He just adjusts the overhead light, angling it directly over your hand. It makes everything look far more detailed than you'd like.

“Can you move your fingers for me?”

You don't hesitate, so you slowly curl them inward.

The skin pulls tight around the cut. It's an uncomfortable stretching sensation that makes your jaw clench, but everything moves the way it should.

“Again.”

You repeat the motion.

“Good. Now straighten them.”

You do.

“Any numbness?” Langdon asks.

“No.”

He takes a piece of gauze and lightly brushes it across your fingertips, then along the edges of the wound.

“Tell me if this feels the same.”

You nod.

“It does.”

Langdon glances at Jack.

“Alright.” A small nod towards Jack. “No nerve involvement.”

“Your last tetanus vaccine?” Jack asks without looking up.

"Three years ago.”

Another nod.

“You're fine.”

You smile nervously as Langdon reaches for a syringe.

“This part's going to sting.”

“Define sting.”

Jack glances at you as you eye the needle. "It's the worst part.”

“Great.”

Langdon doesn't wait, and the next thing you feel is the needle sliding into the skin beside the cut.

And.

It.

Fúcking.

Burns.

“Jesus-fúck, that hurts.” You suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry.”

That makes Langdon smile and shake his head. “That's a healthy reaction. No need to apologize.”

“Breathe,” Jack adds, arms crossed.

To your surprise, he actually looks concerned.

“I am breathing,” you say through clenched teeth. "It's not my fault this feels like hell."

Then it fades quite fast. Your palm starts to feel so heavy like it’s been inflated from the inside, so you instinctively try to flex your fingers. It's such a weird sensation.

“Take a deep breath.”

Another injection and another flare of that same burning pressure.

“You'll feel some pressure,” Jack says as Langdon trades the syringe for a larger one.

It's a good thing needles don't bother you much, because that one looks ridiculous.

Quickly, he positions it over the wound and presses, and you assume it's saline what shoots into the cut. And you flinch.

It doesn't exactly hurt, it's worse.

The sensation is deep and wrong, as if something is moving where nothing should be moving. You have to fight the urge to yank your hand away.

But you are a big girl. Instead, you watch how the fluid runs out pink at first, then gradually clears. It spills onto the blue pad beneath your hand, soaking into it.

Langdon repeats the process several times and despite yourself, your thoughts drift back to Robby.

How many times has he done this?

How many cases just like yours has he seen? Distracted people catching a knife with their palm while making dinner... How many wounds has he cleaned and stitched over the years? How many patients had come before you were even born?

“Why does that feel worse than I expected?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. You don't even expect an answer; you just need something to focus on besides him.

“Because it's inside the wound,” Jack answers, still watching carefully.

You just know he's a good teacher.

He seems so patient and pulled together. And you're jealous.

You wish you could inspire that kind of confidence in people... make them feel safe.

“I hate this shit.”

Langdon chuckles and makes a few jokes as he blots the area dry, inspecting it more closely while gently parting the edges of the cut.

But you refuse to watch.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, counting tiles, then the lights.

Anything except your own hand.

“Alright,” he says finally. “We’re good to close it.”

Once Jack gives an approving nod, Langdon opens a sterile suture kit.

You glance down.

Thread, needle, forceps.

Jack shifts his weight but doesn't leave.

“You don't have to wait for me,” you absently tell Jack. You're more than grateful, but you know he's busy. And so is Langdon "I'm sure you have actual patients to see. And if something urgent comes up, just let some newbie practice their stitching skills on-"

And maybe Robby doesn't have to be the center of every conversation.

“Shut up,” Jack cuts in, but there’s no bite to it. He is worried... he actually cares.

Maybe you can keep Jack.

You can watch tennis together, meet for coffee. Be friends.

Maybe he doesn't have to know how much it still hurts.

The first stitch is… weird.

You don't feel the needle break the skin, but you feel the movement afterward: the tug, the pull.

Like someone's threading something through your hand from the inside.

Your fingers twitch instinctively.

“Try to keep it still,” Langdon says, flashing you a smile that could probably solve half the hospital's complaints.

“I'm trying.” You shake your head. “How many?”

You've never needed stitches before. Well, you’ve also never caught a falling knife mid-air, so there’s that.

“Six or seven, probably.”

“Great, I’ll name them all. I saw that in a film.”

“My son did that once, too.” Langdon says immediately, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh.

“First one’s Jack,” you say, lips quirking into a smirk. You already know exactly how he’ll take it, and you're happy that the mood has changed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late.”

“Of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger in it. He is used to you being a pain in the ass.

Langdon snorts, smiling again. “I’d like to be excluded from this.”

They continue to talk about the shift after that, careful not to wander into anything confidential with you sitting right there.

“You’re definitely number two.”

“Why am I involved in this at all?” Langdon asks dramatically, and you wink.

And somehow, it doesn't even hurt anymore.

Then the door opens.

You flinch so hard your hand nearly jerks.

You've always been easy to startle... too aware of everything around you.

Robby used to think it was funny. He'd appear out of nowhere and say “boo” when you were least expecting it, just to watch you jump. Back when things were easy, of course.

“Hey, what do we have here?” a voice asks. “Abbot, since when do you have a VIP?”

Your stomach drops before you even turn around.

You know that voice far too well. Especially when it slips into that teasing tone... even if he isn't talking to you.

Your body goes still. You don’t even register Langdon’s needle anymore.

Jack catches it immediately, his gaze flicking from your face to the doorway as Robby steps inside.

He looks once. Then again. And only then does it register.

You. Sitting on the exam table. Hand open. Stitches halfway done.

When you finally manage to change your expression into something polite and distant, you catch the shift in his face. But you really don’t know how to read him anymore.

“What the fúck happened?”

He’s already moving toward you before the question is even finished.

You swallow, keeping your voice steady. “Kitchen accident.”

No detail, no explanation.

He stops beside the bed, eyes immediately dropping to your hand. And you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.

Langdon keeps working, unfazed, though the room feels tighter now, like it has less air in it than before.

Robby’s jaw tightens.

“When?” he asks.

“Earlier.”

“When?”

You hesitate.

“Two hours ago. Probably more.”

You close your eyes for a second. “Thank you, Jack.”

“You waited two hours?" Robby says, sharper now, like he can’t quite believe it.

“I was fine. I handled it. The nurse-”

“That’s not okay,” he cuts in.

“I assume you checked for nerve damage," he adds, already shifting his attention toward Langdon and Jack, trying to take control of the situation.

“Can we not-"

“You should’ve called,” he says, colder now and you can’t tell who it’s meant for anymore.

Langdon clears his throat without looking up. “Almost done.”

But Robby barely reacts.

“Jack found me in triage. And, as you can see, I'm in great hands.”

Robby’s expression shifts again, while Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He looks like he’s been pulled into a game he didn’t know had rules.

“Does it hurt?” Robby finally asks after a long moment of awkward silence, as if the question is an afterthought.

But it isn’t. You know it, so it lands differently. Dangerous in a quiet way.

You glance down at your hand as Langdon finishes the last stitch.

“No,” you say. “Not really.”

It isn’t entirely clear what you’re answering.

“Alright. That’s it,” Langdon says with a small, professional smile.

He cuts the thread cleanly, leaving a neat row of stitches across your palm. Langdon presses gently along the edges of the wound, checking the closure, and in your peripheral vision you catch Robby nodding once, like he’s confirming something to himself.

A final wipe of antiseptic follows, then a non-stick pad, then gauze wrapped carefully around your hand until it no longer looks like your hand at all.

“Move your fingers for me,” you hear Robby gently ask you. And even though every single bone in your body wants to disobey him, you listen.

The movement works, but it feels strange... slightly delayed, as if your hand belongs to someone else for a moment. You wonder if this is exactly what Mary Shelley meant when she wrote Frankenstein’s monster. You almost laugh at your own thoughts.

“Again.”

You flex them once more.

“Good. Make a fist.”

You do.

Just in time to catch the small exhale Robby lets out. Relief, subtle but unmistakable... the kind only someone who knows him well would notice.

Unfortunately for you, though, you've spent enough time loving him to notice it.

“No numbness or tingling?” Langdon asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good. No obvious nerve involvement. Tendons intact, sensation normal.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Sense of humor intact too.”

“Obviously,” Jack mutters from his spot against the wall.

“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Langdon continues, peeling off his gloves. “No heavy lifting, no gripping if you can avoid it. Change the dressing as instructed. I’ll leave notes, but I’m sure Jack will fill you in.”

Jack glances at you briefly, and something in your stomach twists -guilt, or something close to it-but you don’t know where to put it.

“And before you ask, no, you’re not magically healed because the stitches are in,” Robby adds under his breath.

“I wasn't-”

“You were absolutely going to ask.”

Jack snorts, and you choose not to defend yourself.

“Tetanus shot is up to date,” Langdon says, recapping for Robby as well. He doesn’t know exactly how close you two are, but it’s obvious there’s history there. “So no booster. Stitches out in ten to fourteen days.”

Then he tosses the gloves into the bin, and just like that, the procedure is over.

No more reason for anyone to be hovering around your bed, no more reason for you to still be in his ER.

And somehow, that’s worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract from the fact that Robby is still standing there.

The adrenaline drains out of you slowly, leaving behind exhaustion, and a small tremor runs through your fingers before you can stop it.

Jesus, you will never try to use a knife again.

Robby notices the change immediately.

Of course he does.

His eyes drop to your hand, then lift back to your face. The concern is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten anyway. Fúck him.

“Should’ve come in sooner,” he says.

Not angry this time, just tired.

You let out a breath. Well, you're tired too.

“Noted.”

“I'm serious.”

“I know.”

“Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen once the anesthetic wears off. Dana will bring your discharge paperwork,” Langdon says, but Robby doesn't take his eyes off you as you gently thank your doctor before watching him go.

“You should’ve told me.”

You finally meet his eyes, finding his tone almost unbearably clinical. Like a lecture... like something to be corrected.

“You don’t get to be worried like that,” you say firmly.

You're tired of this conversation, of him, of pretending this doesn't hurt more than your hand does... of this whole day.

You just want to go home, order takeout, and not think about any of it.

So you hope it lands harder than if you'd raised your voice.

He blinks. “What-”

“You have no right,” you continue, just as quietly, and the room goes very still.

Beside you, Jack wisely says nothing as you adjust the bandage around your hand. You really hope the pain meds are going to be effective. You know this is going to hurt like a motherfúcker.

“I’m fine,” you add, playing it cool. “See? All patched up.”

For a second, Robby just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.

But you step past him, with Jack following without uttering a word. Neither of you looks back immediately.

And when you finally do, just before the door swings shut, Robby is still standing exactly where you left him, staring at the empty space on the bed, jaw tight, something unsettled and unresolved sitting heavy in his chest.

Because you’re right.

And that’s the problem.

*

After they discharge you, Jack insists on walking you out. It's not like his shift has started yet anyway.

So you slow your pace, careful not to make it obvious that you're adjusting it for him. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk quickly with a prosthetic, and you don't want him to think you're pitying him.

“You okay?” he asks, and you flex your fingers slightly inside the bandage in response, which you end up regretting immediately as a dull, pulling ache shoots through your palm and up your arm.

“Yeah. Just... feels weird.”

“It will,” he says, still looking at your hand. “That's why you shouldn't use it.”

“Noted.”

It's only half a lie, at least. You're gonna slow down. But you can't stop using it completely. How are you supposed to just stop working? Nobody can replace you for two weeks.

By the time you reach the ambulance bay, everything feels different. Quieter.

“You got someone to take you home?”

You can't help but snort.

“I'm not dying, Jack. It's just a cut.”

“Didn't say you were.”

“I can manage by myself. I'm a big girl.”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary, and you know that look.

He's thinking about saying something... probably about Robby, or the disaster that is whatever exists between the two of you. And you're grateful when he decides against it. It's already been a long day: the knife accident, the ER, seeing Noelle, seeing Robby, talking to him.

You just want to go home.

“Yeah. I know you can.”

There's something in the words... Acknowledgment, maybe. Or acceptance or even pride. You're not sure, so you just smile.

“Thanks. Really.”

“For what?”

“For helping me. For not letting me bleed out to death.”

You add the last part just to make him smile. You know he loves drama as much as you do. Maybe even more.

And it works: a quiet laugh escapes him.

“Next time, come sooner.”

“Next time? Hell, I'm never cooking again.”

“Good plan.”

You nod, trying not to look back at the entrance. What did you expect? For Robby to drop everything and come find you? The thought is embarrassing the second it appears. It's ridiculous.

“I really hope I'll see you around. You're a great guy, Abbot.”

That earns you a crooked grin.

“I hope so. You're pretty fun to be around, even when you're bleeding.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you lift your left hand in a wave.

“Have a good shift.”

“You too,” he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, don't work at all.”

“Yeah. Don't.”

You freeze.

Of course.

Inhale, exhale.

Robby is standing a few steps behind Jack.

At some point, he'd come outside, and you hadn't heard the door open.

So for a second, all you can do is stare. He looks different out here.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the department make him look untouchable. Outside, beneath the natural sunlight, he looks less composed... less untouchable. Exhausted.

Like whatever walls he keeps so carefully in place inside didn't quite make it through the doors with him.

His scrubs are wrinkled and a bit dirty. His hair is slightly messed up from running his hands through it, you're sure. And there are shadows beneath his eyes you don't remember noticing earlier.

Or maybe you did, and you just weren't letting yourself look for real. You used to kiss this man every morning. You used to bite his arms, caress his cheeks, and touch his hair as many times as you could.

“You shouldn't be using it,” he adds, nodding toward the bandaged hand tucked against your chest.

You shift instinctively.

“I'm not. And I've already said I won't.”

The lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it. But he knows you better than that and he has more power over you than you'd like.

When Robby takes a step closer, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges: the ambulance bay, the traffic... even Jack standing beside you. All of it fades into background noise.

And only later do you realize Jack is no longer there.

No goodbye, as if he'd taken one look at the two of you and quietly decided this conversation wasn't meant for him (once again).

He's not close enough to crowd you, but it's enough for you to smell the hospital soap and coffee.

Close enough to remember.

“You really waited two hours?” he asks again, quieter now as he brings his left hand to the back of his head, messing up his hair.

The disappointment in his voice catches you off guard, and you can't control the hollow feeling in your stomach. You've always wanted to be good for him. You never cared about what other people thought of you on the level that you cared about Robby's opinion. So your gaze slides past him toward the street.

“Yeah. I didn't feel like sitting in an ER.”

From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, questioning, but you don't give in. You keep your eyes forward. You won't let him know just how much power he still has over you.

“You should've called,” he says.

There it is. Again.

A laugh escapes you.

His audacity...

“Why?”

“Because I would've helped you.”

You almost laugh.

Of course he would've. He would've shown up and made sure you were okay.

And then he would've gone right back to not choosing you.

Because I have a hero complex and I'd help you even though I can't stand being with you.

“You don't get to help me anymore, Robby.”

His expression flickers, like something in your gaze cuts deeper than the words themselves.

“I know you can take care of yourself, but I-”

“I don't care,” you interrupt, keeping your voice as steady as possible despite the tightness in your throat and the pressure building behind your eyes. “You made it pretty clear you don't want me anymore. And I made it clear I'm not interested in being your friend. So no, I don't want your help.”

The sounds of the ambulance bay drift around you. Doors opening. Tires rolling over pavement. Life continuing.

But neither of you moves.

Robby exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair while you keep your eyes fixed on the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.

“Is it starting to hurt?” he asks, and the sudden change of subject is almost funny.

Almost.

The anesthetic is wearing off slowly, and so is the adrenaline, but you'll survive until you get home.

“Yeah.”

You see it immediately. The way his shoulders straighten... the way his attention narrows.

Like every part of him is wired to respond to that answer.

He takes a step closer before he seems to realize he's doing it.

“Alternate ibuprofen and Tylenol when it starts throbbing. You shouldn't need anything stronger.”

There he is. Not your Robby... Definitely not your Michael.

Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Safe territory.

“I'll take something when I get home.”

His gaze lingers.

Not quite staring, but long enough that you're suddenly aware of everything: your posture, your messy hair, your tired eyes. The fact that you've probably got dried tears on your face.

He looks at you like he's trying to remember something.

He looks at you like he's trying to remember something, or maybe fix something... fix you.

Or both.

You're being ridiculous.

“You should keep it dry,” he says eventually. "At least a day. Two if you can.”

“Wow.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“Didn't Dr. Langdon just tell me that? It's like you work here or something.”

Usually, that would've earned at least a smirk. He used to love your bratty tone.

This time, it doesn't. His expression barely changes, and the silence that follows settles heavily between you.

Suddenly the joke doesn't feel funny anymore.

Because maybe he doesn't miss this... Maybe this isn't hard for him.

And maybe -just maybe- you were never what he wanted at all.

“Just be careful.”

The words come out softer.

Not doctor-soft.

Dangerous-soft. Boyfriend-soft. The kind of soft that makes your chest hurt. That belongs to a life you don't have anymore.

You feel a fresh wave of frustration rise in your throat.

You can't do this.

“I will.”

You look at him again, and a weird feeling hits you. For one stupid second, you think he's actually going to reach for you.

His hand shifts slightly at his side, then stills.

He doesn't.

You sigh, trying not to be disappointed. You hate yourself for even thinking about it.

What is wrong with you?

“Text me when you get home.”

The words slip out before he can stop them. Like they're instinctive.

You blink a couple of times before you can find the strength to open your mouth.

You need to get the hell out of here.

“No.”

The answer isn't cruel. That's not your intention. It even sounds less firm than you'd like, but it gets the point across.

And for a moment, something in his face falters.

“Right,” he says quietly, as if he's just remembered the nature of your relationship.

Or the lack of it.

You adjust your bag on your shoulder, and the movement feels awkward with only one good hand.

“I'll be fine.”

He nods.

“I know.”

You turn away before he can say anything else. Before you can say something stupid, or even worse, tear up because he looks like he saw a ghost, yet somehow still has time to flirt with his casual ex-flings.

So as you walk, you don't look back.

But somehow you know he's still standing there watching you, just like he watched you leave the first time.

*

By the time you get home, your hand is throbbing in a steady rhythm.

You close the door with your elbow, careful not to put any pressure on the bandaged hand, and lean against it for a moment before making your way to the kitchen.

Everything suddenly feels like too much: the lights are too bright, the apartment is too quiet, and the mess. God, the mess!

The cutting board is still sitting on the counter. Half-chopped vegetables have started to dry at the edges, left exactly where you dropped everything and ran to wash your hand.

For a moment, you just stand there and stare. Then your gaze drops to the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.

“Fúcking ridiculous,” you mutter.

Whether you're talking about the injury or yourself, you're not entirely sure. You needed seven stitches because you were trying to make yourself dinner.

You make your way to the couch and sink into it carefully. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and that's when the quiet finally catches up with you.

No Jack or Langdon. No monitors beeping in the background.

Just you and the image of Robby standing in the ambulance bay... the look on his face when you told him no. The way he'd watched you leave.

And, despite everything, the memory that hurts the most: Robby's arm around Noelle.

You shift uncomfortably, as though you can physically move the thought away. But of course, it doesn't work.

Because it’s not even about Noelle. It’s about being replaced so quickly while you're still trying to remember how to breathe around the empty space he left behind.

Your fingers curl slightly and the pain shoots through your palm and up your arm immediately.

You hiss through your teeth and force your hand open again. “God, I'm a fúcking idiot!”

Like you were still someone he was allowed to be responsible for.

You knew he was emotionally unavailable, that he was an avoidant, that there was an age gap big enough for everyone to have an opinion about it. But you stayed. You fell in love... you trusted him.

You shake your head.

The worst part is how calm he was, how concerned he still looked.

Your eyes sting before you can stop it.

“No,” you say quietly.

Like that helps.

You pull your phone from your pocket and place it face down on the coffee table before you can do something stupid.

You could text him and tell him exactly what you think of him aka call him a coward and a fúcking asshole. You could say all the things you refused to say eight days ago when he ended it.

You could do a lot of things.

Instead you just sit there, your bandaged hand still aching as something ugly and honest rises up in your chest.

Not sadness, something sharper. Something that needs somewhere to go.

Eventually, you force yourself off the couch in search of ibuprofen, and halfway to the kitchen, a laugh escapes you.

Humorless and pathetic, really.

Because despite everything you miss him.

His stupid, sad smile, his voice, his nose. The way he always stole your fries and pretended he wasn't doing it.

Ten days before you're free.

*

Two days later, it’s worse in a different way.

Not the pain, which you got used to by now. It even became more manageable.

It's the tight, itchy pull under the skin that makes you want to do exactly what you're not supposed to do. To disobey him and prove to yourself you got the power.

You want to use your hand... to test it.

But you don't (except for a few hours when a project deadline leaves you no choice and you're back at your desk, using your hand far more than Langdon, Jack or Robby would've approved of).

You tell yourself it's necessary.

You always tell yourself a lot of things.

*

The message comes on the third day.

Robby: Come in tomorrow morning. Quick check.

No hello. No how are you. No are you available.

Just an instruction. So you stare at it for nearly a minute, then type:

I was told 10 days.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Disappears.

Appears again.

You hate that your pulse picks up.

Then:

Robby: I know. Just come in when the morning shift starts.

You stare at the message... at the familiar bluntness of it and the complete lack of explanation.

Then you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you as the podcast continues playing in the background.

You have absolutely no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.

*

You go anyway.

Partly because you're annoyed, and partly because refusing would mean admitting he's gotten under your skin.

The hospital smells exactly the same as it did three days ago: antiseptic and stale coffee.

Jack spots you before you've finished signing in.

“Back already?”

You glance up.

“Apparently I left such a strong impression the boss invited me back.”

His eyes drop to the bandage.

“Follow-up?”

“So I've been told.”

A smile flickers across his face, and you can't help but grin back. He has a kind of charm that disarms you.

“Try not to injure yourself on the way in. Or him. We can't run this hospital without the chief.”

“No promises.”

He walks with you toward the exam rooms, matching your pace without comment. The conversation stays comfortably superficial: the weather, his shift, and the last show you watched - which you're grateful for.

At the nurses' station, he slows. Dana is halfway through updating a chart when she looks up. You exchange a few pleasantries while Jack leans against the counter, listening with a half-smile.

Then Dana's gaze flicks past you toward one of the exam rooms.

Something passes silently between her and Jack, and he straightens immediately.

“Room six.”

“That's it? No dramatic goodbye?”

“I figured you'd had enough medical attention for one week.”

“Fair.”

“Good luck.”

Before you can ask what that's supposed to mean, he's already turning away.

The traitor!

The room is empty when you step inside, but you barely have time to feel relieved before the door opens again.

Robby walks in carrying a chart, and for a second neither of you says anything.

Without the chaos of the emergency department around him, he looks strangely out of place.

Or maybe that's you.

“You came.”

You set your bag down on the chair beside you, keeping your expression neutral as he pumps sanitizer into his palms.

You remember how many times you had to remind him to moisturize his hands, his skin always so dry it looked like it might split open.

“You summoned me via text.”

Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or maybe amusement. You can't tell anymore.

“Sit down.”

There's no point arguing, so you do.

The paper covering the exam table crackles beneath you as you climb up, the sound reminding you of the last time you were here.

Robby pulls on a pair of gloves.

“Let me see it.”

You offer your hand without comment, but for a moment, he doesn't take it.

His gaze drops to the bandage first, studying it like he's already looking for evidence of something worse.

Then his fingers close gently around your wrist as he starts unwrapping it.

The contact is professional, almost detached, but your stupid brain notices anyway.

Layer by layer, the dressing comes away, and he studies the wound in silence.

The stitches hold the edges together neatly now. The swelling has gone down, and the angry redness from the first day has faded into pink.

“Any increased pain?”

“No.”

“Drainage?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

You give him a look.

“No.”

His attention stays fixed on your palm, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“You've been using it.”

You let out a short laugh.

“That's a bold accusation.”

When his gaze lifts to yours, you want to hit him. It's infuriating how quickly he sees through you.

“You've been working despite our medical advice.”

The certainty in his voice makes it clear it's not a guess.

You look away first.

“I had deadlines.”

“I know.”

Somehow those two words are more irritating than if he'd argued.

Because he does know.

He knows exactly how many hours you'll spend obsessing over a project. What a perfectionist you are. He knows you'll work through headaches, exhaustion, and apparently hand injuries if given the chance.

His thumb hovers near the base of your palm.

“The swelling's worse here.”

Damn it.

You say nothing, and Robby sighs softly- resigned, as though this outcome was entirely predictable.

“You need to leave it alone for a few more days.”

“You sound like a doctor.”

“I am your doctor.”

The silence that follows is familiar, and Robby looks down and resumes wrapping the fresh dressing around your hand, carefully. Methodically. Giving both of you something else to focus on.

When he's finished, he smooths the edge of the bandage into place and steps back.

“You're healing pretty well, despite the fact you haven't been listening.”

You nod, because it should feel reassuring.

Instead, it leaves a hollow ache somewhere beneath your ribs. Healing implies moving on, and you're not sure you've figured out that part yet.

“You'll come back in a week for removal.”

“Yes, doctor.”

His mouth almost curves.

Almost.

You stand quickly and reach for your bag, but neither of you moves for a couple of seconds.

Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn toward the door.

You don't look back.

Not because you don't want to. But because you already know he'll be watching.

*

You try to work.

You really do. The laptop is open on the coffee table, a half-finished design staring back at you from the screen.

But after several minutes of pretending you're accomplishing something, you let your head fall back against the couch and close the laptop.

“Great,” you mutter to the empty apartment. “I'm completely useless. Fantastic!”

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy drops.

Life continues. Unfortunately, so does your brain.

The problem isn't that you keep replaying memories. It's that you keep replaying a sentence.

You can do better than me.

The same calm voice, the same careful expression. As though he'd handed you a gift instead of a goodbye.

Your jaw tightens.

“No, that's bullshit.”

You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when your injured hand protests. Pain flashes through your palm.

“Shit.”

You sink back into the cushions with a groan, but it's not your hand that's upsetting you.

It's the way he left, as though he was doing something responsible. Noble. As though loving you had been a mistake he was finally correcting.

Your phone lies face down beside you, and without thinking, you reach for it.

The screen lights up.

Nothing.

No messages except the family group chat.

No notifications, either.

You stare at it anyway, then open a message box.

I'm happy for you.

You stare at it for three seconds before deleting it.

I wish nothing-

Delete.

A frustrated laugh escapes you.

“God.”

The worst part is that neither statement is entirely false.

You do want him to be happy. You just wish you didn't have to witness it.

The music keeps playing in the background.

At some point, you stopped paying attention to the playlist.

Now it feels like the playlist is paying attention to you.

Alanis Morissette's voice fills the apartment: raw, messy, unapologetically angry.

An older version of me…

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. Isn't that funny?

“Yeah.”

You rub your eyes.

“You really thought that sounded noble, didn't you?”

The memory of that conversation has somehow become more irritating with time.

Not less... because now you can hear everything he thought he was saying.

You are not a child, and he knows it. You could have handled him telling you he stopped loving you much better than what he actually said.

The song continues.

Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?

That one almost makes you laugh.

“Fúcking hell.”

You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees, careful of your hand.

Everything is careful now.

The music keeps going and your mind drifts somewhere you don't want it to.

Toward Noelle. Toward possibilities. Toward images you never invited into your head.

Maybe they want the same things... Maybe he wants a baby with her.

You never really considered having kids. You can't imagine yourself in that position, and Robby knows it. You were honest from the get-go.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Nope.”

Your finger points at nothing.

“We're not doing that.”

But your imagination ignores you completely.

Of course it does.

A familiar laugh, a familiar smile, a mini-version of Robby... life continuing without you.

Your stomach tightens.

Not jealousy exactly.

Something uglier.

Much uglier.

I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.

You've heard these a hundred times before, but now they feel like they were always about you.

And every time you speak her name

Does she know how you told me

You'd hold me until you died?

Is this what grieving a relationship feels like?

Because it's so humiliating it almost hurts more than the loss itself.

You don't want revenge or to see him miserable. You don't even want him back if being with you made him unhappy. If he truly thinks you're too young, too immature, too much of whatever it was that finally convinced him to walk away with no regrets.

You just want proof that you mattered. That he didn't walk away and immediately become -again- someone else's person. That somewhere beneath all that careful self-control and rational decision-making, there's still a place where you exist. A scar. A memory.

The thought settles heavily in your chest. Now you understand why you've been listening to this stupid song on repeat.

Beneath all that anger is a woman desperately trying to convince herself she wasn't forgettable. That she was loved.

It feels really pathetic.

You drag a hand over your face.

“God, I sound insane.”

But you reach for your phone anyway and hit replay.

*

The removal is simple and fast: clip, lift, pull.

There’s no real pain, just a faint tugging beneath the skin, more memory than sensation.

So you watch him work. Not your hand. Him.

Because this version of him is always like this: controlled, in command, careful in a way that feels effortless.

And it’s unfair how good he looks like this. Glasses on, focused, entirely elsewhere while still being right in front of you.

“You’ve been using it,” he says without looking up.

There had been no real conversation before this, just the quiet logistics of being here. He was waiting at the nurses’ station while Jack finished the handover, you assume.

When the last stitch is out, he doesn’t move immediately. Just checks the skin, thumb hovering near the edge as if confirming something only he can see.

Then he wraps it anyway.

Habit, maybe.

“You’re healed,” he says finally.

“I’m free.”

You don’t know what kind of freedom you mean.

A quiet exhale slips out of him... almost a laugh, before the silence settles again.

You flex your fingers once. Strange how quickly something that was broken can feel like it belongs to you again.

Like it never left at all.

Then you look at him, suddenly making up your mind. It feels like the last real chance to say what’s been sitting in your chest for days. You deserve better closure than silence... and better than what he gave you. You need to do this for your own peace.

“I want you to know something,” you say.

His attention shifts fully now as he waits for you to continue.

“I’m happy for you.”

The words land exactly the way you expect them to. Something in his expression tightens... not surprise, not relief. Recognition.

“I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best,” you add. “I guess she really made an impression on you. You ended up all cozy in the hospital barely a week after we broke up.”

You hope this makes him feel like shit. Because it isn’t really about Noelle.

He exhales through his nose, controlled, and you can't read his expression. His shoulders tense, his expression being unreadable in a way that only makes you more certain you’ve hit something real.

“What are you doing?”

No denial. That alone tells you enough.

You were right.

“I’m not quite as well,” you say, your tone so even it almost sounds detached, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of opening your chest and handing him your heart once again.

And the moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Because it’s too honest and real, and it gives him something he doesn’t deserve anymore.

His jaw tightens.

“Don’t,” he says.

He drags a hand through his hair, and you notice it now: the smallest crack in his control. Not panic exactly, just something closer to discomfort. Or guilt.

You almost smile as pick up your bag.

Then stop. Because if you leave now, it becomes clean.

And this isn’t clean, so you turn back.

“I thought you should know you were wrong,” you say.

A beat.

“I didn’t need better than you.”

Your voice stays steady, but something underneath it fractures anyway. You just needed your Michael.

“I just needed you to stay. Or if you were going to leave, you should’ve said it properly. You should’ve told me there was someone else. Or that you didn’t love me anymore. Not… that.”

The words leave you all at once, sharp and unfiltered, like there’s nothing left to protect anymore. You have nothing more to lose.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond at all. He continues to stare at the wall, then the floor, then your shoes before he finally meets your eyes.

Then, very quietly:

“You should go.”

And something in you almost laughs at how predictable it is. How final. How cleanly he can end things when it suits him.

Your throat tightens. It becomes hard to breathe in a way you can’t fully hide. Your eyes sting, that familiar pressure building behind them until your vision blurs at the edges.

You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away. It just sits there: heavy, humiliating, like your body is betraying you for still caring.

A short, broken sound slips out of you before you give him what he asked for.

“Well then,” you say, voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back.” You pause, holding his gaze. “I hope you feel it.”

The silence after that is immediate. But it's far from empty... it's charged as his expression shifts. Something in him stills completely.

He exhales slowly, tension pulling through his neck and jaw, a faint flush rising there.

When he speaks, his voice is lower now, colder.

“We’re done here.”

*

The next evening settles in too easily and that bothers you.

Like nothing important happened at all.

You tried to focus on work all day, but you can barely get anything done between meetings. Even music doesn’t fill the space properly anymore.

Eventually, you stop pretending it isn’t eating at you, and the phone is already in your hand before you realize you reached for it.

Your thumb rests over the screen as you tell yourself you don’t care what happens next.

But you do.

You think about yesterday, not the words exactly, but the tone.

We’re done here.

Clean. Practiced. Efficient. Like you were just another patient he needed out of the room.

Did your relationship really mean nothing? Did you mean nothing?

The thought of Noelle slips in again, uninvited.

What did he see in her that he can't see in you? What is so special about her? What kind of power does he have to make you still think about him after everything?

Something shifts inside you subtly, almost quietly.

Permission.

He always said you were too kind.

Maybe today you are petty. Maybe you always were, just quieter about it before.

And maybe he deserves to feel all of it.

Your grip tightens around the phone.

“Fúcking asshole.”

Your fingers move before you can think about his feelings and stop yourself.

Sent.

When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.

He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:

Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.

The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”

Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”

“You like dark and dreary.”

She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”

“I can be charming when I want to be.”

“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”

Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.

Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.

He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.

—

The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.

First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)

Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.

Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.

But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.

Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.

Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.

And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.

Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.

You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.

Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.

And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.

Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?

Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.

Just not directed at you.

He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.

Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.

“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”

Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”

“No. You offend people on purpose.”

“True.”

You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)

“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”

“Disturbingly so.”

“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”

“Do you really need me for this conversation?”

You level her with a look, but she just groans.

“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”

“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”

Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.

“Should I talk to him?”

She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”

“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”

“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”

She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.

Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”

The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.

Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?

You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.

Also, it’s just driving you crazy.

Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!

But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.

It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.

What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?

It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.

The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.

Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.

You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.

You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.

It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.

But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!

Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.

Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.

Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.

Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.

You turn, give him a little smile.

Again.

Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)

(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)

Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:

“Here, give me that.”

And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.

Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.

—

“He took your beer?”

“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”

“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”

“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”

Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”

You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”

“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”

“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”

“So? I know your type.”

You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”

“Hate sex is a thing.”

“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”

She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“

“Shut up Trinity!”

You both snicker.

“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”

“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”

“You’re not helping.”

Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”

“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.

He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”

“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“

“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”

You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.

She’s right.

You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.

Easier said than done.

—

It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.

Damn.

So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.

“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”

He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.

He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.

He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.

“Did I do something wrong?”

For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.

“Why do you think you did something wrong?”

“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”

You pause. “And you took my beer!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.

He’s laughing.

Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.

You honest to God want to kill him.

“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“

“How else was I supposed to take that.”

Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”

He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.

“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”

Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.

Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.

“You hate confrontation.”

Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”

“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”

You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”

“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”

“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”

The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.

“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.

“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”

“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”

Jack just hums.

“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.

He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”

Your skin prickles again. “No.”

“Lying again.”

“Shut up.”

He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.

Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.

—

If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.

He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.

When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.

Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…

…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.

But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.

Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”

Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.

So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.

So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.

Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.

“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”

‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’

Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.

“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”

It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.

Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.

“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“

“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”

You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”

She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”

You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”

You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.

Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.

You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.

Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.

Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.

You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”

“In the men’s bathroom?”

“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”

“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”

Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“

Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.

“Clearly.”

You stumble forward. “I need to go—“

“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”

“There’s an attending’s lounge?”

“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.

“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”

“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”

“Ah.”

“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”

You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”

Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.

He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.

Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:

“Find another bathroom.”

“But I have to—“

“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”

The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.

You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.

“That seemed a bit extreme.”

“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”

“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”

Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.

He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.

“What am I going to do with you?”

His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.

“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“

“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re drowning.”

Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.

Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?

When you don’t speak, he does.

“Did you think no one would notice?”

“No one has.”

“Am I no one?”

You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.

“You’re nosy.”

If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.

He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”

“What, exactly, am I doing?”

“Pretending.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”

You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”

“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”

You scrub a hand down your face.

“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”

Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.

The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.

“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.

“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”

“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.

“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”

Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.

“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”

You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Okay.”

You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.

—

Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.

(“You can’t send me home.”

“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”

“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”

“…”

“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)

The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.

So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.

It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.

Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.

“Why the fuck are you still here?”

You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.

Jack. Again.

He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.

Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”

Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.

“How long until your bus gets here?”

You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.

“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”

He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.

“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”

Jack just sighs.

“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”

You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”

He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”

“No…?”

He shakes his head.

“Come on. You’re coming with me.”

—

“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.

Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.

Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.

Probably both.

“Where did you think we were going?”

Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.

Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.

“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”

“What would I even be writing you up for?”

“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”

The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”

Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:

“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”

The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.

You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.

It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”

“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”

“Yes…?”

“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”

“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”

Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.

“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”

The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.

He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”

“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”

Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“What?”

“Read your book.”

“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”

He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”

You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.

“How did you even know I like diner food?”

“Because I pay attention to you.”

You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.

Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”

It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.

"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."

You scoff. "No you wouldn't."

"I would."

“Do you hate me?”

Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.

“No.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

—

“You did what?”

You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.

“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”

She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”

“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”

“No it doesn’t!”

It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.

Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.

"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"

"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.

"Yeah, after an MCI."

What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.

"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."

It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.

Not that she needs to know that.

"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"

You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."

You do know. He told you. Explained it.

It doesn't make sense.

Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.

"Whatever. You two are impossible."

She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.

Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.

Your phone vibrates again.

“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”

Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.

“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”

“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”

You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.

There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.

“Oh.”

You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”

“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”

“What!?” You screech.

You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.

You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.

(It was funnier at the time.)

Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.

“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.

“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”

“I don’t know!” You cry.

“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”

“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”

“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”

He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.

He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:

“He asked what you’re doing today.”

Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”

“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“

“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.

“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.

“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”

“Just give me the fucking phone.”

Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.

hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”

“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“

“There will be no wedding!”

“That’s just what you think.”

Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.

Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.

Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.

“What’s he saying?”

“Go away!”

You tap out a quick response.

Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me

Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?

You stomach flips.

nooo I’m fine i get them all the time

That’s not exactly reassuring.

I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal

Who?

if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?

Yes.

Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.

then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really

they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff

So your plan is just to destroy your liver?

pretty much

We need to work on your planning skills.

we?

I’m not doing all the work.

Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.

this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls

Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.

You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.

“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”

“He said what?”

—

You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.

Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?

“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.

“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”

“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”

“I take care of myself plenty.”

He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.

“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”

“That’s different.”

“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”

You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”

“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”

You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”

“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”

“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”

Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.

When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.

The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.

It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.

You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.

“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”

“Mm.”

“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”

“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”

“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”

“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”

“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”

Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.

“Like what?”

Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.

“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”

Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”

“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.

“Get going then.”

You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.

—

The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.

Things could be worse though!

Kind of.

It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.

It’s bad.

Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.

“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”

“Mel asked.”

Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”

“What exactly are you asking me here?”

“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”

“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me.”

Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.

By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.

Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.

It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.

“You don’t look too good.”

“I’m—“

“Don’t say you’re fine.”

“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”

“Okay.”

There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.

You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.

“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”

“I don’t work tonight.”

You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”

Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.

“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”

Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.

“What’d you do that for?”

The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”

Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“

“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”

You nod once.

“Words.”

“Uh— yeah. Yes.”

“Good.”

Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.

He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.

“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”

It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.

You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.

“Yes.”

Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”

The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.

“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”

What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.

“I know.”

“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”

It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.

“You like being told what to do.”

Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.

“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”

You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.

“Makes sense.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.

And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.

Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.

So you do what you want to do.

You relax.

—

In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.

He starts pulling back.

It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.

But then you realize what he’s doing.

Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.

He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.

It feels more intimate than sex.

After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.

“What’s this?”

“A thank you card.”

You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.

“What for?”

“It says it in the card.”

You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.

But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.

—

It’s the card that does him in.

Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.

He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.

He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.

He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.

He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.

And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.

He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.

He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.

Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.

Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.

Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.

As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.

One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.

So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.

You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.

“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”

“No one’s heard from you in three days.”

You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”

His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”

“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”

“Jesus— I’m coming in.”

“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.

Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.

“Do you have headache relief?”

You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”

While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.

“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”

“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”

“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”

“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”

“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”

“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”

He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.

“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”

The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.

“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”

“Mhm. I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.

(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)

He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.

You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.

You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.

“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”

“Of course you can.”

After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.

He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.

And then he gets to work.

Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.

He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.

And then you pause.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Did you clean my apartment?”

He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.

You’re crying.

He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.

“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”

“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”

You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”

“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”

You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”

“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”

Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”

“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”

“Get used to it.”

You sigh, dramatic and long.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”

You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.

“This is romantic, right?”

He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.

“Yes.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“You need confirmation?”

“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”

He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.

“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”

You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.

At first you assumed construction or flooding because of the weather, but then smoke curled upward through the rain and your stomach dropped immediately.

Cars sat mangled across three lanes of traffic at impossible angles. One SUV had spun into the median while another sedan looked almost folded around the back of a delivery truck, its front end crushed so badly it barely resembled a vehicle anymore. Hazard lights blinked weakly through the storm while people stumbled across the interstate in shock.

Your body moved before your brain fully caught up.

“Oh my God.”

You were already unbuckling your seatbelt before the car completely stopped.

Adrenaline sliced straight through your exhaustion hard enough to make your hands shake as you reached for the trauma bag in the passenger seat. Rain hit you instantly the second you shoved the door open, cold water soaking through your clothes within seconds while distant screaming echoed somewhere through the storm.

Someone yelled that a driver was trapped.

Another voice screamed for a medic.

A woman near the shoulder sobbed hard enough she could barely breathe, blood running down the side of her forehead while a man beside her stood completely frozen, staring blankly at the wreckage like his brain had stopped processing reality altogether.

You were already running.

“I’m a doctor,” you shouted over the rain. “Move back and give me some room.”

People listened immediately.

The trapped driver looked somewhere in his forties, pinned awkwardly behind the wheel of the crushed sedan. Blood streamed from a scalp laceration down the side of his face while the airbags hung deflated around him. His breathing came too fast beneath the sound of rain hammering against twisted metal, panic beginning to sharpen around the edges of every inhale.

You crouched carefully beside the shattered driver’s side window, ignoring the glass biting through your scrub pants into your knees.

“Hey,” you said, forcing calmness into your voice despite the adrenaline roaring through your chest. “Can you hear me?”

The man blinked slowly toward you, dazed. “Think so.”

“Good. That’s good.” You adjusted the flashlight between your fingers while quickly checking his pupils. “What’s your name?”

“Leon.”

“Okay, Leon. I’m Dr. Y/L/N.” Your voice stayed steady automatically, years of emergency medicine taking over before panic had a chance to settle in. “Don’t move your neck for me, alright?”

A shaky breath of laughter escaped him. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Despite everything, you smiled a little.

“You’re doing great,” you assured him quietly. “Stay with me.”

And he did.

His eyes kept finding yours every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.

Your hands moved automatically after that.

Pressure against the head wound. Monitoring responsiveness. Keeping him conscious and talking while you assessed what you could from outside the vehicle. Rainwater mixed with blood beneath your fingers while traffic backed up for what looked like miles behind you, headlights glowing dimly through the storm.

Leon kept looking at you every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.

“You work at the PTMC?” he asked weakly after spotting the hospital logo embroidered onto your soaked jacket.

“Unfortunately.”

That got a real laugh out of him, brief and pained but enough that relief loosened slightly in your chest.

“You always this calm when you see a car crash?”

You let out a tired breath through your nose. “No. I’m panicking beautifully internally.”

That made him laugh again.

Patients relaxed faster once they laughed. It was something you learned early in residency, fear loosened the second people felt human again instead of helpless.

So you stayed with him.

Even after the paramedics arrived.

Even after they started finishing the extrication, peeling back what remained of the driver’s side door while rain poured endlessly over the wreckage.

You stayed crouched beside him talking him through every step because shock was already creeping in around the edges of his expression, and every time panic threatened to overwhelm him again, his eyes found yours immediately.

“You’re okay,” you kept saying quietly. “Stay with me. You’re okay.”

The interstate blurred around you in streaks of red brake lights and flashing hazards. Rain soaked through your jacket and scrubs completely now, damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin while your hair stuck to the back of your neck. The adrenaline that had carried you through the crash scene was already fading, leaving behind an exhaustion so heavy it felt physical.

An EMT looked up from the stretcher and did a double take.

“Dr. Y/L/N?”

You snapped back into focus automatically.

“Male, approximately forty-two. Restrained driver. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen currently. Complaining of left-sided rib pain. Possible concussion. Neuro status intact for now, but keep an eye on him.”

The EMT nodded once while adjusting the cervical collar. “Got it.”

They moved quickly after that, securing straps, checking vitals, loading equipment through the rain while Leon tracked every movement with the wide-eyed focus of someone trying very hard not to think too much about what had almost happened.

Your knees ached from kneeling on broken glass. Your hands had started trembling slightly now that nobody urgently needed anything from you anymore.

But you stayed beside him anyway.

Leon caught your wrist weakly just before the paramedics closed the ambulance doors.

“Hey.”

You looked up immediately.

His face looked pale beneath the blood and rainwater, eyes glassy with pain and adrenaline, but there was something steadier there too.

Gratitude maybe.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

The words landed somewhere deeper than they should have.

You swallowed hard before giving his hand one quick squeeze.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Of course.”

For a second, you just stood there breathing.

The interstate still smelled like gasoline and smoke. Somewhere farther down the road another paramedic shouted instructions while tow trucks crawled through the rain toward the wreckage. Traffic in the opposite lanes slowed almost to a stop as people stared through fogged windows at what was left of the crash.

“You riding in with us?” one of the EMTs asked.

You glanced once toward your abandoned car still trapped in unmoving traffic nearly half a mile behind the accident scene. The thought of trying to get back to it right now felt impossible.

“Yeah,” you answered tiredly.

The ambulance doors shut behind you a second later, sealing you inside with the sharp smell of antiseptic, wet clothing, and adrenaline.

Leon talked for almost the entire ride to the hospital.

Nervous talking.

The kind trauma patients did when they were scared enough to fill every silence because silence meant thinking too hard about how close they came to dying. You’d seen it hundreds of times before. Some people cried. Some got angry. Some went terrifyingly quiet.

Leon talked.

So you let him.

He rambled about his job, about his daughter’s soccer game this weekend, about how his wife was going to kill him for wrecking the car because they still hadn’t finished paying it off. Every few sentences his voice shook slightly before he forced another joke out anyway.

You stayed beside him the whole ride, monitoring pupils and vitals while keeping him talking just enough to assess mental status without making it obvious you were doing it.

“You always pick up patients on the highway on your day off?” he asked weakly at one point.

You let out a tired breath of laughter. “Only the lucky ones.”

That earned another shaky smile from him.

The ambulance doors burst open, paramedics already rolling the stretcher down the bay entrance while rainwater dripped steadily from the wheels onto the floor.

By the time the ambulance rolled through the bay doors at The Pitt, you were freezing hard enough your teeth almost hurt. Your scrubs were soaked completely through, your shoes squelching against the floor while trauma staff moved around you in organized chaos.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Santos called across the ER the second she spotted you climbing out of the ambulance bay. “Always a pleasure seeing you this early, Iron Woman.”

You groaned immediately.

You earned the nickname after accidentally mistaking a patient for Robert Downey Jr. during a twenty-hour shift.

To be fair, the goatee had been identical.

“Dana,” you called immediately, falling into step beside the stretcher. “What’s open?”

Dana barely looked up from the nurses’ station. “Trauma Two’s clear.”

“Perfect.” You pushed damp hair back from your face before glancing toward the department. “Whitaker, Javadi, you’re with me. Perlah, can you help set up Two?”

Perlah nodded immediately and disappeared ahead of the group while Whitaker grabbed gloves from the wall dispenser on his way past.

“You look cold,” Whitaker informed you conversationally.

“Thank you,” you replied flatly.

Javadi appeared beside the stretcher while all of you pushed through the trauma bay doors together. “What happened?”

“Restrained driver, approximately forty-two,” you answered automatically. “High-speed MVA during the storm. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen on arrival, complaining of left-sided rib pain and worsening headache. Possible concussion.”

“Vitals stable en route,” one of the paramedics added while helping transfer Leon onto the trauma bed.

Whitaker immediately started attaching monitors while Javadi pulled supplies from cabinets with the frantic efficiency of someone still trying very hard to look calmer than she actually felt.

Then Jack looked up from the computer station.

And somehow, in the middle of the packed emergency department, everything softened slightly around the edges.

You caught the exact moment recognition crossed his face. The exhaustion behind his eyes shifted immediately into concern as his gaze moved slowly over you. Soaked scrubs, blood smeared across your gloves, rainwater dripping steadily from your hair onto the floor beneath you.

Jack crossed the trauma bay almost immediately.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. “What happened? I thought you went home.”

His voice grounded you in a way almost nothing else could anymore.

Maybe it was because he always sounded calm even during chaos. Maybe it was because after years together your body recognized him before your brain consciously caught up. Or maybe it was simply that exhaustion hit harder the second somebody else arrived to help carry it.

“I’m fine,” you answered automatically while stripping off your soaked gloves and replacing them with clean ones. “Probably need a head CT.”

Jack’s expression tightened instantly.

“For you?”

You blinked at him before realizing what you’d said. “What? No. For the patient.”

Behind you, Perlah had already started cutting away Leon’s soaked shirt while Whitaker attached cardiac leads to his chest.

“BP’s holding,” Whitaker called.

“Sinus tach at one-ten,” Javadi added while checking another monitor. “Probably pain and adrenaline.”

“Good,” you answered automatically before stepping back beside the bed.

“Where’s Robby?”

“Overdose in Four,” Dana answered from the doorway.

You nodded once and reached for your penlight again, checking Leon’s pupils carefully while rain continued tapping faintly against the ambulance bay doors behind you.

Santos wandered into Trauma Two looking personally offended. “Why does huckleberry and crash get invited? I can help.”

“You can stand there and look pretty while actual doctors save lives,” you shot back immediately.

Santos gasped dramatically. “Dr. Abbot, your girlfriend is bullying me again.”

“She bullies everybody,” Jack muttered.

But there was no heat behind it.

His eyes lingered on you a second too long.

You knew that look by now.

Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to bury concern beneath sarcasm and exhaustion, but you still caught it every time. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes. The slight tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The way your shoulders sagged whenever you thought nobody was looking.

“You’re freezing,” he said quietly.

“You are correct. I am freezing.”

Without another word, Jack pulled his hoodie off the back of the nurses’ station chair and draped it carefully around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him, smelling faintly like coffee, antiseptic, and the cologne he only remembered to wear maybe twice a month.

Something in your chest tightened stupidly at the gesture.

Behind him, Santos gagged theatrically. “Oh my God. Romance in the trauma bay. I’m going to throw up.”

“Go chart something,” Jack said flatly.

Whitaker looked up from the monitor leads. “Actually, I think it's very sweet."

“You’re all miserable,” you informed them while pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself.

“No,” Javadi corrected while checking Leon’s blood pressure. “You two are just aggressively in love in public.”

Jack looked genuinely offended. “Aggressively? I don't get it."

Despite yourself, you laughed softly while stepping back toward Leon’s bedside.

Leon noticed the interaction immediately.

“That your boyfriend?” he asked weakly from the trauma bed.

“Husband to the emergency department,” you corrected while snapping fresh gloves on. “Boyfriend in real life.”

Jack rolled his eyes while typing orders into the computer. “Don’t encourage her, Leon.”

Leon grinned despite the pain. “You guys are disgustingly cute.”

Under the brighter trauma lights, bruising had already started blooming dark purple across his ribs beneath the rain-soaked skin.

“Headache worse?” you asked while checking his pupils again.

“A little.”

“You nauseous?”

“Not yet.”

“Good,” you answered. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Javadi palpated carefully along his left side while Whitaker adjusted the blood pressure cuff.

“There’s something strangely comforting about you people,” Leon admitted weakly after a moment.

“You say that now,” Javadi muttered.

That earned another tired laugh from him before he winced sharply afterward.

“There it is,” you said softly. “Still joking. Good sign, buddy.”

There was something oddly comforting about patients who stayed conversational. After years in emergency medicine, you learned to appreciate moments where humanity still existed between procedures and bloodwork and trauma assessments.

Sometimes those tiny conversations mattered almost as much as the medicine itself.

Jack stepped beside you while reviewing Leon’s vitals, his shoulder brushing yours briefly in the cramped trauma bay. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, damp fabric, and rainwater now that Leon’s soaked clothing had finally been cut away.

“You should change,” Jack murmured quietly while adjusting one of the monitor leads. “I got this, baby.”

You barely glanced at him, still focused on the chart. “Don’t worry. I’ll survive.”

A tired look crossed his face immediately.

“That’s usually what people say right before passing out.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, though exhaustion dulled most of the energy behind it. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’ve been awake how long now?”

“Eighteen hours.”

Jack stared at you flatly. “That’s not comforting.”

“You stopped at a major accident scene after an eighteen-hour shift?” Javadi asked incredulously.

You shrugged slightly.

And that alone made Jack’s jaw tighten, because that was exactly the kind of thing you always did.

The adrenaline carrying you through the crash scene had almost completely faded now, leaving behind exhaustion so heavy it felt physical. Your wet clothes clung coldly to your skin beneath Jack’s hoodie while every muscle in your body ached now that the immediate crisis had passed.

Jack exhaled softly through his nose before lowering his voice.

“You don’t always have to run yourself into the ground trying to save everybody.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

You focused instead on adjusting Leon’s blanket over his chest, smoothing the fabric carefully just to give your hands something else to do.

Jack knew you too well by now to push after saying something like that.

That was part of what made loving him dangerous sometimes. He noticed things you worked very hard to hide from everybody else.

He noticed the way your hands trembled after bad trauma calls once the adrenaline wore off. How you skipped meals without realizing it during difficult shifts. How every patient death stayed with you longer than you ever admitted aloud.

Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to compartmentalize just enough to survive it, which somehow only made him better at recognizing when you weren’t doing the same.

His hand brushed briefly against the small of your back as he moved toward the monitors again.

“Don’t worry, Leon,” Jack said easily while checking the cardiac tracing. “You’re in good hands.”

Leon looked toward him before his gaze drifted back to you.

“I figured that out already,” he said softly. “She stopped on the interstate for me.”

You glanced up from the chart, slightly surprised by how steady his voice sounded now despite everything.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” Leon continued quietly.

You shrugged lightly, pushing damp hair away from your face. “Part of the job.”

“Maybe,” he answered softly, still watching you carefully. “But most people would’ve kept driving.”

Something warm and uncomfortable settled low in your chest at that.

Most patients never saw the moments in between all of this. They saw calm voices and steady hands. They saw competence because that was what they needed from you in moments like these.

They never saw the aftermath.

The exhaustion. The panic doctors swallowed in real time just to keep functioning. The way people occasionally locked themselves in supply closets for thirty seconds after bad cases just to breathe before walking back out like nothing happened.

But Leon had seen you kneeling beside twisted metal in freezing rain with blood on your hands while traffic screamed past only feet away.

He’d seen the human part too.

And somehow that felt far more exposing than expected.

Before you could answer, something shifted.

Subtle.

Small enough most people in the room probably would have missed it entirely.

But after years in emergency medicine, your body noticed changes before your brain consciously caught up.

Leon’s breathing changed.

One second it was slow and uneven with postictal exhaustion.

The next it caught strangely in his chest.

His eyes lost focus somewhere over your shoulder while every muscle in his body tightened beneath the blankets all at once.

Your stomach dropped instantly.

“Leon?”

Jack looked up from the monitor station at the exact same moment Leon’s entire body stiffened violently against the mattress.

“He’s seizing!”

Everything exploded into motion.

The seizure hit hard and fast, violent enough that the entire trauma bed rattled beneath him. His back arched sharply while his arms convulsed uncontrollably, knocking equipment sideways as monitors erupted into sharp screaming alarms throughout the room.

“Clock started,” Perlah called immediately.

“Two minutes on the seizure pads,” Whitaker added while grabbing suction.

“Turn him,” you ordered.

You and Javadi moved together automatically, carefully rolling Leon onto his side while his body continued jerking violently beneath your hands. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth where he’d bitten through his tongue while every breath came in horrible choking gasps between convulsions.

“Airway’s clear,” Javadi said quickly, though her voice still sounded tight with adrenaline.

Across the room Jack was already pulling medication from the crash cart while Dana called CT from the doorway ahead of transport.

Then finally, slowly, the seizure broke.

Leon’s body slumped heavily back against the mattress drenched in sweat while ragged breaths tore unevenly from his chest. The room fell briefly into that strange silence that always followed emergencies, where everybody still moved quickly even though the worst part had passed.

For now.

“Let’s get a CT stat,” Jack said immediately.

You nodded once, trying to ignore the tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline spike was crashing again.

“I’ll stay with him until transport.”

Jack hesitated.

Only briefly, but long enough for you to notice.

Something unreadable crossed his expression while his eyes flicked from Leon back toward you.

Concern maybe.

The same quiet tension he always carried after particularly violent trauma cases.

“You sure?” he asked softly.

You frowned slightly. “Yeah.”

Whitaker glanced briefly between both of you like he noticed something too, but before he could say anything Dana appeared in the doorway again.

“Trauma Three needs help now.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

His fingers brushed briefly against your wrist before he stepped away toward the hallway, disappearing almost immediately back into the noise and chaos outside the trauma bay.

The room quieted afterward.

Machines beeped steadily while rain tapped faintly against distant ER windows somewhere down the hall. Whitaker and Javadi had already been pulled into another room, leaving you alone beside Leon while he lay motionless in exhausted postictal confusion.

You dimmed the overhead light slightly before adjusting the blanket higher over his chest.

“Hey,” you said gently when you noticed him beginning to stir. “You’re okay. You had a seizure.”

No response.

His eyes stayed fixed upward, unfocused and confused.

Postictal.

You had seen it hundreds of times before. Disorientation. Confusion. Agitation sometimes. Patients waking terrified because their brains had not fully caught up to reality yet.

Your shoulder ached dully now that exhaustion was settling deeper into your body again. You reached absentmindedly for the chart at the foot of the bed, mentally running through differentials and imaging priorities while waiting for CT to call back.

You missed the shift in him by less than a second.

One moment Leon lay motionless against the mattress, the next his eyes sharpened violently.

Not recognition.

Fear.

Pure terrified instinct.

Your stomach dropped.

“Leon—”

He surged upright before you could finish the sentence.

His hand closed around your throat with terrifying force, slamming you backward into the cabinet hard enough to knock the air violently from your lungs. Pain exploded across the back of your skull as your head cracked sharply against metal.

“Leon!”

The sound came out broken and strangled.

But he wasn’t seeing you.

That was the horrifying part.

His eyes looked completely wild now—unfocused, terrified, empty all at once. Pure neurological panic stripped entirely of recognition.

For one terrible second, training overrode fear.

“Leon,” you gasped desperately, grabbing his wrists instinctively instead of striking him. “Listen to me. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

Nothing reached him.

His grip tightened harder around your throat.

Air stopped.

Panic slammed through you instantly now, sharp and animal and overwhelming in a way you almost never allowed yourself to feel. Your vision flickered violently while you clawed uselessly at his hands, trying desperately to drag in even one full breath.

You needed help.

Safe word.

Your mouth opened automatically.

“H—”

Nothing came out except a rasp.

Leon shoved you backward harder, your skull slamming against the cabinet again hard enough that white exploded across your vision.

The hospital safe word.

You just needed to say it.

“Hula—”

The sound collapsed into another strangled gasp as his fingers crushed tighter against your airway.

Your lungs burned.

Tears blurred your vision from pain and lack of oxygen while movement echoed faintly somewhere outside the trauma bay. People were still moving through the ER completely unaware of what was happening behind the curtain.

Your body was weakening fast.

You forced one shredded breath into your lungs and screamed:

“HULA HOOP!”

The entire department reacted instantly.

The trauma bay doors burst open hard enough to slam against the wall while voices shouted over each other.

Hands grabbed Leon, trying to drag him backward while he fought wildly in blind confusion and terror.

But before anyone could fully pull him away, he shoved you violently across the room.

Your shoulder struck the edge of the cabinetry with a horrible crack before the rest of your body collapsed hard onto the tile floor.

Pain tore through your arm instantly, sharp and wrong enough it barely felt real.

You couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

The room blurred violently while alarms screamed overhead and people shouted your name somewhere nearby.

And through all of it, through the pain and chaos splitting apart around you, your brain found one thing instinctively.

Jack.

You thought about the way he always found you in crowded trauma bays without even trying. The way his hoodie still smelled faintly like coffee and antiseptic around your shoulders. The quiet brush of his hand against your back only minutes earlier.

You wondered irrationally if he was going to blame himself for leaving the room.

That thought hurt almost as badly as the pain itself.

Your eyes slipped closed just as the world dissolved completely into noise.

Jack was halfway through finishing a chart when he realized he had not seen you in several minutes.

He looked up automatically, scanning the department for you out of habit more than anything else. Usually he could spot you immediately no matter how crowded the ER became. You moved quickly when you worked, sharp and focused and impossible to miss once he knew what to look for.

But you were nowhere.

“Hey, Javadi,” he called while signing off medication orders. “Have you seen Dr. Y/L/N?”

Javadi looked up so quickly, like she was a deer caught in headlights. “Uh… no,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. “I haven’t seen her since I left Leon. Sorry.”

Then she disappeared almost immediately toward another patient before he could ask anything else.

He pushed himself upright from the workstation, the familiar ache radiating faintly through his prosthetic. Long shifts always made it worse. The socket rubbed raw after enough hours on his feet, especially during busy trauma nights when he barely sat down.

Normally he ignored it.

Right now he barely felt it at all.

“Dana,” he called, already moving toward the nurses’ station. “Have you seen Y/N?”

Dana barely looked up from the chart she was reviewing. “Pretty sure she’s still with Leon. Why?”

Jack turned the iPad slightly toward her. “They haven’t gone to CT.”

That got her attention.

Her eyes flicked quickly toward the tracking board before settling back on him. “They’re probably backed up upstairs.”

“Maybe.”

But something still felt wrong.

Dana sighed softly. “Jack, she’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

He knew that.

God, he knew that better than anybody.

You were one of the strongest people he had ever met. Smarter than most attendings twice your age. Calm during trauma activations that made residents freeze completely. You handled combative patients, pediatric codes, catastrophic MVCs, and grieving families with a steadiness that still amazed him after all these years.

But that feeling in his chest would not go away.

Dana pointed down the hallway. “I actually need you in Central Fourteen. Chest pain rule-out and Dr. Garcia wants another set of eyes before she calls cards.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, still staring at the tracking board.

“Right,” he muttered distractedly. “Yeah. Okay.”

He turned reluctantly toward the direction of Central Fourteen, adjusting his pace automatically as the prosthetic clicked softly against tile beneath his scrub pants. Fatigue had settled deep into the joint hours ago, making his gait slightly uneven now that the adrenaline from earlier trauma activations had worn off.

Then he heard it.

“HULA HOOP!”

Everything in his body stopped instantly.

The voice was barely recognizable.

Raw. Ragged. Strangled around obvious pain and panic in a way that made every hair on the back of his neck stand upright immediately. For one horrible second his brain refused to process it properly because it did not make sense. Not your voice. Not like that.

And then recognition hit him all at once.

The hospital safe word.

Trauma Two.

Jack’s heart dropped so violently it almost hurt.

No.

The thought hit him before anything else.

No no no.

Adrenaline detonated through his bloodstream hard enough to make him dizzy.

Then instinct took over completely.

“No,” he breathed aloud, already moving before the word fully left his mouth.

He pivoted so sharply pain shot violently through his prosthetic, the sudden turn grinding pressure through the socket hard enough that under normal circumstances it would have staggered him. But right now he barely felt it beneath the sheer overwhelming panic flooding his system.

Fear swallowed everything else whole.

Not the controlled fear he knew from trauma medicine. Not the clinical kind that sharpened your focus during codes and mass casualty calls.

This was different.

This was personal.

Jack shoved past a stretcher hard enough that the wheels screeched across tile while people all around him started reacting at the exact same time. Nurses turned toward Trauma Two instantly at the sound of the safe word. Dana’s head snapped upward from the nurses’ station. Santos was already running before half the department fully understood what was happening.

But Jack got there first.

The curtain outside Trauma Two jerked violently as shouting erupted from inside the room. Monitors screamed overhead loud enough to echo through the entire department while equipment crashed hard against the floor somewhere beyond the drapes.

“Get him off her!”

The words barely registered through the roaring in Jack’s ears.

His pulse was so loud now it drowned everything else out.

He hit the doorway hard enough that the curtain ripped halfway off the track as he shoved inside.

And then he saw you.

Lying on the floor.

Motionless.

For one horrifying second his brain simply stopped functioning.

You were crumpled unnaturally against the tile beside the cabinets, one arm twisted wrong beneath you while blood streaked across the side of your face from where your head had struck something hard enough to split skin open. Jack noticed everything all at once in the brutal hyperclarity trauma doctors developed after years in emergency medicine.

The bruising already forming around your throat.

The abnormal angle of your shoulder.

The way your chest barely moved.

And somehow that was the part that terrified him most.

You were not moving enough.

Leon was still screaming somewhere nearby while Ahmed and two nurses fought to restrain him against the opposite wall, his face wild with postictal confusion and terror. Somebody was yelling for sedation meds. The entire trauma bay had dissolved into complete chaos.

But Jack barely registered any of it.

Because you were on the floor.

And you were not getting up.

Something inside his chest seemed to cave inward violently.

“Oh, honey.”

Then he said your name, and the sound that came out barely resembled the steady, composed voice Jack used during traumas and codes and every impossible shift the hospital threw at him.

This was different.

There was no clinical calm left in him now.

Only fear.

Pure terrified fear.

He dropped beside you so fast pain tore sharply through his prosthetic as his knee hit tile, but he ignored it instantly. His hands shook hard enough he almost missed your carotid pulse the first time he checked.

Then finally.

There. Weak, but there.

Relief hit so hard it almost made him nauseous.

“Oh my God,” he whispered shakily, one bloodstained hand cradling the side of your face carefully while the other pressed against your neck searching for injuries. “Hey. Hey, stay with me. Come on.”

You did not respond.

Jack’s stomach turned violently.

Training forced itself back online in fragmented pieces despite the panic threatening to choke him alive. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Neuro. He assessed automatically even while his brain screamed at him that this was you beneath his hands.

Not a patient.

You.

Blood pressure crash from trauma? Concussion? Cervical injury? Shoulder dislocation? Fracture? Internal bleed?

His eyes flicked instantly toward your throat again and rage flooded him so suddenly it nearly stole his breath.

Finger-shaped bruises were already darkening against your skin.

He hurt you.

The realization nearly made Jack physically sick.

“Jack,” Dana’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as she dropped beside him. “We need to move.”

But Jack could barely hear her.

Your eyelashes fluttered faintly for half a second before falling closed again and something inside him broke completely at the sight.

“No no no,” he whispered frantically, brushing damp hair away from your face with shaking fingers. “Stay awake. Baby, stay awake for me.”

His voice cracked hard on the last word.

That terrified him almost as much as the sight of you bleeding on the floor.

Because Jack Abbot did not lose composure.

Not during traumas, not during mass casualties, not while pronouncing deaths.

But right now panic was tearing straight through him so violently he could barely breathe around it.

And for the first time in years, he had absolutely no idea how to separate being a doctor from being the man who loved you.

“What the hell happened?”

Robby’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as he pushed into Trauma Two with Mohan directly behind him, but for half a second, both of them stopped cold.

The room looked catastrophic. Leon was still fighting violently against security near the far wall, his movements frantic and disorganized while Santos shouted for more sedation. Equipment littered the floor around the trauma bay, overturned trays and scattered supplies crunching beneath people’s shoes as alarms screamed overhead loudly enough to make the entire room feel claustrophobic.

And in the middle of all of it, you were lying motionless on the floor with Jack kneeling beside you.

Blood streaked down the side of your face and disappeared beneath the collar of his hoodie still hanging around your shoulders. Bruising had already started darkening visibly around your throat, ugly fingerprints blooming beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while your left arm rested at an angle that made Mohan’s stomach immediately drop.

“Jesus Christ,” Mohan breathed.

“Security’s got the patient,” Dana snapped, already dropping beside you with Santos. “Probably postictal aggression after the seizure. He went after her.”

Robby moved instantly after that, years of trauma medicine overriding shock the second he reached your side. “Get her on a gurney now. C-spine precautions. Santos, I need vitals. Dana, page CT and tell them we’re coming immediately. Mohan, get me neuro and ortho on standby.”

Everybody moved except Jack.

He stayed frozen beside you on the tile floor, one hand still cradling the side of your face like he physically could not force himself to let go.

“Jack,” Robby said.

No response.

Jack was staring at you with an expression Robby had never seen on him before. Not panic exactly. Worse than panic. Helplessness, maybe, like his brain had short-circuited somewhere between doctor and boyfriend and now could not figure out how to function as either.

“Jack,” Robby repeated more firmly.

That finally seemed to pull him back enough to blink.

“She isn’t breathing right,” he said hoarsely, voice rough enough it barely sounded like him anymore. “He had her by the throat. Her head hit the cabinet, probably. Possible LOC. Shoulder’s definitely dislocated, maybe fractured too.”

The words came out clipped and automatic, pure trauma assessment forced through panic, but his hands were still shaking.

Dana and Santos carefully slid a backboard beneath you while Mohan cut away the remains of the hoodie around your shoulder to assess the injury better. The second the fabric moved, Jack saw the full extent of the bruising spreading across your throat, dark purple already beneath your skin.

“He squeezed hard enough to leave petechiae,” Santos muttered quietly while examining your neck. “Shit.”

Robby’s jaw tightened immediately. “We need airway monitoring. Neck trauma protocol.”

You stirred weakly then, letting out a broken sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as Dana stabilized your shoulder. Jack moved instantly at the sound.

“Hey,” he said, voice softening so fast it almost hurt to hear. “Hey, don’t move. You’re okay.”

Your eyes fluttered halfway open for barely a second before unfocusing again.

“She’s awake,” Jack breathed.

“For now,” Robby answered grimly while checking your pupils with a penlight. “Possible concussion. We’re not ruling anything out yet.”

Jack knew that tone. It was the same one they all used when things might be much worse than they looked initially.

Around them, the room was finally beginning to settle into controlled chaos instead of outright panic. Security had Leon restrained now while Santos pushed sedatives through an IV line with tight, controlled movements. Leon’s terrified shouting dissolved into confused, exhausted mumbling as the medication began taking effect.

“He didn’t know what he was doing,” Mohan said quietly, mostly to fill the horrible silence hanging over the room.

Jack did not answer. Rationally, he already knew that. Postictal aggression, neurological confusion, severe agitation after seizure activity. They had all seen it before. But none of it mattered right now, because every time Jack blinked, he saw your body hitting the floor again.

“On my count,” Santos said firmly while positioning herself near your head. “One, two, three.”

They lifted you carefully onto the gurney, and the second they moved your shoulder, a sharp cry tore from your throat despite your barely conscious state.

Jack physically flinched.

Robby looked at him immediately. “Jack, I need you with me here.”

But Jack still looked frozen. His prosthetic locked slightly as he stood too quickly, pain shooting sharply through the joint while exhaustion and adrenaline crashed violently together inside his body. Normally, he compensated automatically for it. Years of physical therapy had taught him exactly how to move through pain without thinking.

Right now, he barely noticed it. All he could see was you strapped to a trauma gurney instead of standing beside one, and somehow that felt profoundly wrong in a way his brain could not fully process yet.

Dana squeezed his arm briefly as she passed him. “She’s alive,” she said quietly, firmly enough that it sounded almost like an order. “So stay with us.”

Jack swallowed hard, then finally nodded once.

The second the gurney locked into place beside the trauma bed, the room shifted fully into trauma mode. Controlled chaos. Fast hands. Sharply clipped orders. Monitor alarms blending into the constant noise of the ER outside while everybody moved around you with the kind of practiced coordination that only came from years of emergency medicine.

“BP dropping,” Santos called from the monitor station. “Ninety-two over fifty-six. Heart rate one-forty. Pulse ox ninety-four.”

Robby swore quietly under his breath before stepping beside the gurney. “Dana, I need another large bore IV. CBC, CMP, coags, type and screen, lactate. Full trauma panel.”

Dana was already moving before he finished speaking.

Mohan carefully stabilized your cervical spine while Perlah adjusted the collar more securely around your neck. Blood stained the side of your face now, dark against pale skin beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while bruising continued spreading visibly across your throat.

“She’s tachycardic from pain and adrenaline,” Mohan said quickly while palpating carefully along your ribs and clavicle. “Left shoulder deformity obvious. Could be anterior dislocation, maybe proximal humerus fracture too.”

“She hit hard,” Dana added grimly while cutting away the sleeve of your scrub top completely. “Look at the swelling already, poor baby.”

Jack forced himself closer finally, though every instinct in his body screamed at him to stop looking entirely.

Your shoulder looked wrong. Not subtly wrong, catastrophically wrong. The joint sat visibly displaced beneath skin already darkening with bruising while your arm rested protectively against your torso in unconscious guarding. Even barely responsive, your body was trying to protect the injury.

“Y/N?” Robby called firmly while shining the penlight into your eyes again. “Hey, stay with me.”

Your eyelids fluttered weakly, and your lips parted slightly before a small broken sound escaped you, more pain than words.

“There you go,” Dana said softly. “That’s good, hey sweetie.”

“She’s responsive,” Mohan confirmed. “Pupils reactive bilaterally.”

“Any obvious neuro deficits?”

“Hard to assess until she’s more alert.”

Jack swallowed hard. Normally those words would have sounded clinical. Routine. Hearing them about you made him feel sick.

Robby’s fingers moved carefully along your scalp before stopping near the back of your head. “She’s got a laceration here. Probably where she hit the cabinet.”

“How bad?” Jack asked immediately.

Robby looked up briefly. “Needs staples. I’m more concerned about intracranial bleed.”

Jack felt the room narrow sharply around him as his brain supplied every possibility instantly. Subdural. Epidural. Contusion. Diffuse axonal injury. Years of trauma medicine suddenly felt less like a skill and more like torture because now he knew exactly how bad this could become.

“BP’s still dropping,” Santos called sharply.

“Hang another liter.”

Dana connected fluids immediately while Mohan checked your abdomen carefully for rigidity and tenderness.

“She guarding?”

“Little bit.”

“Could just be pain response.”

“Or internal injury,” Robby answered grimly.

Jack closed his eyes briefly. Only twenty minutes ago, he had been teasing you for refusing to change out of wet scrubs. Twenty minutes ago, you had been standing beside him alive and exhausted and rolling your eyes at him. Now you were strapped to a trauma gurney while your coworkers discussed possible brain bleeds.

The trauma bay doors pushed open again.

“What do we have?”

Garcia entered already pulling gloves on, clearly expecting another routine consult before her eyes landed on the gurney. Then she froze.

“Is that...?”

Nobody answered immediately because suddenly saying it aloud made everything feel horrifyingly real.

Garcia moved closer automatically, surgical instincts taking over even while shock still flickered visibly across her face. Her eyes swept quickly across your injuries, taking in the bruising around your throat, the unstable shoulder, and the blood matted into your hair.

“Oh my God.”

Jack looked away sharply at the sound in her voice. He could handle panic, trauma, blood, failed resuscitations, and catastrophic injuries. But he could not handle hearing pity directed at you.

“What happened?” Garcia asked quietly.

“Postictal assault,” Robby answered while reviewing your vitals. “Patient seized after MVC. Became combative during recovery.”

Garcia’s jaw tightened immediately. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Jack, and somehow that made everything worse. Everybody in the hospital knew about the two of you. Not because either of you talked about it much, but because some things became obvious after enough years working together. The way Jack unconsciously searched for you in crowded rooms. The way your voice softened around him even during impossible shifts. The way both of you somehow always ended up side by side during difficult traumas without discussing it first.

And now everybody was watching him try not to fall apart while you lay bleeding in front of him.

“Y/N,” Garcia said gently while stepping closer to assess your airway. “Can you hear me?”

Your brow twitched faintly at the sound of your name.

“Good,” she murmured softly. “Stay with us.”

Jack finally moved closer again until he stood directly beside the gurney. For a second, he just stared at you. Really stared. At the bruises darkening beneath your jaw, at the trembling rise and fall of your breathing, at the blood drying against your temple.

Then very carefully, he reached down and took your hand.

Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm almost immediately.

Tiny movement. Huge relief.

“Okay,” Robby said firmly, forcing the room back into focus. “Let’s move. I want CT angio head and neck immediately. We’re ruling out intracranial bleed and carotid injury.”

Garcia nodded once beside him, already assessing your airway with practiced hands. “Neck swelling’s getting worse.”

Jack saw it too now that she said it aloud. The bruising around your throat had spread darker beneath the fluorescent lights while swelling gathered visibly beneath your jawline. Every breath you took sounded wrong now. Wet. Shallow. Strained enough to make every survival instinct in his body start screaming.

“Pulse ox is dipping,” Santos called sharply. “Ninety-one.”

“Jaw thrust,” Garcia ordered immediately.

Dana repositioned carefully at your head while Garcia leaned closer, studying the bruising around your airway with growing concern. “She may need to be intubated before CT if the swelling progresses.”

The word hit Jack like a physical blow. Intubated. His brain immediately supplied images he did not want. Ventilator settings. Sedation drips. ICU monitors. Neurological checks every hour.

“No,” he said automatically before he could stop himself.

Everybody looked at him.

Jack swallowed hard immediately, realizing too late he had said it aloud.

Robby’s expression softened slightly. “Jack.”

He hated the way Robby said his name right now. Carefully. Like he was one bad second away from falling apart completely.

“I know,” Jack muttered quickly, dragging a shaky hand down his face. “I know.”

But he didn’t. Not really. Because his brain kept splitting violently between two impossible realities. One side of him catalogued injuries automatically. Airway trauma after strangulation. Possible cervical instability. Hypoxia. Concussion. Internal bleeding. Shoulder fracture-dislocation. The other side could barely process the fact that you were lying here at all.

Your breathing suddenly hitched sharply.

Jack’s head snapped toward you instantly.

Your eyes fluttered weakly before opening. Confusion crossed your face immediately while you tried weakly to move, but pain flashed across your expression so fast it made Jack physically tense.

“Don’t,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “Baby, don’t move.”

Your gaze drifted slowly around the trauma bay like you were trying to understand where you were. The bright lights. The people surrounding you. The monitors beeping overhead. Then finally, your eyes landed on Jack.

Relief flickered there instantly. Small. Barely there. Enough to nearly destroy him.

“Hey,” he said softly, gripping your hand tighter without realizing it. “Hey, I’m right here.”

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out at first except a weak breath.

Jack leaned closer immediately. “What?”

Your brow pinched faintly in confusion.

“...Leon?”

The room went quiet for half a second.

Even now, barely conscious and injured and terrified, your first instinct was still the patient. Something inside Jack cracked painfully at that.

“He’s restrained,” Robby answered gently before Jack could. “You’re safe.”

Your eyes shifted again, slower this time.

“Hurts,” you whispered faintly.

Jack looked immediately toward your shoulder. “I know,” he said quietly, voice finally cracking despite how hard he tried to control it. “I know, sweetheart.”

Garcia’s eyes flicked sharply toward him at the sound. Jack almost never lost composure at work. Not like this.

You tried to swallow and immediately winced.

Garcia noticed too. “Throat pain?”

A tiny nod.

“Difficulty breathing?”

Another weak nod.

Garcia looked immediately toward Robby. “Airway’s worsening.”

Robby swore quietly under his breath. “We tube here or risk losing it in CT.”

The room shifted instantly again. More movement. More urgency. Dana reached for airway equipment while Santos prepared sedation meds with visibly tighter movements now. Mohan adjusted oxygen flow quickly while Garcia moved toward the head of the bed.

Jack felt suddenly frozen all over again.

Your eyes moved back toward him weakly, panic beginning to flicker beneath the pain now that you were awake enough to understand pieces of the conversation around you.

“Jack,” you whispered hoarsely.

His chest tightened violently. “I’m here.”

Your fingers curled weakly against his hand.

“Don’t...” Your breathing hitched painfully. “Don’t leave.”

That finally broke him.

Because you sounded scared. You, the person who stayed calm during pediatric arrests and mass casualty incidents and catastrophic traumas that made residents physically sick afterward.

Jack leaned down immediately, pressing his forehead briefly against yours despite the blood and chaos surrounding both of you. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered shakily. “Okay? I’m right here.”

Then your heart rate spiked sharply.

“One-fifty,” Santos warned.

Your oxygen dipped again.

“Eighty-eight.”

Garcia looked up instantly. “That’s it. We’re securing the airway.”

Panic flashed visibly across your face, and Jack felt your hand tighten weakly around his.

“Hey,” he said immediately, brushing damp hair carefully away from your forehead. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Your unfocused eyes found his again.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, even though his own heart was pounding hard enough to make him nauseous. “Just keep breathing for me.”

Garcia stepped beside him carefully. “Jack,” she said quietly. “I need room.”

And suddenly he realized there was nothing else he could do. No medication to order. No procedure capable of fixing this himself. No trauma protocol separating him from the overwhelming terror flooding his chest.

All he could do was let go of your hand and watch other people try to save you, and somehow that felt worse than anything he had seen in his entire career.

And somehow that felt infinitely worse than any injury he had seen in his entire career.

The intubation blurred together afterward in fragments Jack knew would probably stay with him for the rest of his life.

Garcia’s voice turned sharp and clinical the second she stepped fully into procedure mode. “Etomidate ready?”

“Ready.”

“Succinylcholine?”

“Ready.”

“Pulse ox?”

“Eighty-seven and dropping.”

The room moved quickly around you after that. Packaging tore open, monitors screamed softly overhead, and Santos pushed medications through your IV with controlled precision while Dana stabilized your cervical spine at the head of the bed.

Jack stood rooted beside the wall, feeling completely fucking useless.

He had watched hundreds of intubations in his career. He had performed them himself during impossible traumas, with blood filling airways and families screaming outside the room. Usually, the procedure grounded him. Medicine always grounded him because medicine made sense. Algorithms. Protocols. Airway, breathing, circulation. Find the problem and fix it.

But this was you, and suddenly none of it felt clinical anymore.

Your eyes found his one last time before the sedatives fully took effect. Fear still flickered there beneath the exhaustion and pain, but so did trust. Complete trust. The kind that made his chest ache violently because you were still looking at him like he could somehow fix this.

Then your body relaxed beneath the medication.

Garcia moved immediately. “Going in.”