Even at bedtime, already half asleep, Jamie patted the empty space beside him on the mattress and whispered, “Kitty can sleep here.”

Bucky had remained firm for much longer than you expected.

“We can get a fish,” he suggested one morning. “Fish are good. They stay where you put ’em.”

Jamie stared at him solemnly. Bucky stared back.

“You can pick the colour.” Bucky added. 

Jamie frowned. 

You watched from the kitchen table, hiding your smile behind your mug.

“I want a kitty,” Jamie whispered.

Bucky almost folded immediately. “A fish can be nice too, pal.”

Jamie looked down at his cereal and gave one miserable sniff.

Bucky looked at you helplessly.

You hummed.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but you only smiled and reached for your phone.

There was a small animal shelter twenty minutes away with several cats available for adoption. You had already found their page the night before, after Jamie had fallen asleep with his cheek pressed against his stuffed dog’s ear and Bucky had spent ten minutes carefully untangling the toy from his little arms.

You turned the screen towards him. “We should go this afternoon.”

Bucky glanced at the photographs, then at Jamie, who was still miserably playing with breakfast.

You kissed his cheek. “It’s just to have a look.”

Bucky knew exactly what you were doing and loved you far too much to stop you.

The shelter was filled with the distant sound of barking dogs and the occasional indignant meow. Jamie clung to Bucky at first, overwhelmed by all the noises, his small fist curled tightly in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. Bucky kept his human palm spread over his back and murmured into his hair until Jamie finally lifted his head.

Then he saw the kittens.

His entire little body buzzing with wonder. “Daddy,” he breathed.

“I see ’em.”

“Kitty.”

“Yeah, pal.”

Jamie wriggled on the spot until Bucky gave him the go ahead to run, though Bucky kept hold of his hands as he ran up towards the nearest enclosure. Jamie pressed his palms against the glass and stared inside with his mouth slightly open.

There were three kittens curled together on a blanket. Two were tabbies, sleepy and round-bellied, tangled around each other like striped socks. The third was white, apart from the faintest grey smudges between her ears and a tiny grey tip on her tail.

She was smaller than the others.

The moment Jamie appeared, she opened her pale blue eyes and stared back.

Jamie crouched.

The kitten stood, stretched her little back legs, and began wobbling towards the glass. She made it halfway before stepping on the edge of the blanket and tumbling sideways into one of her sleeping siblings.

Jamie gasped.

The kitten scrambled upright, shook herself, and continued as though nothing embarrassing had happened.

“She’s clumsy,” Bucky murmured.

You glanced at him. He had already leaned closer.

The kitten reached the glass and placed one tiny pink paw against it.

Jamie immediately put his hand over hers. “Baby kitty.”

The kitten opened her mouth and produced the smallest, squeakiest meow you had ever heard.

Jamie turned towards Bucky with both hands clasped against his chest, his face completely overcome.

Bucky looked at you. You raised your eyebrows.

“We’re only looking,” he reminded you, but there was already no conviction left in his voice.

A shelter worker opened the enclosure and lifted the kitten carefully. Jamie bounced on his feet as she was lowered into Bucky’s arms, making little excited noises beneath his breath.

Bucky froze.

He had held Jamie with more confidence when he was only a few hours old.

The kitten was so tiny that she fit almost entirely in his flesh hand, her white paws resting against the dark fabric of his henley. Bucky held his metal arm beneath her as extra support, unnecessarily cautious, his shoulders stiff with the terrible responsibility of being trusted with something so small.

The kitten sniffed his fingers.

Then she reached up, placed both paws against his chest, and began climbing him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured, startled.

She scaled the front of his shirt with determined little grunts, using his sleeve and collar like footholds until she managed to wedge herself beneath his chin.

Then she began to purr, absurdly loud for something so small. The sound vibrated against Bucky’s throat as she rubbed her face beneath his chin, covering him in white fur and unquestioning affection.

Jamie clapped both hands.

Bucky’s whole face softened.

You watched the exact moment he realised he had lost. 

His head tipped carefully towards the kitten, one finger moved over her back, barely touching, tracing her tiny spine.

The kitten purred harder.

“Cute little Alpine,” you whispered.

He raised his eyebrows. “Alpine?”

“She looks like snow, doesn't she?”

Bucky’s lips twitched. He knew exactly what you were doing.

He had fallen from the Alps. His therapist had suggested visiting snowy mountains as a family someday, replacing sad memories with good ones. Bucky hadn’t been ready for that yet.

But this tiny white kitten, purring safely beneath his chin and already reaching for Jamie with one paw? This was sweet.

Jamie reached up, and Bucky immediately crouched so he could see. Alpine sniffed Jamie’s fingers, then leaned forward and licked the very tip of one.

Jamie squealed so loudly that Alpine startled, though only for a second. Then she tried to catch one of the strands of hair falling over his forehead.

Jamie collapsed into giggles.

Within ten minutes, Bucky was asking the shelter worker questions.

What food was she eating? Had she seen a vet? Did she need medicine? Was she cold at night? Did she sleep alone? Was she frightened by loud noises? How much was she supposed to weigh? Was that little sneeze normal?

You stood beside him, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing while Alpine climbed into the crook of his metal elbow and curled herself there.

“We’re… still just looking?” you joked.

Bucky glanced down at the kitten, who was licking his metal thumb.“She picked Jamie.”

“Of course.”

After all, he could never say no to you. He had never been able to say no to Jamie either, even when he tried to disguise it beneath sensible suggestions about fish.

Alpine yawned, showing a tiny pink tongue and small teeth, then tucked her nose beneath Bucky’s wrist.

Bucky sighed.

Jamie didn’t understand the word adoption, but he understood when Alpine was placed in a little carrier and came home with you.

The entire journey back, he kept one hand pressed against the mesh door, whispering, “Hi, kitty,” whenever Alpine looked at him. Alpine answered almost every time with a little chirping sound, eventually curling against the side of the carrier nearest Jamie’s hand.

At the pet shop, Bucky attempted to be reasonable.

He failed within minutes.

Alpine needed a bed, but perhaps she needed two, in case she preferred one room over another. She needed toys, though Bucky couldn’t decide whether she would like feathers or little fabric mice, so he bought both. She needed a scratching post, a brush, a collar, several kinds of treats, and two different blankets because one was made out of better materials but the other looked warmer.

Jamie chose a tiny yellow ball with a bell inside it. Alpine adored it.

The moment you let her out at home, she batted it beneath the couch, crawled after it, and emerged backwards with dust on her whiskers. Bucky immediately moved the couch away from the wall so she wouldn’t get stuck, despite you pointing out that she had already freed herself.

Alpine trotted directly over his boot, climbed his trouser leg halfway to his knee, and hung there while Bucky stared down at her.

You covered your mouth.

“Help her,” he said.

“She got herself up there.”

“She’s stuck.”

Alpine meowed and continued climbing.

Bucky scooped her up before she could reach his waist, settling her securely against his chest. She immediately began purring, pleased with the outcome of her expedition.

Jamie wrapped both arms around Bucky’s leg, demanding his turn.

So Bucky sat down on the rug with Jamie tucked between his knees and Alpine curled in his lap.

“Cute little Alpine,” he whispered.

You kissed his cheek.

Eventually, Jamie fell asleep and snored between you. Alpine purred louder.

Bucky’s arm tightened around his family, and although he would never admit it after arguing so confidently in favour of a fish, his smile remained long after both Jamie and Alpine had fallen asleep.

Maybe this had been a good idea. Maybe it had been the best one yet.

—

Lord knows he wore you out earlier.

He stripped his jacket off, followed by his shoes to pad quietly across the floor. He rolled his shoulders to ease the ache. Tried to ignore the pounding in his head and block out how loud everything was in his mind. It wasn’t easy to shake some days. 

Corruption and pressure threatened to make his walls crumble. His strict moral code and stabilizers were stripped away to almost nothing. Fisk exploited him. 

But the moment he saw you in his bed, he exhaled some of the tension and smiled.

His North Star.

It was hard to believe some days that he had someone like you. He considered himself lucky to have someone so good. So perfect. 

Light spilled into the room as he opened the door completely. He didn’t approach right away, content just to hear your soft and steady breathing. You were curled up slightly, tucked under the comforter right where he left you. Where you belonged. 

He let out a breath, his fingers flexing. You were there. You were real.

The mattress dipped under his weight after he lifted the comforter, still careful so he didn’t disturb you yet. He should’ve showered and changed, but he had to hold you. Listening and watching you could only satisfy him so much.

He slid in easily beside you, something loosening in his chest when he wrapped an arm around your waist. His nose brushed your neck, his lips following. You were so soft. So warm.

Everything that he dealt with outside of his place, the visions of blood and a dark abyss, it all faded away thanks to you.

He nearly groaned when you sighed, his eyes briefly shutting. It was the same sound you let out every time he slowly entered you. Every sound you made was music to his ears, but that one in particular got beneath his skin and swam in his veins. 

Maybe it was because it was gentle and he didn’t have many gentle things in his life. 

“Missed you, sweetheart,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Thought of you all night. It kept me going.”

He suddenly pictured the first time you smiled at him. It was on a rainy day, and your smile made the day brighter. It was one of the most genuine things he had ever seen. In a city full of liars, you were something that remained true. 

It was something he had to keep for himself. 

Your breathing changed when his mouth moved back to your neck and his fingers dug into your waist, making him smile gently. You weren’t quite awake yet. But you were getting there. 

“You’re so good, you know that?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So good to stay right here. Waiting for me.”

Coming home to you made him feel normal because it was something that normal people craved. Stability. Love. He deserved that. He deserved good things. 

He deserved you. 

He lifted his head in time to see your eyes flutter open. The innocence in your gaze was a stark contrast to the predatory gleam in his. Even as he smiled, he looked like a wolf about to sink his teeth in.

And you were such a delicious meal. 

“...Dex?” you asked groggily.

He craved the way you said his name. 

“Yeah,” he said, his fingers brushing your cheek as you blinked the sleepiness away. “I’m home.”

He saw the confusion flicker across your face when you shifted your body. Well, you tried to at least. The bindings wrapped securely around your wrists and headboard didn’t exactly give you much room to move around. That was the whole point.  

“Dex… What…” 

He frowned when the confusion bled into panic, his hand pressing firmly but not harshly on your chest to keep you as still as possible. Your heart raced faster beneath his palm and your eyes widened, your fear evident as he tilted his head. He understood why you were scared and yet he didn’t get it at all. He wasn’t going to hurt you. 

He’d never hurt you. 

But he should’ve anticipated this. 

“Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay,” he said with practiced ease, kissing your forehead and letting his mouth rest there to ease your frightened expression. “I’ve got you.”

“You… Did you…” Your breath hitched. “You tied me up?!”

He did after he ruined you, cleaned you up, and made sure you were fast asleep. His hand had drifted to your hip, your body pliant and willing, before he stopped himself. He’d save that for another night. The two of you had a lifetime to make every fantasy come true. 

Every dream, too. 

“Yeah I did, but you’re safe,” he assured you. 

A frightened sound escaped you, your body trembling lightly. 

His jaw clenched. It wasn’t one of your sweet or happy sounds, and it worked its way into his bones before he could stop it. He didn’t want you to be afraid of him. He couldn’t have you afraid of him. At the end of the day, he was a good guy. 

You needed to trust him to take care of you. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said quietly, kissing the tip of your nose. “I should’ve done it while you were still awake so I could explain.”

“E-Explain?” you repeated, your voice small. 

You hadn’t screamed once since you woke up, so that had to be a good sign. 

“I just needed to know you’d be here when I got back. That’s all. Needed to know you weren’t going to…” He trailed off and took a breath. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here. You’re here. That’s what matters, so you don’t need to be scared, okay? Not of me.”

You didn’t know about the cameras he set up, but he checked them throughout the night to make sure you were safe. Seeing you vulnerable, it was a reminder that he had to come home to you. And it was a reminder that you couldn’t leave. 

Not that you would leave him. His North Star wouldn’t abandon him. Binding you was just an extra precaution. 

Plus, you looked good bound to his bed. 

He could even watch the footage of the two of you from earlier. 

“I’m not-”

“Leaving,” he finished for you. “I know.”

You weren’t going to leave him. 

“Think of this like a kink,” he said, a subtle smirk forming. 

Kinks were normal. 

This was normal.

“Your wrists don’t hurt, do they?” he asked, concern laced in his tone, moving a hand to take yours and lace your fingers together. 

You shook your head slowly. Of course, they didn’t hurt. He was careful. 

He took care of you. 

“Good,” he said, his breath ghosting your lips. “Then I’ll keep you tied up just a little bit longer, okay?”

He swallowed down whatever you had to say when lips covered yours, his hand sliding to your neck and resting there while his tongue explored your mouth. You tasted so sweet. He wanted you. Wanted to be inside you. 

His hips shifted against yours before he caught himself and broke the kiss. He pressed his forehead to yours and exhaled slowly, his grip loosening. You needed just a little more rest before he wore you out again. 

“Shh. Go back to sleep,” he urged, smiling softly before he settled over you like a blanket, his lips caressing your skin. “I’ll be here when you wake up, and we can talk more about it.”

Your pulse still pounded under his touch and his own heartbeat picked up. But he kept his breathing steady, silently urging you to match his. He relaxed, too, like he was someone warm and comforting and not someone smothering you. 

It took a minute, but your eyes shut. Maybe you thought it was a dream. He’d remind you that it was very real, and that he wasn’t going anywhere when you woke up again. 

He would always be there. 

Just like you would always be there. 

Even if he had to tie you to his bed every single night to keep you. 

Things could be worst, right? He's trying so hard to be normal. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

As you pore over another letter requesting a forgiveness of debt, you hear a disturbance without the modest holding of your marital home. Your husband’s groom comes through the front door, his steps much lighter than those of the squat count. He rushes to knock upon the study door.

You bid him to enter.

“My lady,” Basil bends his neck. “The lord is receiving a visitor.”

You lay down the scroll and let it roll upon itself. “A visitor? Unannounced?”

“Yes, my lady. Most unexpected but the lord bids you make certain dinner is enough for all.” Basil rocks on his heels anxiously.

“Yes, yes, we would be sure to uphold hospitality,” you assure him as you come out from behind the desk. “Certainly, I am not upset, though Constance may be. Assure my lord husband it will be done.”

“Yes, my lady.” He shrinks into his shoulders and leaves.

You smile to yourself. You’re never cruel to those in your employ. There’s no reason in it. Your mother would roar at her maid and it only ever got her resent. When she died, none of the servants were very sombre.

You go to the kitchen and find Constance. “We’ll have a guest for dinner.”

“A guest?” She grumbles as she turns the spit in the firestove, a healthy hen roasting over the flames.

“Yes. It seems my husband has found company.”

“Lord Randall if much too amiable for the scantness of his larder.” She wipes her fingers on her apron.

“Mm, I know it.” You mull, not confessing the poor news from the sowers in the southern fields. You will be short of grain for the winter.

You leave the cook to her grumbling. She will use more potatoes than she meant to that night, though you would take a lesser ration for the occasion. You find Mirabel, your sole maid, and have her ready the table in expectation.

You climb up to your chambers to fuss at your plain gown and cap. Randall talks of attending court next season but you hardly have the wardrobe for it, even if you’ve the title. Third daughters are rarely left a fair lot but you wonder if a convent would’ve done you better.

You hear voices without and go to the window. You hide behind the thick curtain and watch your husband approach with a much larger man. Randall is not tall or handsome. His cheeks are ruddy and pocked, and his stature is squat.

The stranger is tall and burly. His collar is high and a jewel catches the sunlight. His attire is much brighter than your husband's. Your simple embroidery around the cuffs and collar does little to stand out against the tanned leather.

You descend to greet your husband and his companion. Basil opens the doors and announces them.

“The Lord Randall returns, with the Duke of Krypfort, Lord Clark Kent.” He declares in a wobbly voice. The formality is laughable. The countly holding is more a farmhouse than a castle.

“Lord Kent,” your husband gestures as you step off the last step. “My sweet wife,” he introduces you proudly. “She has no doubt been a flurry readying our dinner.”

“Lord Kent,” you curtsy. You know of him. Your husband’s overlord. Merely a name in your head until that very moment. His chin is cleft finely, his nose is strong, and his blue eyes are bolder than the sky. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“And very much surprised.” Lord Randall adds with a chortle.

“Ah, yes, I was unable to send word ahead.” Lord Kent explains as he nears you. He offers his hand. You glance at your husband then lift your own. The duke takes it and bends to kiss your knuckles. “Such a lovely wife. And your brood?”

“None, as yet.” Randall chafes in his boots. “But it is a young marriage.”

“And you are still a young man with a very young wife.” Kent’s mouth slants as his eyes linger on you. “You see, the king sends me upon business. The council has voted upon an audit of the counties. Thus I must submit my own holdings.”

“I recall last time it was the earl’s who came out, my lord.” Randall intones.

“They did.” Kent affirms as your husband leads him to the modest dining hall. You follow. “But my earls do bolster and shorten their numbers when it suits them. I figured to do the counting mine self. It is a fine opportunity to make myself familiar to my people as it were.” He pauses and turns, looking back at you. “Lady, let us not forget our manners. Please, sit.”

You bat your lashes. “Oh, no fuss. I should help Constance with dinner–”

“Let the cook and her servants attend to their own work,” he insists.” As he pulls back a chair. “Please sit. As I said, I long to know my vassals.”

You look to your husband again. He arches a brow. You abide and near, sitting as the lord pushes the chair under you. You thank him meekly. He claims the seat next to you as Randall hesitates before rounding the table to sit across from you.

“And how long have you been married, Lord Randall?” Kent eyes you as you try not to notice.

“Ah, I believe, just short two years or thus.” Your husband answers. “I’ve been much away at business.”

“Business? What business would be more important than a lovely wife.” The duke chides. “My own… she gave me a son before her tragic passing.” He pauses and exhales. “He’s a healthy boy. Growing fast but I should’ve liked to give him siblings.”

“Condelences, my lord. We received news and we were sad to hear it. I saw Lady Lois prior. In Noth as she was on her way to the Easter mass.”

“Oh, yes, wasn’t she shining. The most lovely hair.” He sighs again. He turns to look at you. “Cherish your wife and she will give you fine issue.”

Yes, my lord. Certainly, I only long to do so.” Randall assures.

You try not to blush at the underlying suggestions. Your husband does attempt to do his duty. You try not to think of his fumbling of how many times he’s spilled on your thigh before doing more than that. You hold an elegant smile.

“My lord,” your voice is squeaky. “Was it a long road here?”

“Ah, she is kind. Caring.” He praises. “I’ve been ahorse for some time. I’ve come down from Rochewyn all the way along the Bend.” He draws his route with his thick finger.

“That is a very long way. I came along the Bend for my wedding day. My family hails from Cynster.”

“Longer way than mine.” He remarks. “Let’s hope it was for a good marriage.”

Your husband shifts in his chair. Basil and Mirabel appear with trays of bread and butter. They lay them down as the duke observes them quietly. He doesn’t say anything as they go and he slices into a loaf.

“Is that the extent of your staff, Lord Randall?” He asks at last.

“At this time. When the season reaps, we will budget for more. My wife does keep a fine and tight household.”

“She must to subsist on a maid and a groom.”

“And a cook,” your husband adds.

Lord Kent bites into the hard bread. You butter a chunk for yourself but find your appetite waning. He swallows as you feel his gaze upon you once more.

“Her complexion welcomes colour. She would look fine in a shade of rose.” He drawls. “Perhaps a more fashionable silhouette as well.” Lord Kent rebukes.

“Well, as I’ve said, we hadn’t time to ready for you lord.”

“A noblewoman should always be kept in finery. And a wife should always be ready, yes?” Lord Kent insists boldly. “And she is a beautiful wife, Randall. Submissive, gentle.”

Your husband clears his throat. “She is a good wife, yes, Duke.”

“She deserves a good husband.”

You squirm as the words hang in the silence until it bubbles and boils. Mirabel and Basil return with plates of hen and potatoes, along with sliced beets and barley. You hesitate as the duke eagerly digs in and your husband moves his food around, chewing on his agitation.

“If you are to build your holding, Lord Randall, you will need to first build a family.” Kent pauses to lick his lips, smacking them together. He angles to lean on his elbow and looms over you.  “Tell me, Lady, when last did your husband lay with you?”

“My lord,” Randall scoffs, appalled.

The duke raises his palm to your husband without looking. “Tell me, lady? When last did he pay his duty to you?”

“This is–” Your husband begins.

“It is upon my task. I must know whether I can expect any fruit to be borne of this hold.” Kent insists brusquely, staring you down as you wilt and look at your plate. “When?”

“My lord, I… I’m unsure–”

“Within the last fortnight?” He prompts.

You twitch. “My lord. I… it is indecent to say–”

“Yes?”

“I… believe so.” You peek up at Randal as his face scalds scarlet.

“Mm, well, I suppose he might have planted something in such a fertile field,” he touches your sleeve and you flinch.

“My lord,” Randall drones flatly.

“But did he pleasure you?”

You gulp. Your husband sits up as tall as he can and rests his hand over the blunt butter knife.

“My lord…” you whisper.

“Has he ever?” The duke pinches your sleeve and leans in. “Have you cried out his name as your entire being shook?”

You blanch as your lip trembles. You can’t speak. Your whole body is alight.

“With respect, my lord, I do not appreciate your impropriety–”

“With respect, Count,” Kent points at your husband without a glimpse in his direction. “You’ve no right to bid me of my manners on the ground I have rights to. On the grounds you pay me oversight to. So shut your fat mouth.”

Randall’s nostrils flare and he growls. He slaps his hand down and grips the butter knife. “You’ve offended me in my own home–” He charges around the table.

The duke stands calmly as your husband’s chair clatters. He faces Randall as he barrels around the end of the table. Kent’s hand works lithely around his belt and he steps forward without hesitation.

He bats the butter knife from Randall’s hand and your husband lurches and sputters, a sickly groan grinding up his throat. He leans on the duke as he wheezes and Kent’s elbow bends deep and his shoulder jerks. He shoves your husband away and the shorter man tips onto his back, trembling as he slaps at the leaking wound in his stomach.

You gasp as your scream sticks in your throat. Your eyes water as your head spins. This cannot be. It cannot!

You spin and hurry to the door. You poke your head out and find your usual guard, as vigilant as ever. Sir Lloyd looks at you from the corner of his eye, his nose cut in a stoic profile over his tufted mustache. His light armour clinks with his movement as his hand tightens on his pommel.

“Princess,” he intones flatly.

“Ah, you’re here.” You reply.

“As ever.” He states as a fact.

“Mm,” you hum. Ever since your father put you at the guard’s charge, you’ve felt a twinge of guilt. He isn’t the sort to find glory in watching over a naive princess. “And I am as ever grateful for your protection.”

His cheek dimples and brow arches. His eyes drift back to the opposite wall. You cannot blame him his resent.

“You require your lady maid, princess?” He asks.

“No. Unless, do you think?” You step out fully and touch the net over your hair. “Would a duke prefer my hair loose, sir?”

Sir Lloyd keeps his eyes on the stone. “I’ve sworn all the attention I might pay to lady’s tresses to your father. I fear I’m not much versed in braids and curls.” He looks at you again, once more without turning his head. “The net becomes you, however.”

“Ah, sir, you are silly.” You clap your hands. “No, I didn’t need Mercia. I only… I hoped to sneak away to the gardens. I thought some roses might be nice to receive the Duke.”

His eyes narrow and his armour rises and falls with his chest. “Princess.”

“You wouldn’t have to come. I’ll be quick.”

“You know that I must, princess.” His thumb rubs the metal ornament at the top of his pommel.

You pout and nod. He is correct. You are to go nowhere without company, least of all, his. You pity him the task of acting as your shadow. You suppose your days seem as folly to a knight and royal guard.

“I suppose then you might call Mercia and I would send her.” You resign.

He sighs again and tilts his head. “We will go, princess.”

Your smile beams and you bounce on your toes. “I must bring a basket. I will be quick, sir.”

You turn and leave the door open. You snatch up the woven basket with the twisted handle and shuffle back to the corridor. As you emerge, Sir Lloyd reaches to pull shut the door. You swing the basket in triumph.

“At your delight, princess.” He gestures with his gloved hand.

You stand taller and set off down the corridor. He walks just a step back. You can hear his armour and the hard soles of his boots.

“What colour do you think, sir?”

“A flower is a flower,” he harrumphs.

“No, not just a flower.” You trill. “Red is for love and charity. A kind colour. White would be innocence, and I suppose, heavenly. The purple would be too royal, would it not? Too pretentious? Or pink for grace and romance…”

He’s silent as he skirts around you. He goes down the first step of the staircase and offers his hand. You brace his wrist as you descend and he assures your balance. He makes a slow descent.

“And what should they mean if your father denies the betrothal, princess?”

“They will be something pretty to cheer me.” You shrug. “Father said he didn’t mind the Duke.”

“Your father has never met a person he did not mind. He will find fault in a child at play.” He scoffs. “With respect, princess.”

“No, you wouldn’t be untrue. My father is…elusively temperamental.” You drone as you come to the flat stone. “Perhaps then the flowers would be for me. A measure to calm my nerves as I wait anon.”

“You…” he begins but stops himself, as if thinking better of his thought. He continues. “You are anxious for your suitor, princess?”

You look at him over your shoulder. Servants rush to open the doors as you approach. “I am. It is kind of you to ask though… there are many troubles bigger than mine own.”

“Whatever troubles the princess is my duty to ward off.” He assures. “That is as your father bid.”

“And to you, I apologise. I’m certain you’d rather be ahorse or at least, have reason to draw your sword, sir.”

“I shouldn’t long for it for it would mean you are in danger.” He says as he follows you out into the sunshine.

You make your way to the gardens and delve into the hedges of intertwined thorns and petals. You see a blushing pink bloom and hurry forward to touch it. You feel along the stem and squeak as you pull your hand back. 

Sir Lloyd approaches and opens his gloved hand. “Princess.”

You show him your pricked finger. The blood beads at the tip. He pinches, firm but gentle, and tuts.

“Do not touch. A duke would be appalled to see such fine fingers tortured.” He bids. “Point and I will cut whatever you like.”

“Oh, sir, thank you.”

You pull your hand from his and fix the basket over your other arm. “That pink one that bit me, sir.”

He gives you a look and you giggle. He slides a long dagger from his belt. You watch the metal and your eyes widen. You never paid much heed to the weapons he carried. They would never be used against you, thus you never worried.

He delicately slips his hand around the stem, careful not to disturb the petals, and he cuts through the thorns. He lays the rose in the basket as you hold it out. 

“Pink, romance, you said, princess.”

“Or grace. Or heavenly perfection.” You muse. “But I only like the shade, sir. Don’t you?”

He turns to cut some more pink blooms. “I’ve not much of an eye for these things,” he holds up another rose, this one with white at the base of the petals and pink along the edges. He looks at you over it. “Though I can see beauty when it is in front of me.”

🌹

Compline rang out from the cathedral bells ages ago. It is late and you are just as restless as you’ve been much of the day. You are adrift somewhere between dusk and dawn. Alone.

The duke did not arrive. Not as they said he would. Has he turned back with doubt? Or has something worse befallen him? No, those things are only wives tales.

You sit against the headboard, still in your lilac gown, with the net still in your hair, and the chain around your neck bearing your mother’s bequeathed gem. Your slippers even remain on your feet as you wring your hands and wait. As the night wears on, so do you. Your head bobbles and dips.

A knock at the door gives you a start. The door opens and Mercia enters. The lantern flickers at your bedside. She gasps.

“Princess, you’ve not slept!” She decries.

You hush her. “Is there word of the duke?”

“Oh, Princess, you mustn’t worry so. You must be ready for when he does come. You will be dreary with fatigue–”

“Have you heard anything?” You plead with her.

“No, Princess. Nothing. I’ve only come as morning approaches.” She explains.

“Go then. I have no need of any but the duke.”

“Princess, perhaps some rose tea or–”

“Please, leave.”

She obeys. Your mind races with worry. Was it you? Or your father? He can be demanding and rather particular. Perhaps he saw the duke and turned him away…

Another knock comes before you can slump. You call for the visitor to enter. It is only Sir Lloyd. He does not enter often. Only with your father.

“Princess.” He greets. “The maid says you are unwell.”

“The maid lies.”

“You’ve not slept, princess.”

“So I’ve not,” you cross your arms. “And the duke has not come.”

Sir Lloyd stares at you. You shy away and look at your skirts. You huff.

“You should rest. It is my duty to see you safe and well. You will not be without sleep.”

“Sir. You needn’t worry so. Only keep the wretches out. That is your duty.”

He is quiet. He backs up and pulls the door with him. “So it is,” he utters before it closes entirely.

🌹

Your father enters without pretense. He is a king, he needs no welcome or permission. You sit at the window, in the same lilac gown as these last two days, with the same gnawing dread in your gut. Sir Lloyd stands at the door, hand on his pommel and shoulders straight.

“Daughter,” the king says in his cold tone. “We’ve news of your suitor. He will not be your husband.”

You gasp and stand. You nearly tip from exhaustion. “But why not? Where has he gone?”

“Slain. Dead in the dirt. Some bandits.” He says without compassion.

You put your hands to your cheek in horror. Sir Lloyd’s brow twitches slightly but otherwise, he is unbothered. Your father growls.

“Rather inconvenient. I tire of meeting these upstarts. All they do is recite their useless titles and praise a maiden they’ve never laid eyes on. I do not require love, I require money, lands. And now his shrew of a sister will hoard it for herself.” He throws his hands up. “Rats.”

He turns and stomps to the door. Sir Lloyd clears his throat. “And the bandits? Are they not a threat to other travellers? If they would assault a noble, what might keep them from the very same upon the royal person? The summer progress is not far away, your highness.”

Your father snorts. “Always my cleverest knight, Hansen.” He smacks his knuckles on the guard’s arm. “Go on then. Deal with the rabble. Make an example as you do.”

“Happily,” Sir Lloyd bows his head. “I will have Nikolai take my place here until I return.”

“If he isn’t sober, let me suggest Geralt.” Your father retorts before he strides out.

You stand, stunned. You back up and sit on the window seat. You hang your head.

“Dead?” You whisper.

“Princess,” Sir Lloyd says. “I will avenge your suitor. In your honour.”

“Death and more death,” you turn onto your side and crumple up. “I thought… I hoped…” 

You close your eyes and hug yourself. You hear the guard come close, sense him even. Almost as if his fingers hover right above your cheek. He exhales.

“I will have Mercia bring you some lemon water and milk. You must calm. Sleep, princess. I will not be long in my justice.”

🌹

You languish in bed, defeated by fate. How many times must this charade be played out. The first lord your father chose was too short and squat. The second made a bad jape and nearly got the axe. The third complimented and earl your father despised. The fourth and the fifth annoyed him for no particular reason. Now the sixth has perished to some forest-infesting scoundrels.

Mercia brings you meals you do not touch and says words you do not hear. You are a princess. You are meant to marry a fine man; to love him; to be cherished. You long as any does to be wanted. For once in your life…

It is night. The window lets in a night breeze to soothe the stagnant air. There are voices in the hall. You perk up at the familiarity of the latter tone. Footsteps trod away.

A gentle tap comes at the door. You do not move. Slowly, the hinges groan.

“Princess,” Sir Lloyd’s shadow stands at the wall.

“Good knight, you’ve returned.” You say without rising.

“So I have. Victorious. The beast that slew the young duke have been dealt with.”

You sit up as your fatigue slakes away. “You…”

“By my hand. In your name.” He assures.

“I… but the duke is dead, still.”

He exhales loudly. He closes the door, from the inside. You turn your legs over the side of the bed and fumble to strike flint to light the lantern. He nears and takes it from you, doing it himself. He smells like iron.

“Sir?”

“I’ve ridden all night to be sure I could be here. That I could protect you from heels such as those I’ve seen off to their fates.” He sneers as he backs up.

You look up at him. There is a dent in his shoulder armour and a reddened patch on his cheekbone. You rise and lift the lantern. You follow him as he strides to the window.

“Sir, you’ve been injured?”

“I’ve had worse.” He stares out at the night.

You bring the lantern closer to see him better and he turns away. There’s something amiss. He has changed. He moves in a prowl as he considers the room. He pauses to touch the wilting flowers in the pot on the table. The ones he cut for you. He bends to smell them.

He stands and snickers. “The very purse I filled are now on my own belt.”

You stare at him and set the lantern down on the other side of the pot. “What do you mean, sir?”

“It is ironic to think, men as me, are paid to wield death upon others and it is called honour. Others are paid for the same and deemed criminals.” He scoffs. “I suppose it is all in who is felled and who is paying.”

You frown. Your chest flutters and your mind swims. You don’t understand.

“Sir, your words confound me.”

He bends forward and flattens his palms on the table. He hangs his head and lingers like that as you listen to his breath. He inhales deeply and stands at full height. You never noticed before how fearsome and gargantuan he is. There is blood upon his armour still, it catches the flame’s flicker.

“Your father bid me protect you and it is what I’ve done.” He says.

“Sir?”

He walks around the table and you turn to him. He stands before you. He looks down at his hands and brings them up next to your arms. He shudders.

“The duke was better dying on the road. It would not be right to slay him on his wedding night.” He drawls as he closes his hands around your arms and drags them up. You shiver.

“What…. You don’t mean? You…”

“I did my duty. I protected you. I kept you from some spoiled duke who would not care for you as I do.”

“Sir? You cannot– you jape. You play with my wits.”

𝐀𝐫𝐢 𝐋𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

36 years old. 

Grumpy, comes across as cold and disinterested. 

6’9'', big fuckin’ bloke. Huge. Could climb him like a tree. 

Lloyd’s right hand. Ari gets the job started and finished. Doesn’t like to get his hands too dirty. 

Secretly a massive softy but takes a while for that to come out. 

Divorcee. Going through his ‘I hate women, why did she leave me, what did I do, womp womp’ phase. 

Not the worst of the bunch, but not the best by any means.

If you want a closed off, grumpy, moody, mean man, then take this one.

Just pet him, he’ll calm down.

Top Three: Choking, Overstimulation, Size Kink

Ari’s Playlist. give it a listen for his vibe

𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐎𝐧𝐞

34 years old.

Damn right mean. Near  evil— but that’s what’s so good about him. 

6’4'', Muscular but not overly. Covered in tattoos, always filthy for whatever reason.

Does a lot of Lloyd’s dirty work. 

Happily murder for you with a shit eating grin. 

Dangerous, in every sense. 

Never had a serious relationship, sees women as disposable, just a misogynistic asshole, to be honest.

If you’re after a man that just wants your body, this one is yours. 

Ain’t gonna say no to a cuddle.

If Lloyd and Pete weren’t around then this is the worst it gets.

Top Three: Knife & Gun Play, Fear Play, Chase Kink

Curtis’ Playlist. give it a listen for his vibe

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐁𝐨𝐲

31 years old.

Golden boy by day, filthy pervert by night (when finally pushed far enough.)

6’6'', slimmer than Ari, but more built than Curtis. 

Pretends he doesn’t like what's going on, but does what he’s told. 

 Knows the damage he can do and fears it heavily. 

Tries so hard to be good but always fails in the end. But it’s the trying that counts right?

Just out of a serious relationship, going through his hurt puppy phase. 

Likes to pretend he’s the good guy, he’s fooling himself really.

If you want the best of both worlds, this is your man.

Think ‘’I’m one of the good guys, why aren’t you choosing me’’ vibe.

Top Three: Begging, Daddy Kink, Hair pulling

Steve’s Playlist. give it a listen for his vibe

𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐉𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

27 years old.

6'0''

Sunshine. Dumb. Hot. 

Softest of the bunch.

Doesn’t always realize where the line is. 

Goes from girl to girl, but at least tries to keep them happy while he has them. 

Sweet, but again, just as bad as the rest but at least he tries to be nice about it. 

He wouldn’t be allowing anything to happen if he was really that good at heart. 

Would argue that he is the best of the bunch- if nice is what you’re after.

He’s a nice break.

Top Three: Anal, Use of toys, double penetration 

Jake’s Playlist. give it a listen for his vibe

𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐬𝐬

45 years old.

6'1''

Lloyd’s Twin. Born second, explains a lot. 

Sick fuck. Shady asshole. 

But he has the potential to have a soft side. 

So many things wrong with this man, probably got dropped on his head as a child.

Only bad because Lloyd’s got his back.

Literally just wants his dick sucked 24/7.

If you wanna spend all day on your knees and have your money taken, this is your bloke.

Top Three: Puppy Play, Throat Fucking, Thigh Riding/Humping

Pete’s Playlist. give it a listen for his vibe

𝐋𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥

45 years old.

The elder twin.

6'2''

The devil. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Actually, the devil fears Lloyd Hansen. 

If you wanna live a life of misery, all while being sent to heaven, this is your man. 

The only one to have his father’s last name, and not the mothers.

Just like his father, tbh. He was a sick cunt too. 

Top Three: Non-Con, Sadism, Dacryphilia.

Lloyd’s Playlist. give it a listen for his vibe

It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.

You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.

It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.

Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.

Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”

You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.

“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”

Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”

Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.

Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.

Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.

Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.

“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”

This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”

A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.

“Dr. Abbot!"

Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.

Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”

This is quite the surprising turn of events.

After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.

Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.

He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.

“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.

“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”

Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.

“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”

You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.

“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.

“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”

“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.

You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”

His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise. 

You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”

Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting. 

Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”

From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.

Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”

Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.

Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex. 

Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.

His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.” 

As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.

“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.

“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.

At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.

He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.

An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.

At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you. 

In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red. 

A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.

“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.

Jack smirks. “Did you now?”

You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.

“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.

The prospect disappoints him just a little.

“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”

Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.

“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.

The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.

“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”

Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”

Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing. 

“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.

You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.

Jack blinks in surprise.

He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.

He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”

Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”

Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—

He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”

Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.

Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”

As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”

Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture. 

The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.

As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.

“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.

Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.

“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”

A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass. 

He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.

“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”

You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.

“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”

You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”

Of course that would be your takeaway. 

He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”

When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.

He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.

And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.

You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.

He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.

As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”

You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.

His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.

He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing. 

After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh. 

Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.

“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.

You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”

“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”

You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”

He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.

Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.

You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.

He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.

You sigh happily and snuggle closer.

It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.

Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.

The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.

Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.

“Stay.”

Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.

Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.

Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.

“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”

You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”

Best behavior, Jack. 

“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”

In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.

“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.

Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.

“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.

Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.

For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure? 

But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.

Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.

“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.

Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”

“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.

Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.

He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.

You wake feeling like death warmed over.

You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.

You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.

Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest. 

You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?

Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.

Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.

Time to face the music.

You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.

Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.

“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”

You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”

He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”

“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”

“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.” 

Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”

“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.

“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.

In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.

You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”

He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”

You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.

“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.

“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.

A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”

Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”

You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”

Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”

Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice. 

 “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”

You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.

It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.

He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs. 

“Of course.”

Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape. 

“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”

You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.

After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions. 

Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.

Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.

When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.

You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.

His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”

His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”

Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”

“Sure thing, sunshine.” 

After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.

As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.

You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”

He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”

“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?” 

“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”

Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?

“Oh god,” you whisper in horror. 

“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”

Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.

You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”

He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”

“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.

Jack places a hand on your thigh.

All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.

His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.

“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”

He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.

After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him. 

“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?

He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”

There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.

“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”

You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”

“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”

“See you tonight.”

You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”

Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.

A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.

“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.

You beam after him.