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Reader-banger: a double of a significant other who makes him second guess who you belong to
summary: five times jack stumbles upon your doppelgänger vs. the one time it's actually you
tags: shawn hatosy universe, brett richards, sammy bryant, andrew "pope" cody, titus danforth, grant reilly, jack abbot, younger fem!reader but age is not specified, mentions of human sacrifice, 18+ MDNI
notes: okay, everyone seemed to like the first doppelbangers fic so much that I thought about how jack would start reacting if he came across multiple variants of the reader AND if jack happened to also meet his double (highly requested as well), also as you can see, I swapped out terry for grant because I don't see any timeline where jack doesn't sock terry for being a creep, again I'm sorry if any of them are occ, and like always if you'd like to be added to my permanent tag list, please comment here!
word count: 9.4k
The community outreach event had seemed harmless enough when the day started. SWAT volunteered at them a few times a year, and while Jack would never admit it out loud, he usually enjoyed them. It was difficult to have a terrible day when half the crowd consisted of elementary school kids who thought every volunteer spent their workday hanging off helicopters and kicking down doors like they’d seen in cartoon movies. Crowds seemed to swarm the park despite the heat with tents stretching across the grass to make it easier to find shade. Multiple organizations from both Pittsburgh and visiting cities stationed next to their tents that lined the walking paths.
Families drifted from booth to booth carrying melting snow cones and bags stuff with pamphlets and stress balls printed with specialized branding they would probably throw away before they got home. Somewhere behind him, a group of children were taking turns climbing through an armored vehicle while another one of his SWAT buddies attempted—and failed—to maintain order.
Jack was halfway through answering a little boy’s very serious question about whether he’d ever fixed up a ninja when movement across the path caught it attention.
Truly, it wasn’t even your face that got him first; it was your posture.
He’d seen you enough to recognize the specific way you stood with your weight shifted slightly onto one leg while reading something. Your hair was pulled back like you always had it, and from a distance, framed by the movement, he was sure that you were 100 percent standing across from him.
His first thought was confusion, because you were supposed to be working. He knew you had a shift scheduled until seven, and while he knew that was subject to change all the time, you usually let him know when they did.
Jack frowned and glanced at his watch.
Maybe you’d gotten off early, maybe you’d decided to surprise him (at the wrong booth he thought), or maybe you’d gone and volunteered for . . . the Chicago Fire Station tent? Each guess seemed more ridiculous than the first.
If this had happened six months ago, he would have let you at it. However, ever since he kissed you in that parking lot after spouting nonsense about seeing his double about five times before you finally figured out he was the real Jack, he’s been pretty protective of you. He was your boyfriend for crying out loud. Seeing you over there at a random booth when you were supposed to be at work made something curl inside his chest.
He liked the idea that you might have let him known you got off early, he believed in himself to show that you shouldn’t be worried he’d be mad if you chose to spend your time somewhere else, but a simple call or text wouldn’t have hurt.
So, through his confusion, Jack did the only thing he knew how do to: talk it out like a grown ass man and not get angry or possessive.
“Hey, sweetheart!” he called out, already walking over to the booth with his limping gate. “Did you get off early or something?”
The sound of his voice had you looking up at him, and he willed himself to not get lost in your eyes.
“Can’t believe Robby let you have the afternoon. Did he hit his head or something? Don’t think I’ve ever seen him give a resident the day off, especially during a weekend,” he muttered the last bit to himself.
Now, see, since Jack was so close to being distraught about you not texting him, he failed to noticed the very confused look on your face while he talked at you.
He stopped when he was finally over at the booth and about a foot away from where you were standing. “Did I make you mad or something, sweetheart? If you wanted to spend your day off by yourself, I wouldn’t have cared. Just thought you might have wanted to let me know.”
His first warning should have been your lack of response after the first term of endearment that seemed to always make you swoon when he used it.
But again, his brain was befuddled with ideas of him making you so upset you’d rather stand over at the firefighter tent than over with him just across the path.
At this point, Jack was rambling. “I get it, our relationship hasn’t been going on for that long, and before that you had men kissing the ground where you walked, but I’d really like this to work, I want us to work. And if that means you’re volunteering as a firefighter on the weekends, I’ll take it. But you couldn’t have picked up . . . I don’t know . . . a safer hobby? You’re usually not the one with destructive tendencies—”
“I’m really sorry to say this, sir, but I have no clue who you are,” you interrupted.
Against all odds, Jack’s never quiet brain ceased all functioning. Because when you stopped him from talking, he finally looked at you, like, really looked at you, and it clicked that the woman across standing right in front of him wasn’t actually you.
She had your eyes, your nose, and your mouth, and for one completely ridiculous moment, Jack wondered if he’d somehow developed a concussion without noticing before profession instinct won out over common sense.
“Oh,” he breathed, a heated flush climbing his neck at a rapid pace. “Oh, no.”
Seeing his absolute embarrassment, the not-you giggled softly. “While I’m partially endeared, I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”
Jack ran a hand down his face. “I see the appeal of getting run over by oncoming traffic now.” He huffed. “I sincerely apologize for the last three minutes; you quite literally have my girlfriend’s face.”
“Well, I can assure you that I am most definitely not your girlfriend.”
Jack’s eyes quickly caught on the very sparkly ring on her finger that he certainly did not put there. The sight rewired his brain. For the next small moment, Jack contemplated drowning himself in the watercooler nearby until the not-you reached out her hand.
“Richards.”
He took her hand and shook it. “Abbot. Jack Abbot.”
She smiled warmly at him. “So, Jack Abbot, does SWAT include you mistaking women for your partner or is that just a you-thing?”
Oh, she had your jokes.
“Would it help to say that she went a few weeks going around finding men that looked like me?” he mentioned sheepishly.
“A bit.” She paused before continuing. “Really, I should have stopped you the first time you called me sweetheart, but seeing you grovel was really nice.”
“I don’t think I’d count that as nice. Maybe highly embarrassing and dignity-disgracing.”
“You sound like my husband.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But all things considering, I think there’s a possibility that it is a very good thing.”
Jack continued to eye her carefully, part of his brain still unconvinced that this wasn’t you pulling a prank on him. In the small moment, he quickly noted all the visible differences: her hair was greying at the edges, her neck held a small burn pattern, and, most importantly, her eyes didn’t hold the softness yours did when you looked up at him.
“I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around this.”
She cocked her head. “Well, what does your-me do?”
A fondness melted across Jack’s face as he thought of you. “She’s a senior resident at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. She’s actually there right now, which is why I was so confused to see you standing here.”
“Ah, the root of the groveling then.”
“Could we maybe move past that? I do have a reputation to uphold.”
“It was actually quite funny.”
“I’m still considering jumping into traffic. Seems much less humiliating than this.”
“Well, if there’s a time to do it, now might be a good time since this is the largest group of first responders I’ve ever seen. Might even send my husband to drive his firetruck to get on sight first.”
Husband?
“Where I am driving to, baby?” a new voice sounded, causing Jack to tear his eyes away from not-you’s face.
And somehow, in that moment, finding your doppelganger was not the most interesting part of Jack’s day. That was now taken by looking his right in the same-hued eyes. The man across from him was quite literally a spitting image: same salt-and-peppered curls, same nose, and same stature. However, the man across from him most definitely had both feet and was donning a heavy bright yellow coat.
The man—probably not-you’s husband—also looked at him with a weird type of awe you’d only get if you somehow found one of your seven look-a-likes, which he had.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the man muttered. “Your doctor wasn’t lying.”
Jack sputtered. “My doctor?”
He nodded. “Yep. Came up to me yelling because she thought you went through another mid-life crisis. But at least now I get to tell you that I am most definitely the hotter firefighter version of you.”
Not-you punched his shoulder. “Brett,” she hissed. “Don’t be mean.”
“He can take it,” Brett shot back. “If he’s my double, he can surely take it.”
Jack stared between the couple before saying, “Well, now that the universe hasn’t entirely imploded on itself, I should probably head back to my tent before my brain actually takes on any more damage than it already has.”
He had just started to turn slowly, wanting to get back to the SWAT tent asap, when not-you’s voice called out easily. “Take care, Abbot! Hopefully the other me won’t be too surprised to hear about this.”
“She’ll be utterly delighted,” he called back, shaking his head with a wide smile plastered on his face.
_______________________
By the time Jack had gotten to the hostage situation, it had already been dragged out to the point he knew it would consume the rest of his afternoon in a way it always seemed to. One minute he was finishing paperwork, and the next he was standing behind a patrol vehicle and waiting for the green light to head in. This particular situation was apparently lengthy because the man in question had fled from out of state. Jack wasn’t too sure which one, but mentions of the west coast had him questioning how dangerous the man inside the building was if he’d fled halfway across the nation.
The entire scene buzzed with controlled tension. Patrol officers maintained the perimeter while detectives moved in and out of the command post. Ambulances waited several blocks way in anticipation of the worst-case scenario: a mass killing. Nearby, Jack’s eyes caught the flashes of cameras as reporters hovered at the edges of police tape like vultures circling a dying animal, hoping someone would accidentally tell them something useful.
Jack hated hostage situations simply because they were slow. Hours just ticked by while they waited around for somebody else to make a mistake. It was hard for him to stay still, a big reason why his career choice after the army had been an attending position in an emergency department; there was hardly ever time for boredom. Which is why when he let his attention drift toward the command post after standing still for less than a second, he spotted your familiar figure near one of the folding tables.
Every coherent thought he’d ever had left his brain.
He harshly blinked once like the action would rid his sight of the hallucination. But when he opened them back up, you were still there, standing inside the command center, wearing a vest that clearly had Detective written across the front.
You were standing with one hand resting against your hip while studying something spread across the table. Your hair was pulled back, a radio hung from your shoulder, and a badge sat clipped to the waistline of your pants.
Jack stared long enough for his assistant medic to notice.
“Abbot? Are you okay?”
“No,” he managed to get out.
“Oh.”
“My girlfriend is apparently a detective.”
The medic looked at him, then over to the command post, then back at him. “Isn’t your girlfriend a doctor?”
“That’s what I thought until approximately two seconds ago.”
Jack continued to stare. There had to be a perfectly normal and reasonable explanation for why you were working during an active hostage situation. Maybe the Pitt had sent you over to help identify a victim, maybe someone inside was related to a patient, or maybe Robby had finally snapped and decided trauma medicine wasn’t stressful enough for you.
Jack’s stomach dropped when you looked up, because the big problem here was that you absolutely should not have been standing in the middle of an active police station and not that your features didn’t quite match the ones in his memories.
But before common sense could stop him, Jack started walking. One of the negotiators called out after him but was ignored. He was about halfway over to you when you narrowed your eyes at his approaching figure.
The expression should have warned him, but all it did was convince him that you’d been hiding a double life because you gave him that exact look every time he tracked mud into your apartment no matter how many times you reminded him to take his shoes off.
“Sweetheart,” he called. “What are you doing?”
You continued to stare, and Jack just kept going.
“Actually, before you answer that, why are you dressed like a detective?”
Silence followed.
“Did someone recruit you?”
He watched you slowly lower the file you were holding; again, Jack pressed onward because apparently humiliation was included in his list of recreational hobbies just under getting shot at.
“You know what?” he asked, eyebrows all furrowed. “Never mind. I don’t even want to know. Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you do something that completely rewrites my understanding of reality.”
Your eyebrows climbed high than he’d ever seen, but even that wasn’t enough to get him to stop talking.
“Sir—”
“Because, honestly? I was prepared for a lot of things when we started dating. Long shifts? Fine. You move into trauma surgery and leave me downstairs? Fine. The occasional thirty-six-hour workday where you survive entirely on caffeine and spite? Fine.”
Several detectives had stopped what they were doing; Jack failed to notice.
“What I wasn’t prepared for was finding out that you’ve secretly joined the police department in your spare time.”
“Sir—”
“And if that’s what happened, I have just a few questions. Most of them are about paperwork—”
“Do you smell burnt toast?” you suddenly asked, halting the next words out of Jack’s mouth that suddenly tugged into a frown.
“What?”
“Any numbness in your left arm?”
“Excuse me?”
“Blurred vision? Because right now, you’re either having medical emergency, or you’ve mistaken me for somebody else.”
Jack stopped talking, which was a miracle in itself, and it gave him a small moment to actually look at you without the lens of confusion or concern. In one blink, he instantly wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“Oh.”
You—or suddenly and visibly not you—tilted her head. “Yeah.”
“It’s happening again.”
“What’s happening again?”
Jack dragged both hands down his face, and for several seconds, he wondered how long fleeing the country would take. Unfortunately, that would mean never seeing the real you ever again, so he had to face this version of you like a man.
“I am so sorry.”
A very apologetic man.
The woman laughed, and to his absolute horror, it sounded enough like your laugh that Jack’s head started spinning.
“It’s fine,” she stated after her laughter slowed. “I’ve had worse introductions.”
He peered at her. “Somehow I don’t believe you.” A sigh flooded his lips. “You have my girlfriend’s face, but she is definitely not a detective.”
“Understandable. Home for me is a long way from here, guessing she lives in the area.”
Jack nodded. “Works here too as a doctor. Which, speaking of, I’m Jack Abbot, volunteer SWAT medic.”
She shook his head. “Detective Bryant. LAPD.”
Detective. Of course this version of you had a job that matched the hardened look on your face. While his version of you still held a small bit of softness around your cheeks, this woman looked like she’d seen brutal death after brutal death. He felt his heart clench. Pittsburgh was kind to you in a way Los Angeles was mean to her.
His hazel eyes went wide. “Shit, that’s how far the suspects from? Long way for everyone.”
Her hands gripped at her vest, knuckles going white. “Yep. We’ve been tracking him and his gang since last month. His group sadly killed my husband’s partner before he fled.”
So the second not-you also had a husband . . .
“Oh,” Jack breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” she responded, peering up at him. “He was a good guy, that’s why we’re all hoping this goes smoothly.”
Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You and me both. I’d rather not have to wheel one of them out of here on a gurney again.”
“Again?” Her eyes (that looked exactly like yours) widened. “I hope then my husband’s squad gets through just fine then.”
“Aw, hell,” a deeper voice grumbled over your look-a-like’s shoulder. “This day just got a whole lot stranger.”
“Speaking of my husband,” she muttered before glancing toward the new comer. “Sammy, this is—”
“Jack Abbot as I live and breathe,” Sammy drawled out, hand already reaching out.
Another part of Jack’s brain stilled, because where Brett Richards could have been in twin, this man looked like a twenty-year-younger Jack. He barely remembers himself at that age, but the similarities were uncanny. This . . . Sammy was the Jack that was in his wedding picture, standing next to his first wife, that you insisted he kept on the mantle of his house.
Jack was quick to grasp his hand tightly. “Guessing you remember from . . .” he trailed, letting the man who looked very much like him fill in the gaps.
“Yeah, I remember. Kinda hard not to when a woman starts talking to you like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. But now that I’m looking at you, it all kinda makes sense.”
“At least it is for one of us. I think my head’s still spinning,” he tried to joke. “At least nothing’s exploded.”
“Yet,” not-you teased. “At least not yet.”
Sammy smiled brightly. “We’re hoping nothing blows up. That would make all of our jobs a lot harder.”
“And would add more paperwork,” Jack added. “I should get back to the squad just in case someone decides to be a hero.”
Sammy nodded. “As long as it’s not you or me. We both have someone to get back home to.” He wrapped an arm around not-you’s shoulders. “Don’t think your doctor would like it very much if she had to patch you up.”
Jack chuckled in response. “Absolutely not. She’d probably give me a worse wound if I showed up injured.”
“I don’t know her, but damn right she would,” Sammy’s version of you agreed. “It was, uh, nice meeting you, Jack. Hope you don’t run into another me again.”
“Knowing how the universe works, I’m sure there’s a few more coming.” Jack took a step before pausing to look back at the couple. “By the way, this was somehow much better than meeting the firefighter.”
Sammy frowned. “You met him too?”
“Let’s just say his ego was big enough to feed a small army.”
“Firefighters,” Sammy mumbled. “It’s always the firefighters.”
“Amen, brother.”
Jack kept his hands in his pockets as he walked back over to his SWAT group, ready for this day to be over and with a silent prayer that he wouldn’t run into any more versions of you in the days to come.
Oh, how wrong his prayers were, because the universe did as it pleased.
_______________________
By the time Jack made it to the grocery store after a grueling twelve-hour shift, life seemed to be working against him.
His prosthesis was hurting more than normal, his back ached, and on top of it all, the weekend he was planning to spend with you had to be rescheduled because, of course, the day shift was short this weekend, so Robby had to ask you to come in. So, Jack was there, at the grocery, debating whether generic noodles would finally be the thing that ended his relationship.
It wasn’t as serious as he was making it, but you had once claimed that you could taste the difference between seven brands of spaghetti. While Jack remained convinced you were lying, he was also fairly certain that no one on earth possessed that level of culinary sophistication. You were a trauma resident who recently joined a surgery fellowship. Half your meals came from vending machines, cafeteria food, and whatever happened to be left in the physician’s lounge whenever you finally remembered that eating was actually really important to the human body. And the fact that you somehow had strong opinions about pasta seemed suspicious.
Still, he’d learned very early on in your relationship that questioning those opinions usually resulted in lengthy lectures.
So, he stood in front of a wall of nearly identical boxes with his shopping basket hanging from one hand and his phone in the other, squinting at the list you’d sent him three hours ago when you should have been asleep before your shift.
The list itself looked normal.
Milk, eggs, bread, coffee pods, pasta*.
What made it significantly less helpful were the additional notes you’d attached.
*not pasta; the good pasta.
Whatever the hell “the good pasta” meant. He rubbed a tired hand over his face, letting it rest against his chin, fingers scratching at the few days’ worth of stubble that you complained about before he left for his shift.
“You are a menace,” he muttered to himself, making the elderly woman beside him look deeply concerned, to which he pretended he hadn’t spoken at all.
His attention dropped back to his phone as he reread the text conversation for what was probably the fifth time.
What makes pasta good?
That means the good one, Jack.
I’m sorry, sweetheart, but that’s not an answer.
You’ll know it when you see it!
I probably won’t.
I believe in you! <3
He smiled as he scrolled through the messages, but that meant he wasn’t paying attention when he rounded the corner into the aisle. However, just as he happened to glance up to see where he was going, he spotted you at the end.
Immediately, every other thought vanished.
His eyes trailed from your face and down toward your shopping cart, or at least, what he assumed was your shopping cart. The thing was loaded with groceries that were definitely not on the list: fresh vegetables, fruit, actual ingredients, enough food to sustain a small village. He frowned deeply at the sight.
It wasn’t like you hated grocery shopping; between your added hours with the surgery fellowship, you simply never had the time. Most weeks, Jack barely convinced you to buy enough food to just survive. And the sight of you voluntarily pushing a cart filled with produce was concerning enough that he started walking over before he could think too hard about it.
“You know,” he called out, “I think this is the most vegetables I’ve ever seen you buy at one time.”
At the sound of his voice, you looked up, and Jack smiled.
“You finally decide to start listening to me?”
You stayed quiet.
“I’m serious. Last week I found three energy drinks and a packet of crackers in your apartment, and you claimed that was enough to last you the weekend.” He stopped beside your cart and pointed. “Actually, no. Hold on; are those Brussels sprouts?”
Your eyes widened as you followed his finger down to the green vegetables.
“Sweetheart,” he pouted. “If Santos is forcing you to buy those, you can tell me. I’ll tell her to lay off.”
When you only blinked slowly, Jack missed the warning sign completely.
“But come on, you spent three days arguing with me about vegetables,” he continued. “Three. Entire. Days. And now you’re buying enough produce to open a farmer’s market.”
Silence stretched between you and him until you said, “I’m sorry.”
Jack nodded. “You should be.”
“No. I mean I’m sorry, but I have absolutely no idea who you are.”
The words hit him like a freight train, and for a second, he simply stared until he felt his soul leave his body.
Universe three; Jack Abbot zero.
In this moment, he would’ve preferred if the earth opened up and swallowed him whole. Of course his luck wouldn’t have let him just continue on with his life after finding your double twice. He wondered if he were becoming you: a doppelganger magnet, or if he were just lucky—unlucky in his opinion—to make the same mistake three times in a row.
However, seeing another version of you meant that at least she chose another version of him. He at least let himself look closely at this one. Under the grocery store lights, her skin held a tan that he’d barely seen around the bi-polar weathered Pittsburgh. He wondered if she was from somewhere sunny. But unlike the firefighter’s wife or the detective, her eyes held a brightness that rivaled his version of you’s eyes. Jack had to guess that she might be pared with a smiley version of himself.
And if this interaction went anything like the others, he’d meet him soon enough.
Jack must have been staring for a while, because in the next moment, she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Do you have a problem, sir?”
He shook his head instantly. “Sorry, this is just . . .” he trailed. “This is the third time this has happened?”
Third-you looked utterly confused. “What’s the third time?”
“The third time I’ve mistaken a stranger for my girlfriend.”
That seemed to stun her. “The third time?”
“Shockingly, yes.”
Her head tilted. “That’s either incredibly romantic or deeply concerning, if you ask me.”
“I’m leaning more toward mentally unstable,” he joked, thankfully making her let out a soft giggle.
The sound had comfort blooming in his chest. If there was one thing that stayed the same, it was your laugh.
“You probably have the correct answer,” she agreed.
A soft inhale whistled through his nose as he offered out his hand. “Jack Abbot.”
She hummed when she shook his, letting the hum of the overhead light fill the silence between them. The entire time, he felt her eyes on him, almost looking like she was trying to look into his soul and find the darkness in it. That was another difference that he noticed between you and her.
You always seemed to treat people with an undying kindness, never once looking for the bad in them. Your personality is exactly what made you an amazing doctor in Jack’s eyes. Where he was all judging and sullen and closed in, you were warm and bright and open to whoever walked through the door of the Pitt.
This version of you was more like Jack than he’d like to admit, even if she exuded a warmness in her eyes. She seemed trusting enough, but he could tell it was only reserved for the people closest to her.
He shifted his weight, the pain of his prosthesis surging through his spine. “Sorry again that I thought you were my vegetable-hating girlfriend.”
“It’s fine,” she stated. “I’m glad to know that your version of me is being taken care of.”
Jack looked around. “Now, it probably won’t happen, but right about now, the version of me somehow pops up as well.” He glanced back at the woman in front of him. “Do you happen to have one?”
At the mention of his double’s possibility, this version of you’s face softened. “Yeah. My fiancé I’m guessing.”
He watched her twiddle with the ring on her finger, and for the first time since meeting the first one of your doubles, Jack’s chest twisted with an aching want. Before he could ask another question, a voice sounded from the other end of the aisle.
“Babe?”
Jack followed the sound of the voice and froze, while not-you looked over her shoulder and waved.
“Over here!’
And like clockwork, another version of him was walking towards him. This one, like Sammy, was younger with auburn curls Jack hadn’t seen in almost a decade yet also didn’t carry the easiness that the officer had. This version of Jack reminded him of the time right after he lost his wife: all hard around the edges and looking like life had chewed him up, spat him out, and danced on his corpse. He also donned the same tired expression that suggested that life also routinely tested his patience.
Even worse, he looked just as startled. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, but this time, Jack wasn’t going to be the first to say anything.
Finally, the man spoke. “Did she ever find better coffee?”
Jack, against every screaming muscle, lifted the backet. “She’s started making it at home.”
He nodded once. “Good.”
This version of his’s you looked up with wide eyes. “Andrew?”
The now-named Andrew looked down and completely softened. “Remember that doctor I told you about? The one that sat with me when Craig got hurt?”
A realization flashed across her face. “Oh.” She glanced back at Jack. “That actually makes a lot of sense now.”
Jack continued to stare just like Andrew was staring back at him, almost calculating like he could see Jack’s next move. But apparently, Jack new how to surprise both of them.
“Now that introductions are over, do either of you know what good pasta looks like?”
Andrew blinked once before reaching for a box overhead, and Jack couldn’t help but notice the scars and split knuckles on the man’s hands when he took the box from him.
“You sure?” he asked with a smile.
He got another nod.
“The box just looks right.”
And when Jack was leaving the store, Andrew-Cody-and-almost-Mrs.-Cody-approved pasta in bag, he couldn’t help but notice that yes, the box did look correctly like the good pasta. And for once, Jack thanked the universe.
_______________________
Jack’s champagne had gone lukewarm around the time the fifth filthy-rich billionaire talked to him like he wasn’t a doctor himself.
Now, he wasn’t above a little ass kissing to bring in large donations; the Pitt, like any hospital, ran much smoother when a large donation came in every so often. But while this older man talked and talked about the importance of strong-head doctors, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander. This year, the banquet location had been done up to the nines, and Jack wondered who had much the big donation to make sure this looked like a presidential ball rather than a bi-monthly gala that he’d been to way too many times to keep track of them all.
The large open space was filled to the brim, and Jack knew it was probably in violation of a few OSHA codes, but that wasn’t his department of health and safety. So, he just let this close-to-dying man continue on with his speech as a favor to Robby, who had somehow mastered the ability to make Jack’s attendance request sound more like an obligation.
If anything, Jack would’ve rather happily spend his evening literally anywhere else, preferably next to you. And a quick glance down at his watch told him that the evening was far from over. He fought to swallow down a groan, until he spotted you across the way, taking small sips from your own glass.
He let his eyes roam the dark dress that hugged your body and the way your hair was pinned back from your face. The outfit was very far from your regular scrubs, but honestly, Jack would still look at you the same even if you were wearing a potato sack.
For a moment, a wave of gratitude washed over him, because obviously, Robby must’ve invited you too. Jack should have expected it. His friend had spent months insisting that Jack needed to participate more in events that didn’t involve gunfire. You being here must have been some type of Pavlovian incentive.
The realization that you were there improved his mood so dramatically that he immediately abandoned the conversation he had been trapped in and started making his way across the banquet hall.
“Sweetheart,” he said as he approached. “I know you’d probably be back home, but man am I glad Robby invited you too.”
You looked over at him with a smirk. “I was wondering when you’d come over.”
At this moment, Jack should have taken a second to pause, to remember the past three times that this had happened. Because, really, he should have noticed that the woman standing in front of him, although looking a lot like you with similar eyes and facial structure, looked exactly like she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth while her hands suggested she knew her way around beating someone to death. But alas, Jack Abbot’s greatest strength and failure at the same time was loving his woman to the point that, once he saw her face, he couldn’t shut up.
His brows pinched. “You’ve been here this entire time? I’m sorry, sweetheart, I would have tried to find you earlier when I got here.” He looked around as he spoke. “Robby didn’t even tell me you were coming, that little fucker.” A sigh heaved from his chest. “I hope you’ve had a better night than standing and listening to rich bitches act like they normally do.”
You, for some odd reason, looked downright pleased at his distraught, taking a sip from your glass with a sly smile. “Hmmm, tell me sir, what exactly do rich bitches do?”
Again, the answer should have set him off, but the few glasses of champagne plus the pregame drink he had beforehand really diluted his inhibition.
“Wave their money around like they own the world,” he muttered.
“I mean, some of us do.”
Some . . . of . . . us . . . do . . .
It was almost as if a giant lightbulb went off behind Jack’s eyes. “Oh fuck.”
And suddenly, the features that had seemed just like yours melted away. However, where Mrs. Richards had been nice, and Detective Bryant had been just, and future-Mrs.-Cody had been warm, this version of you looked downright evil with her stilettoes that looked like they could kill a man with a single stomp. An idea like that finally had Jack pausing, another lightbulb going off.
“Please tell me that you don’t sacrifice people to Satan too, because if so, I will need to admit myself into a psychiatric hold.”
She took another sip from her glass. “And what if I do? Seems like you already know me.”
“You somehow look a lot like my girlfriend, but last I checked, she saves lives, not sacrifices them.”
She laughed, but this time, it did not sound like yours. Each time her laugh came out, it sounded like a million dollars were spent each time. “Doctor, do you spend all your charity galas trying to find women who look like your girlfriend?”
“I spend my charity galas trying to find a way to leave.”
“You don’t enjoy them?”
“I don’t enjoy listening to . . .” he paused, brain scrambling for another word.
“Rich bitches?” the woman provided. “Go ahead; I don’t mind.”
Jack winced. “Billionaires who hold money over our heads.”
Her eyes glanced around the room before stopping on the man Jack had just been talking to. “You think anyone would miss him if he disappeared.”
He followed her gaze. “You know that entire sentence just solidified the idea that you do actually sacrifice people.”
“You didn’t answer my question, doctor.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re toying with me.”
A fire lit behind her expression. “You’re catching on. I do enjoy playing with my food, you’re right.”
“Now I really want to find a way out. Maybe the fire escape and jumping off the roof might be my best bet,” Jack said in hopes to get the conversation away from ritualistic human sacrifice.
“Good. I’d get my body easier by the end of the night.”
A literal chill ran up his spine while this version of you stood like what she’d just said was meaningless conversation. While Jack might have been a bit unsettled by the other ones, he had never been as nervous as he was right now. When he failed to say anything else, the woman waved a hand around her face.
“Relax, doctor. I’m mostly joking.”
Still, that did nothing to ease the feeling building inside his chest.
“Mostly is still in that sentence,” he muttered, hand reaching to pick up another flute. “I’m not sure that did much to make me relax.”
“We are strangers after all.” She turned to face him completely but did not hold out a hand when she introduced herself.
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Like . . . those Danforths?”
Her grin widened. “Again, you sound like you already know me.”
“It’s hard to not when you look like someone I love but have the last name of the richest family in the world. This is definitely right out of a fanfiction or something.”
“Or something. You still have yet to hand over your name, doctor,” she teased, but it landed weirdly in Jack’s chest.
“Promise to not use it in your next ritual?”
“On Satan’s head.”
“Darling, are you scaring the poor doctors again?” someone said behind Jack, thankfully ending that conversation.
For a moment, Jack let himself relax, finally out of the claws of the woman’s manicured hand. However, when the person rounded Jack to stick himself to the woman’s side, he blanched, because yet again, the man across from him looked like a version of himself. Well, a version of Jack who apparently wasn’t a doctor, sneezed into million-dollar tissues, and hunted people down as a hobby instead of volunteering for SWAT.
The man’s eyes (the same hue as Jack’s) lit with glee. “So, the little dove really wasn’t lying when she said we shared a face.”
His nickname for you burned a jealously Jack didn’t know he had, and now this couple was looking at him like a piece of meat to prey upon. Not knowing what else to do, Jack set down the now-empty flute on the bar. Danforth-you looked up at—yes, you had a very large ring on—her husband with fluttering eyes.
“I wasn’t scaring him,” she whined. “Just making sure that we picked a good one. The last one wasn’t fun at all.”
Again, that sounded way too sacrificial for Jack to relax or feel comfortable in the couple’s presense.
“Brother, there you are!” Robby shouted like divine intervention. Hands landed down on his shoulders with a squeeze. “Gloria’s going to have my head if we’re not in the conference room for the next showing.”
Jack tried (and failed) to give the Danforths a smile. “It was . . . lovely speaking to you two, but duty calls, right?”
Before he could turn to leave, not-you reached into her clutch and pulled out a piece of paper. “For your hospital, doctor. Some of us rich bitches actually do care about your cause.”
Jack was hesitant to take it but eventually did. His eyes widened like a cartoon when he saw the number of zeros. “I think this is a mistake?”
“I don’t make mistakes, Dr. Abbot” she replied, closing up her clutch. “Titus, darling, I think we’re also needed somewhere else.”
“Ah, yes, it is that time, isn’t it.” He smirked over at Jack. “Nice meeting this version of me. Say hello to your dove for me.”
Words escaped Jack as the pair turned and left, leaving just him and Robby, who looked close to fainting, alone at the bar.
“That’s it. No more galas for both of you,” Robby announced while steering Jack into the direction of the conference room. “Even if we get millions for the hospital, I am not losing you both to your Satan-worshipping twins.”
Jack let out a large sigh. “Sounds like a good plan, brother.”
_______________________
Jack was done.
D-O-N-E; done.
After the last version of you had been one look away from draining his blood dry while he lied across a black table, he believed that everything was out to get him. The first version of you had been okay; she was nice. The second crept into unsettling territory, but by the third and fourth, Jack was tired of second guessing himself every time he saw your eyes looking back at him.
However, that didn’t mean he entirely walked right past the restaurant when he noticed you sitting by yourself at a table in the middle. No, he outright paused by the large window, chest curling at the thought of you eating alone. He glanced up at the restaurant’s sign, and a small glimmer of recognition bloomed.
North & Vine had made quite the stir a few months ago when news articles poured in with reports that the beloved restaurant might lose its Michelin star. But since then, Jack was pleased to see that it had been able to keep the one and also win another.
The area about North & Vine was beautiful at the edge of downtown, tucked between two older brick buildings and lit with the kind of warm amber lighting that convinced people they could afford appetizers even if they couldn’t. Getting a reservation was also unheard of if you hadn’t placed your name on the list by almost three months in advance.
Which, that was another reason as to why Jack was so confused when he stood there watching you. To his knowledge, you’d never spoken about wanting to go. If you had, Jack would have made it possible. But there you were, sitting alone, looking contempt as hell with a plain glass of water in front of you.
The other reason was because you had just texted him a few hours earlier with a selfie in front of the nurses’ station with the words: currently fighting for my life.
It was beyond him how you’d apparently gone from that to peacefully waiting for a dinner. And apparently that mean that the situation alone deserved an investigation. So naturally, Jack walked inside and was immediately hit with the best smelling food he’d ever smelled before.
But he wasn’t there to stop and smell the mashed potatoes; he was a man on a mission. He walked up to the hostess podium with a smile and pointed toward your table.
“I know here.”
The hostess smiled and moved to let him pass.
Now, after four other encounters, Jack should have known better that the “you” sitting at the table probably wasn’t really you. But he didn’t. No lessons had been enough to stick in his head, because if there was one thing Jack Abbot learned about loving you, it was that he’d recognize you anywhere.
Unfortunately, the universe kept proving that statement technically incorrectly every time.
As he approached the table, nothing felt off at all. At least the other times, the other versions of you had looked different. The firefighter volunteer shirt, the detective vest, the beach-going outfit, the dress that looked like it costed more than his life was worth: they all were things Jack knew you wouldn’t wear.
So seeing you in comfortable clothing, any of his regular alarm bells had gone silent. Because of this, he had no issues sliding into the empty seat across from you with a confused smile.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” he asked.
You looked up at him, almost taken back by his presence. “Not that I know of?”
His eye brows pinched. “You texted me a few hours ago that you were fighting for your life at work.”
“I don’t think so,” you replied, pulling out your phone from the small purse by your side. Your lip twisted before you looked back up at him. “And really, I couldn’t because I don’t have your number and—”
“You don’t have my number?” Jack pushed out. “How is that possible—”
“And really, it’s because I don’t know who you are.”
Jack froze in his spot across from the now fifth version of you. Under the warm glow, it was downright uncanny how she looked exactly like you. If Brett was his spitting image, this woman was yours. Everything down to your phone color was the same. However, now that he was taking the time to look, once again, he found a nice-looking ring on her left finger. His face dropped in humiliation.
“I am so sorry,” he muttered, hands coming up to cover his face.
He missed the way she softly smiled at him. “It’s okay, really. You seemed innocent enough.”
“I’m five seconds away from going back to the kitchen to drown myself in mop water.”
She giggled. “I’m sure that this interaction isn’t bad enough to warrant that reaction.”
“If you only knew how many times I’ve mistaken a stranger for my girlfriend then you’d understand that, yes, I’m having a believable reaction.” Jack dropped his hands back down to the table and leaned back in the chair. “Jack Abbot, and now I’m seeing that you are not my girlfriend.”
“Nice to meet you, Jack,” she stated, resting her chin against her hand. “Have you tried getting a bit more sleep?”
He sighed. “My job sadly doesn’t allow for extra nap times, I’m afraid.”
That seemed to pique her interest. “Oh? What do you do?”
“I’m the night shift attending at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.”
“That makes sense,” she said before picking up her water for a sip. “You look like the type to have that kind of job.”
Jack pursed his lips. “Should I be offended by that?”
“Not at all.” She paused. “I just mean that you look like the type of man to care for others more than you care for yourself. It’s admirable.”
Her words hit him right in the gut, because you had said something similar to that during his and yours first argument after a SWAT raid had gone wrong, leaving him with a little more than a graze that time. His saliva suddenly felt thicker in his mouth as he swallowed it down. He guessed that this you was more similar to his you than he first thought.
“That’s . . .” he trailed, not knowing if he wanted to say what he was thinking. “You sound just like her.”
“Smart woman.”
She was also right with that as well.
For the first time since meeting your parallels, Jack felt comfortable enough to enjoy just sitting there to the point he wanted to see if there were any more similarities between the two of you. However, he was stopped short when a waitress stopped right at the table.
“Mrs. Reilly? Chef wanted to talk to you.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” she responded, already collecting her things before smiling back down at Jack. “Have a lovely evening. And if you ever want to bring your version of me here, I’ll make sure you get a table.”
“Thank you,” Jack managed to spit out right as she turned to walk toward the back kitchen door.
He had half a mind to leave, but he felt glued to his seat when the door swung open, revealing yet another mirror image of himself. He watched as the Mrs.-Reilly version looked at the man with love in her eyes while she spoke to him with a smile. The two glanced his way, his counterpart’s eyebrows also rising as he lifted a hand in a weird and awkward way.
Jack smirked and waved back, rising to his feet to leave. He could have stayed, but seeing the two together just showed him how much he actually missed you. And if the universe decided to be kind to him, he hoped that he’d never have to miss you again if the ring in a shoebox back at his place had anything to say about it.
_______________________
The universe, apparently, had decided it wasn’t quite finished tormenting him.
By this point, he’d stopped trying to understand its ways. Five women with identical faces to yours should have been enough ground for him to quit life and move to New Zealand under a different name and become a sheep farmer. He didn’t know how much more humiliation his body could handle. At least now he though he knew what to look for: eyes that didn’t hold a special warmth for him, smiles that didn’t quite tilt correctly, faces that weren’t structure enough to form the face that belonged to the woman he loved.
Every single encounter had taught him that much. Which was why he barely looked up when he entered the Pitt’s lobby and spotted you standing near the elevators. Finally, he had learned all the rules; he wasn’t going to say anything to you, humiliation be damned.
Jack Abbot was going to win this war.
The lobby bustled around him with usual chaos; he had nearly tripped over a patient in the hall and almost ran into Perlah as she crossed the floor to Trauma Room one. Somewhere, he heard pager buzz, and the ambulance light made him wince.
Really, Jack wasn’t even supposed to be there, but you had just happened to leave your lunch in his truck . . . again. You could have gone without it, but apparently it consisted of an approximately fourteen-dollar takeout meal that you’d been excited about all morning. The number of times he’d rescued your forgotten meals was beginning to feel less like a favor for his girlfriend and more like a second job (that he really didn’t mind doing).
When he stopped by the elevators, you finally glanced up. From the corner of his eye, Jack took in the similarities: your hair color, shoe brand, and surprisingly, a hospital ID. This one was close—very close. But not quite enough for him to say something. The others had ruined him. A few weeks ago, Jack would’ve walked right over. Now? Now he barely gave this sixth version of you a second glance.
“Nope,” he muttered. “Not falling for it this time.”
His voice had been just loud enough that your ears picked up on it. You turned and looked at him with a pinched face and deep frown.
“Jack, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” He pressed the elevator button, willing the machine to open quickly. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Jack,” you stated, so very confused as to why he was acting like this.
He ignored you. This was exactly how the nonsense started. Familiar face, familiar voice, and the next moment he was somehow discussing ritual sacrifice with a stranger. But not today; today, he was smarter; today, he was prepared.
“Nice try, but I’ve learned my lesson,” he said, eyes still glued to the elevator doors in front of him. “You look close enough that last week this might have worked.”
You stared at him. “Are you having a stroke?”
“See?” He finally pointed over at you. “That’s exactly the kind of thing she’d say.”
If he took a moment to look over, he’d see the horrified look on your face.
He sighed loudly. “Look. I’ve done this enough to know better—hey!”
You had grabbed his wrist and yanked him along. “Come here.”
Jack stumbled forward. “What—”
The direction you were pulling him was right into an open room. He didn’t even have a moment to react before you pushed him down right onto the bed. Your fingers held his face, and he winced when your pen light flashed in his eyes.
“When was the last time you slept?” you questioned. “You’re not having a stroke because your face is perfectly fine. Is this dehydration? Concussion? Did you hit your head?”
All while you were spitting out question after question, Jack stared ahead at you to the point that he finally guessed the universe was on his side, because after five different versions of you, this had to be his.
Mrs. Richards looked nice.
Mrs. Bryant looked confused.
Soon-to-be Mrs. Cody looked guarded.
Mrs. Danforth looked bloodthirsty.
Mrs. Reilly look endeared.
But you?
You looked at him with such concern that he could practically feel your love from him spilling out from your body. Suddenly, the ring in his pocket felt very heavy.
“Sweetheart—”
You ignored him. “Maybe this is a rare case of amnesia. Jack, what’s my name—”
He grabbed your hands and held them. “Sweetheart, I’m fine. Actually, right now, I’m better than fine, unless you’re about to tell me that you don’t know who I am before another one of my doppelgangers reveals himself as either your husband or fiancé.” He faux shivered. “I cannot do that again.”
You blinked slowly. “You met them?”
“Sadly.”
“You interacted with them.”
“Extra sadly.”
“How is the universe still standing?”
He chuckled loudly. “Maybe because every version of me has a special version of you. We keep the world balanced, sweetheart.”
An oomph left his chest when you all but threw yourself into his chest. His arms wrapped tightly around you, keeping you against him. A helpless laugh escaped from your throat at the idea of Jack running into different versions of you.
“Were you contemplating running into traffic after each one?” you asked.
“Every single fucking time,” he replied with a groan. “Any small body of water also looked enticing for a drowning.”
“I know right.” You finally pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “But at least you’re still here.”
Jack closed his eyes when your hands rested against his cheeks. One of his hands rose and rested on top of yours. Even through all the drama, through all the embarrassment, he still had you, the one who truly cared for him through everything, even if you thought he was having a stroke. His other hand reached down for his pocket.
“This wasn’t how I wanted to do this,” he said softly, “but after running into versions of you that weren’t mind, I realized that I’ve waited too long to do this.”
He heard you softly gasp when he raised the ring.
“I know six months isn’t that long, but damn it, sweetheart, I don’t know if I can wait any longer. You are the best thing that’s happened to me in forever. I really didn’t know if I’d been capable of loving someone like I love you after losing my wife. But seeing that you still belonged to someone that looked like me in every version of you’s life, I wanted to have that, to have you.”
Tears started falling down your cheeks as he spoke, hazel eyes never wavering from yours.
“Will you please do me the honor of being my wife. Not a firefighter’s, not a cop’s, not a man who looks like he holds the baggage of the world’s, not a Satan-worshipping billionaire’s, and definitely not a chef’s wife, but the wife of a grumpy, old night shift attending who likes to get shot at on the weekends.”
You were silent, but your head was nodding.
Finally, your voice rang out with “Yes, yes, yes. A thousand times, yes.”
With shaking hands, Jack slipped the ring onto your finger before bringing you in for a kiss. He shivered at the feeling of the metal heating up against this skin, and his finger played with the diamond as his lips moved against yours. He wasn’t kissing you like he had six months ago, but it still held the same warmth and steadiness that his kissed always had.
Jack pulled back after a while and rested his forehead against yours. “I’m glad you’re actually you.”
You smiled and giggled. “And I’m glad you’re actually you, too.”
His nose brushed yours before he pulled you into another kiss.
Summary: You love your trinkets and being an emergency pediatrician, you use the excuse of your patients as to why you’re constantly lugging trinkets around.
The Pitt Masterlist
The jingling sound echoes through the halls as you walk down them. That's what people hear first before they see you. Some of the nurses and fellow doctors call you the Trinket Doctor or Doctor Smiski, since you're always carrying a cute little trinket on your stethoscope and on your bags.
"It adds personality!" you like to say whenever someone asks why you have a certain charm or trinket with you.
Well that and, being an emergency pediatric doctor, it helps break the ice with some of the kids that come in. You hand them a little Sonny Angel or Smiski to distract them as you examine them. It's worked wonders, so you stick to it.
Your trinkets, or anik-anik, as you, Princess, and Perlah like to call it, has become a significant part of you as a person and as a doctor.
Many didn't really understand it, at first. Jack thought it was ridiculous that you were carrying little figures and mini monster dolls with you all the time.
But then he saw first hand how they helped your patients. He then saw it as endearing. Eventually, he started to buy little trinkets to add to your collection.
"To help with patient treatment and to up patient satisfaction scores," is what his excuse was. Well, it was partially true. These little knick-knacks did help with patients, but also...he just really loved how your eyes lit up whenever he gave you a new one.
He even asked Javadi how to work the Pop Mart website so he can snag a few boxes of the new Skullpanda collection you were raving about with a resident.
You squealed with delight when a box appeared at your work station the following week.
________________
You approach Jack with a little more pep in your step. Your trinkets jingling like they always do against your bag and body.
"Oh Abboooot!" you singsong his name as you approach him at the hub.
His mouth quirks as he looks up from the chart he was filling up, "Yes, Doctor Smiski?"
You giggle, hands behind your back, "I have a surprise for you."
"Is it a vacation to a remote island?"
You snort, "Please. We both know you'd go crazy there. You don't know how to relax. But anyway," you hold out your hands to reveal a Sea Salt Macaron Labubu dressed in black scrubs and a stethoscope around its neck.
Jack takes it with a cocked brow, "You got me a mini monster thing?"
You nod with a smirk, "It's you. Matches your hair and everything," you gesture to the grey fur on the plush charm.
He lets out a snort and clips it on his stethoscope, "Thanks, Smiski."
"You're welcome. Just a thank you for all the trinkets you've gifted me."
He stills, "How'd-"
"I have my ways," you give him a wink and scurry off to the lockers.
_________________________
"I see Doctor Smiski has converted you, Abbot," Dana teases Jack as she spots his labubu twin hanging from his stethoscope.
He shrugs, "Guess these have grown on me," he tries to appear nonchalant but the charge nurse knows better.
"Sure they have and not the woman who skips around the ED with them swinging on her scrubs."
Jack rolls her eyes, "I'm working on it."
"Work on it, faster. By the time you ask that girl out, she'd be in the arms of another, no doubt."
Jack straightens his posture, "What have you heard?"
Dana smirks, "My lips are sealed. But get on it, seriously," she winks at him and pats his shoulder.
Jack's eyes immediately moves towards pedes where you're seeing a patient. A ten year old girl who got caught in a car accident. Luckily, nothing fatal, but still shaken up.
She grips your Stitch plush pendant for dear life. He can't hear you, but through the window he can see how softly you speak with the girl. Her dad sitting beside her looking worried, but also relieved that you're treating his daughter with such gentleness and care.
That fluttering feeling that Jack has been experiencing for months now comes again. He's been pushing it down for a while, but now, maybe he really should do something about it this time.
After waking up on a ship with five somewhat familiar pirates, you realize that you're a long way from home. Luffy promises to help you get back, but as you spend time with the Straw Hats, you realize that you don't want to return.
So, you remain with the crew through their adventures on the Grand Line, determined to be worthy of standing next to the future King of the Pirates.
Pairing: OPLA!Straw Hats x isekaied!reader, eventual Sanji/reader
Reader: F!reader, she/her pronouns
Status: Ongoing
Content warnings are on each individual chapter. There's nothing too intense so don't worry!
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After waking up on a ship with five somewhat familiar pirates, you realize that you're a long way from home
OPLA!Straw Hats x isekaied!reader (f!reader, no use of Y/N)
Warnings: Mention of kidnapping, reader's life is kinda depressing, mention of them being too broke to eat properly
Notes: Based on my posts about reader who just has basic knowledge of One Piece ending up in the OPLA world. Lots of Sanji in this one, but the next is more Usopp and Nami centered. The beginning takes place shortly after the season one finale.
Word Count: 3.5k
All parts are linked HERE
The first thing you noticed was gentle rocking motion beneath you.
Then the salty scent of the air.
Then...voices?
"Is she from Coco Village?"
"I've never seen her before."
"She wasn't there. I'd remember seeing a beauty like that."
"She probably stowed away while we were at the Baratie."
"Why does it matter how she got here? If she's a bounty hunter, we need to deal with her."
"Let's just talk to her first, okay?"
Your eyes fluttered open, blinking against the bright sunlight. It was supposed to be night time, so why was there a clear blue sky above you?
"Hey, you're awake!" One of the voices dropped down and leaned over you, his face getting a little too close to yours. He had dark, curly hair covered by a straw hat, and a scar beneath his left eye. "So, are you a bounty hunter? Because if you're trying to kill us, you're not doing a very good job!"
"Bounty hunter?" You frowned, your brain still trying to catch up. "Why would I be a bounty hunter?" Was that even a thing anymore?
"Because we're pirates," said another, quieter voice from above. He had vibrant green hair, and a sword at his hip.
.....
A sword?!
That got your brain and body moving. You pushed yourself up, ignoring the pounding in your head as you scrambled backwards a few feet, giving yourself a better view of your situation.
In front of you stood the two guys you'd already seen, but there was also a man wearing a bandana and another smoking a cigarette. And along with them, a woman with bright orange hair.
At the sight of them, there was something scratching at the back of your brain. A familiarity of sorts. But you were more concerned with the scene around you. Not only was it daytime now, but somehow, you were on the deck of a ship.
Your knees buckled a bit as you got to your feet, looking over the railing at the expanse of the ocean. No land, just sparkling blue as far as the eye could see. If there weren't a horrible weight settling in your chest at the realization that you had been kidnapped, you would've enjoyed your very first view of the ocean. Tears started to sting at your eyes, and your heartbeat pounded in your ears.
Quickly, you reached into your bag for your phone, not seeing how the green haired man smoothly popped his sword from the sheath with his thumb, or how the straw hat guy gestured for him to wait. But instead of the promise of contacting someone, you found nothing but a cracked, melted piece of junk, reeking of burning plastic.
What the hell?
"Fuck!" You turned back to the strangers, the one in the hat looking quite concerned. Like he cared about the fact that you were clearly terrified. Like he figured out at that exact moment that you weren't a threat, and certainly not a bounty hunter.
"We're good pirates! You don't have to be scared, I promise." He said with a big smile. "My name is Monkey D. Luffy, and I'm gonna find the One Piece and become King of the Pirates!"
Wait.
Luffy.
Straw hat.
One Piece.
"Oh my god...I've been kidnapped by lunatic cosplayers." You could almost laugh, if it weren't for being stuck on some ship god knows where. "Are you some anime cult pretending that you're that guy Luffy and his pirate crew?"
"Anime? What's that?" Asked the bandana guy. The smoker shrugged as he ashed his cigarette.
"Hey, we're not pretending! I'm the real deal. See?" 'Luffy' hooked his finger in his cheek and pulled.
And pulled.
And pulled.
He let go of the flesh and it snapped right back into place, leaving a wide grin.
The deck seemed to be pulled out from under you, your legs giving out, but before you could hit the wood, you found yourself cradled in a pair of arms. It was the blond man, cigarette no longer at his lips.
Luffy had stretched his own face like a rubber band. These weren't cosplayers at all. "So, I'm dreaming. Okay."
"I may be the man of your dreams, but trust me, you're awake."
The orange haired girl rolled her eyes, as did the swordsman.
"No, this is definitely some weird dream. I must have fallen and hit my head when I was walking home from work, and I'm unconscious. Or..." Your voice got softer. "I got hit by a car or something, and these are the last electrical impulses of my dying brain."
"That got dark," the orange haired girl said.
"But if this is all in my head, where's the skeleton guy, or the cute little reindeer with the top hat? I feel like they would be here."
"Did you say a skeleton guy? I wish we had a skeleton guy," said Luffy with a little too much enthusiasm.
The bandana guy's voice got smaller. "I don't..."
"Wait..." you looked back up at the blond man. The black suit, the cigarette... "Aren't you the perverted one? Let go of me."
The swordsman snickered, and the blond glared at him as he moved his arms away, letting you sit up on your own. "I only meant to catch you and make sure you were alright. Nothin' improper, I assure you."
"Yeah, okay," you said. Right on cue, your stomach grumbled. "Aren't you the chef, too?"
His mouth curved into a smile. "I am. You hungry, love? I was just in the middle of makin' dinner."
"Sanji's the best cook in the world!" Luffy said. "You should join us!"
If you were dreaming so vividly, why not take advantage? "Okay, you've convinced me," you said, taking the hand he offered to help you up.
The orange haired girl pulled Luffy aside, but not quite far enough to keep you from overhearing. "Luffy, are you sure about this?"
"It's fine. She's not here to hurt us, I know it."
Sanji gestured towards what you assumed was the kitchen. "There's a couch in the galley. You can relax while I finish up dinner, alright?"
He led you that way, all but the swordsman following as well. The bandana guy came up beside you, smiling big.
"My name's Usopp. But you can call me Captain Usopp." He pointed towards the orange haired girl. "That's Nami, our navigator, and the really serious guy back on deck is Zoro. I guess you already know Luffy and Sanji. So what's your name?"
You told him your first name.
"Beautiful name for a beautiful lady," said Sanji.
You pointed to Luffy. "Isn't he the captain?"
"Yes," Nami and Sanji said in unison, as Usopp answered, "Technically..."
A little while later, you didn't hesitate to dig in when Sanji placed a plate of some sort of seafood pasta in front of you. It looked and smelled divine, and you were certain it would taste even better. You might as well enjoy it, considering that in spite of your job, you didn't often get good food when you were awake.
Slowly, you chewed and savored the flavor and the nice bite of the noodles. The perfectly cooked seafood. As you swallowed, you noticed that the cook seemed to be looking for your reaction as he continued serving the others.
"This has to be the best food I've ever eaten. Another point for 'this is a dream'."
Sanji smiled at that. "I'm glad you like it so much."
Luffy spoke, though his mouth was full of noodles. "I don't get it. Why do you think this is a dream?"
"Because all of this is literally impossible. Because you people don't actually exist." You said casually, taking a sip of your drink. Luffy didn't seem fazed as he continued shoveling food down his throat, but the other four looked at each other concerned.
Nami was the first to speak. "We...don't exist?"
"You're characters from a show. A really popular one, just not one I watch. I don't get why I'm not dreaming about something I actually like, but brains are strange. At least you're all hot, I guess," you added with a shrug.
Luffy swallowed his food and laughed loud. "You're kind of weird, you know that?"
Coming from him, it somehow felt more like a compliment than an insult.
You didn't doubt your whole 'this is a dream' attitude until you woke up in the girl's quarters, the moonlight shining on Nami's form sprawled out across the hanging bed just a few feet away.
When you went to sleep the night before, you were sure you would wake up in reality. Whether that was the usual lumpy mattress in your shitty apartment, or a hospital bed.
But there you were, smelling salt and wood, swaying softly in the hammock that Usopp had put up for you.
No fucking way.
You tried to get out of the hammock like a normal person, but you ended up spilling out of it, hitting the floor with a thump.
"Ow."
The lamp clicked on, illuminating the room and Nami's face as she peeked over the side of the bed. "You okay down there?"
"Uh huh," you groaned, rubbing the elbow that would surely be bruised later. "I'm just...I don't know, actually."
Nami watched as you sat up. Even though Luffy had told all of them that you weren't a threat, that he had a good feeling about you, that didn't stop her from being a little worried. You talked like they weren't real people, and that wasn't very comforting at all. But Luffy was confident that you needed their help to get back to wherever you came from.
"There has to be a way to be sure," you muttered, reaching back into your brain, through all the shows you've watched or books you've read, for something. Some idea of how to test this. To confirm that you somehow really were in the world of an anime....
"Nami, do you mind if I look at one of your books?"
"Go ahead," she said, not quite sure what you were getting at as you stood.
Her eyes followed you as you walked over to her desk. You picked up a book and flipped through it, finding nothing but various maps. And then another book with the same. You put it back down and turned to her. "Do you have anything with more words, like a novel?"
Nami got up from the bed and came to stand beside you. She spotted a certain book, one that she really should return to Sanji at some point, and pressed it into your hands. "Here, this should work. But what exactly are you doing?"
You ran your fingers over the cover, which read 'Noland the Liar'. "In dreams, text doesn't work the same way as it does when you're awake. So if I were really dreaming, this book would be total gibberish, right?"
"Uh...right." That sounded logical. In a way.
Opening the cover, you found that it was a picture book, like a fairy tale. Not quite what you had in mind, but close enough. You cleared your throat. "'In a certain country in the northern seas, there was a man named Mont Blanc Noland. Noland the Explorer's stories were always grand adventures that sounded like lies. But the people of the village could never tell if they were true or not.' Sounds familiar."
Nami smirked. Because of course Usopp hadn't missed the opportunity to tell you some tales at dinner.
You read on, eyes following each line and looking for inconsistencies as you spoke aloud. For anything that didn't make sense.
You didn't find it.
"'...Nobody believed Noland anymore, but he never stopped lying until he was dead.'" Slowly, you closed the book and put it back on her desk.
"Did you get what you needed?" Nami asked.
"Yeah..." you said softly, scrubbing a hand over your face. "I'm gonna go get some air...Sorry I said you weren't real."
Nami kept an eye on you as you left the room. Because even with Luffy's insistence that you were good, she was still a skeptic and protective of her treasure.
You padded across the wooden floors of the Going Merry, making your way back to the deck. The very same place where you'd woken up and found yourself in the most impossible situation. As soon as you made it topside, you took a deep breath of the ocean air, letting it fill your lungs.
Holy shit.
You were really in a world of pirates and adventure. You. The most average, unimportant person in the world.
This wasn't where someone like you belonged. But then again, you never really felt like you belonged anywhere.
You walked up to the railing and leaned against it, looking out over the ocean. It was somehow even more beautiful in the dark, the moonlight and the tiny hint of sunrise reflecting off the gentle waves. Surely there were times where the tide wasn't so serene, but not right then. It was calming to watch as you spiraled inside. "Wow."
"I was gonna say the same thing, only not about the sea."
A lighter clicked closed behind you.
You turned your head and spotted Sanji, already dressed for the day with a lit cigarette in his mouth. "Early bird, are you?"
He made his way over and rested against the railing as well, leaving a healthy space between you. "I have to be. Who else is gonna make breakfast?"
"Yeah, I guess with someone who eats as much as Luffy, you kind of have to get up at the crack of dawn to cook." Thinking back on dinner, it floored you realizing how much food the captain had put away. Being a rubber man must burn a lot of calories. "You must not get much sleep then."
"It's enough," he said before taking a drag. He'd gotten used to running on little sleep years ago. "What about you? Usually an early riser?"
"No, but the last 12 hours have been really strange." You fully turned to face him, your hip pressing into the side of the ship where you leaned. "I didn't think I was going to be here when I woke up."
"Disappointed?"
"Freaked out. I was so convinced this was a dream, now I'm pretty sure it's not." You looked back out over the sea, but Sanji's eyes remained on you. "None of this is supposed to be r–" Now that you were fairly certain this was reality, it probably wasn't the best idea to keep saying that they were fictional. That wasn't going to fly. Except with Luffy apparently, because he'd found it hilarious. "I'm not from this world. This shouldn't be happening. Especially not to someone like me."
Your whole situation was throwing him off, but there was something about you. Something that told him that you really weren't from his world. That you were being truthful, as strange as it seemed. And it wasn't just because you were beautiful. "Someone like you?" he asked.
"Normal, boring, unimpressive. Take your pick." You sighed heavily. "I'm a waitress at the snobbiest restaurant in town, who lives in a crappy apartment the size of a closet. I don't have a social life to speak of, or any real hobbies. I'm not special."
"I wouldn't say that." He took his cigarette from his lips and ashed it over the side of the ship. "If you're here, it must be for a reason."
You laughed, but there wasn't any humor in it. "Well, if you figure out what that reason is, you let me know."
He leaned in just a little closer, putting a hand on yours. There was a gentle sincerity in it that kept you from pulling away. "I may not fully understand all of this, but what I do know is that you ended up on the right ship. If there's a way to get you back home, Luffy'll find it."
"I hope so. I'm not cut out for pirate life."
"You might be surprised," Sanji said with a smile, pushing himself away from the railing. "You like coffee, love?"
His question made you perk up. "Like it? I practically live off of it."
Sanji flicked the cigarette away and headed for the galley, waving you to follow. "I've got a kettle goin'. I'll make you a cup."
Moments later, you sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, watching as Sanji took out another coffee mug and added more ground coffee to the filter. You'd noticed as he was cooking dinner the night before that there was something calming about his ease in the kitchen. Maybe a warm, steady presence was just what you'd needed after your realization. Your shoulders had already relaxed without you realizing it. "So, what are you making for breakfast?"
"Usually, I'd say whatever you'd like, but we're runnin' pretty low on supplies right now. I'll have to make fish porridge again today." Not his favorite, but it was a dish that stretched rice very well. And he needed to stretch everything he could until the Merry reached an island.
"Oh..." Guilt twisted your gut. "I probably screwed up your rationing, huh?"
Sanji noticed your face falling slightly and betrayed no concern. You had enough to worry about, being as far from home as you were. However far away that was, anyway. "It'll be alright, love. I'm a resourceful cook," he smiled as he put the filter over a carafe and started on a pour over. "I promise I'll make you somethin' nice whenever we stop on a island and restock the pantry."
"If everything else you cook is even half as good as that pasta last night, I'll be very happy." You tried not to think too much about last night's dinner, just so your mouth wouldn't start watering.
"You liked it that much, did you?" Sanji had gotten plenty of compliments on his cooking in the past, but they were always nicest when spoken by a lovely woman.
"Yeah. But it probably doesn't mean a lot coming from me. I have to have sleep for dinner more often than not, so I'm easy to please."
'Sleep for dinner'? Oh that wouldn't do at all. Sanji got quite serious for a moment. "As long as you're with this crew, you won't have to worry about skippin' meals."
"Right. I'm guessing Luffy requires three square meals a day on this ship."
"Five. Plus snacks."
"Not surprising," you said with a smile. "How long have you been a pirate cook anyway?"
"A little over a week." Sometimes, especially when moss head was around, it felt like much longer than that.
Your eyes went wide. "Wow, really? So you're new to this. That makes me feel a little better."
"Happy to help," he smiled. "How do you take your coffee, gorgeous?"
You described your usual order, and Sanji followed it exactly, pouring coffee into your mug once it was ready and giving it a stir for you.
Finally, you had a steaming hot cup of coffee in your hands, made just the way you liked it. The warmth of the mug was soothing against your palms, and just the smell of it did wonders already. "Thanks, Sanji."
"My pleasure," he said, pouring his own cup. "I can brew you some whenever you'd like. All you have to do is ask."
"That's a dangerous offer. Unless you're really okay with doing it several times a day."
"I don't mind makin' coffee for an otherworldly beauty such as your yourself."
"Do you ever run out of those ridiculous lines?" You took a sip, giving him a raised eyebrow over the rim of the cup.
"Not when I have such lovely inspiration." He stirred his coffee, finding himself reminded of the previous day. He'd been called a lot of things over the years, but never a pervert. It had stung a bit in the moment, if he was being honest. Moss head's amusement only made it worse. "Though it's probably not helpin' your opinion of me, is it?"
It took you a second to realize what he meant. "Sorry about yesterday. At this point, I'm pretty sure you're not a pervert. You didn't set off my creep radar." And after years of being a waitress and dealing with the general public, your sense was pretty spot on. It helped that his nose hadn't started gushing blood at the sight of you or Nami. "I think you're just a terrible flirt."
"Says the one who called me hot." Sanji said with the cockiest smirk you'd probably ever seen.
Your cheeks suddenly began to burn. "I said the whole crew was hot. And I thought I was dreaming. That doesn't count."
"It does."
"Ugh." You hid your face behind your hand. "Don't you have breakfast to make? Go do that."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, chuckling as he went for the pantry.
As you took another sip of coffee, you wondered once again why–and how–the universe had put you where it did.
But if you had to mysteriously appear somewhere, the Going Merry seemed a good place to be...
It's called the Global Justice Report, it is here. This is an actionable plan which can be sent to legislators and demanded of political parties. We could save the world within our lifetimes.
It has always been possible. It is still possible.
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Thinking about Robert Robertson with a Desi coworker reader
Robert Robertson who couldn’t help but ogle at you when he first saw you walk through the elevator and make your way to your new cubicle. He’s not usually the type of man to get all bashful and shy over somebody, but you? Damn.
Robert Robertson who eyes the pair of tiny gold jhumkas hanging from the lobes of your ears. He watches how they sway when you turn your head or brush your hair over your shoulder. They’re simple at first glance, but pretty as hell.
Robert Robertson who’s trying so hard to focus on his job, but for some damn reason, he can’t stop staring at you. He doesn’t understand how a stranger could be so magnetic. There was just something about your aura that drew him in.
Robert Robertson who walked by your cubicle once to print something and caught a whiff of your perfume. It was perfectly floral but not childish, rich but not overpowering. And there was something almost sweet or warm to the scent.
Robert Robertson who try as he might, can’t look away when you apply a layer of terracotta coloured lipstick to your mouth. His knuckles turn white as he clenches his fists, hyper focused on your lips.
Desi coworker reader who’s just trying to get accustomed to her new job when she feels someone’s eyes on her. She turns to see Robert staring at her, strangely fixated on her mouth. She doesn’t know whether to smile or glare so she just waves awkwardly. Robert looks away almost immediately.
Robert Robertson who eventually caves in to his curiosity and decides to ask you to watch over Beef. He loved bringing the little guy to the office, having everyone fawn over him. A lot of his female coworkers especially loved the chihuahua. Robert assumed it was because women were far more willing than men to audibly coo at something adorable with no shame in public.
Robert Robertson who thanks whatever god is up above for that fact. The moment you see the chubby dog, you give a little pout and scratch Beef behind the ears as you coo at him. You’re so gentle when you hold him as well, so Robert trusts you with his boy.
Robert Robertson who decides to get to know you after your time with Beef being a success. He figures this is just a case of the butterflies. A sudden attraction that would fade in about a week or so after learning what type of person you are.
Robert Robertson who realizes that after a month, the butterflies have not gone away. And what’s worse is that it wasn’t just about your looks anymore.
Robert Robertson who has learned how you like your coffee and chai, your favourite flowers, music, books, what movies you thought should’ve won awards and what season you liked best.
Robert Robertson who has learned a lot about your culture and different traditions surrounding food, fashion, celebrations, fasting, and religious beliefs if you have any. He finds holidays such as Diwali and Eid interesting.
Robert Robertson who honestly loves hearing you talk about your heritage and not only uncovering that part of you, but understanding it. He also likes comparing your culture to the more western culture he grew up with, noting the similarities and differences.
Desi coworker reader who is starting to fall head over heels for Robert as well. Not only was he hot, he was considerate, respectful, unexpectedly kind and had a dry sense of humour that always managed to make you giggle.
Robert Robertson who can’t take it anymore after another month and just asks you out. He’s shocked when you practically vibrate wirh joy and say yes. He doesn’t tell you to repeat yourself. He just told you he’d pick you up by eight.
Robert Robertson who treats you like a rare jewel. You two, despite your cultural differences, get each other in ways others wouldn’t. Especially with family expectations (or in Robert’s case expectations from the public based on his family).
Robert Robertson who is in heaven when you cook food from your culture for him. He truly thinks he saw god when you made him nihari for the first time. He gets so excited whenever you tell him you’re cooking tonight. In terms of dessert, I think he’d fuck heavily with rasmalai.
Robert Robertson who claims to find Bollywood shows and movies silly and dramatic, but always gets very invested in them. He vibes with the music though, and constantly has the songs stuck in his head and hums them throughout his day.
Desi coworker reader who goes to a dholki and asks if Robert can pick her up once it’s over. She’s wearing a lehenga or shalwar kameez, something that’s basic in her eyes but when she approaches Robert’s car and sits inside? His jaw drops.
Desi coworker reader who looks like a total goddess. You look stunning in the orange golden shade of your clothes. Your colourful jewellery, the stack of bangles on your arms, your silky sari. It’s like Robert’s seeing you in an entirely different light that makes you even more gorgeous than you already are.
Robert Robertson who worshipped your body all night. While you had trouble walking the next day, he couldn’t help but think, ‘worth it.’
A/N: Hello Desi dispatch fans. Can anyone hear me or am I speaking into an empty room 🧍♀️Sorry that this is with a female reader. I just found it easier to write that way since I had a specific ethnicity in mind and stuff but if you guys want a Desi reader that’s gender neutral or even male, I’d be down to clown. (Also if anyone wants me to write smut of the last bit I would also be down to clown.)
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
—the cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: you’re the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jack’s characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear it’s just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: i’m not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
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.
Lucky!Reader! You got pretty used to not having you superpower taken seriously. People thinking your joking, saying your power isn't real. What can you do with being lucky.
Turns out robbing a bank is pretty easy! Highly recommended!
Yep. You robbed a bank. Multiple actually. You gave up on trying to be a 'hero'. Had enough of people belittling you to your face about something you were honestly proud of. I mean, who can say they normally never carry money on them anymore. Always finding 20$ here, 10$ there. It got to the point you didn't even have to look for it. Plus, it always ended up being enough for lunch.
And that's not even the best part of your power. Late to a meeting? All of a sudden traffic is clear. Need a drink on a hot day? Free one from the vending machine. Not to mention the amount of people that buy you free snacks or drinks just cause they had a "good day today"
You were sick of everyone telling you your power didn't count. So you decided to test your free will. For awhile it was working pretty well. The plan was simple. Find bank. Walk to bank when its closed. Coincidentally the lock was open. The cameras where all off! And the safe might as well presented itself to you on a silver plate.
You then take your goods. And leave. Simple! Your powers pretty great. Granted, it has it's limits. You only have so much reserves everyday. Like a cup that eventually gets refilled after some time. For small stuff like catching the bus. Doesn't take up your reserves. Robbing a bank? Welllll, your normally had enough to take you to your nice warm bed.
Normally you can go about your usual commute without breaking the bank. Hehe. Get it? Bank- ok nevermind. Moving on. Normally you simply don't overuse you power like normal.
But it seems luck ran out today. You reallyyyyy didn't wanna wait in line for your coffee. And you realllyyyy cant afford to be late for work. So you may have used your power a teensy bit more than you should have. When your about to walk out of the bank, pink duffel bag flung over your shoulder filled with money. You can't really be surprised when you see a blond blazer standing outside with a pretty pair of silver cuffs a slight grin of amusement at how casuallyyou were about to walk out.
"Come round here often?"
"..."
"..."
"If i said i just found this-"
Annnnnnnnnnnd
Thats how you ended up in a jail cell at 2:36AM on a Thursday. You would try use your powers to escape. But with how closely blond blazer has been standing near your cell. You dont think You'd get very far.
Honestly you didn't think you'd become a big enough deal that they sent a high ranked hero like her. You dont really know if you feels proud? Since you technically the villan of the story right now? But it feels kinda good to get acknowledged. Then again. You'd been slyly keeping up with this rouse for years. Surprised it took them so long.
You kinda wanna brag, but between a superhuman who seems to sigh everytime she glances towards your cell, muttering something about paperwork and overtime and a chief of police who grinds his teeth everytime you so much as breath to loud. Your not sure whose patience to test.
After spending a few weeks in jail, atoning for your crimes. You discover jails not for you. The communal showers. The shitty food. The horrible smelling toilets. Yeah this life ain't for you.
So you escape. Blonde Blazer caught you. You escape again! She finds you again...Turns out third time wasn't the charm. And so on and so on.
Weirdly enough you two grew kinda close over the weeks. Having the occasional chit chat before she once again catches you before you flee the country.
"How is it you always get caught right at the airport?"
"Takes a bit of luck to escape the prison. Then i get hungry. I realise i need some money, and by the time i get there, they realised my id was fake.
"..."
"..."
"Wanna join this new project im working on?"
And thats how you end up on the z-team. Their loud, crazy bunch. You've got an assassin. Bat boner. Mr Strongman. A midget. A living flashlight. A crazy chickwho turns invisible and probably laughs when kids cry. A stone! And a LITERAL DEMON.
Bet hey, this is 2025. Who are you to judge if some folks are...weird.
That was a week ago. And you were wrong. These people are batshit crazy. And your pretty sure your gonna die anytime now.
"Hey team, this is your new member. Y/n. Be nice, it will go in your reports."
You can't help but atare at blonde blazer as if it feels like she just threw you into a den of sharks. Honestly, when she first pitched the idea to you, you wanted to laugh in her face and call her mad but jail sucks, like really sucks. So here you are.
A certain hothead speaks up before any of the new information gets processed. "Bitchhhh, are you that kid that robbed all those banks. Thats fucking cool." You want to reply but your jaw practically hangs open at his outfit.
"Does your HR have any semblance of rules or -" Before you finish a blast of fire gets sent you way, a loud beeping sound emerging before the sprinklers come on. Dousing the flames in water before it even gets a chance to hit you, the walking fireball gets drenched as he stands below the sprinkler that just turned on. His long ponytail lying flat on his back as his eye twitches.
A whistle lets out as the hot, demon? Lady speaks up, chuckling with a guy who seems to be half bat. "Dude. That was fucking cool"
"Now this is a business opportunity. Is it transferable? Hi, im sonar. Harvard graduate."
"Literally, no one asked you, bat boy. Hey girl. You obviously know who I am—Prism, the main event. Im like the best hero here."
Many voices speak to you at once. Before you can reply, a woman slightly taller than you appears right next to you, making you jump.
"Aack!"
"Great. Another recruit for the hallway monitor squad. Look, Y.N., let's skip the PR-friendly introductory speech. Names invisigal. Keep your habds to yourself and we'll do fine."
"Another little human to join or team! Joyus. My name is phenome-"
"Hi there, Lace! Names punch-up. " You look down to see a small muscular man, no taller than your waist. Maybe jail was a safer choice-
"Coupé"
...Were those knives?
"Golem. Welcome to the team." Okay so. That is a rock. Are you going ceazy? Or? You know what. At this point, you doubt much can surprise you.
At this point you look towards blonde blazer with a pleading eye, surely this isn't yourrr team. Right? Right!? "Whelp. Uhh y/n this is z team. Welcome aboard. Don't die"
Wait. what was that last part-
"Hi im Robert Robertson. I'll be your new dispatcher. Welcome to the team." He offers you his hand, in which you reluctantly take. Atleast someone here is. Relatively normal.
That was until a loud voice speaks up from the background. "Ya, no one cares Bobby! My hair is wet thanks to this fucker!" Flambe shouts, a light flame in his hand as he tries to dry his hair.
"Uhh you attacked me? This power mostly moves on instinct-"
"-How about you learn to stop picking fights flambe, no one cares about you hair." OK, so maybe Robert isn't as tame as you thought.
"You wanna go bob bob!?"
"Why, you wanna lose more teeth?"
You here the rest of them chanting in the background, FIGHT. FIGHT. FIGHT. The woman whose name you believe is prism, already holding her phone to record. With the bat guy hosting a betting station in the corner.
.
.
.
This is a superhero team?
The next day.
Soooo, you take that back. Everyone here is insane. Crazy. Weirdos. Blonde Blazer must have put you on the wrong team. You just need to go to her calmly-
"Yeah...no."
"WHAT! ...Ahem. Sorry but uh. WHAT!?"
"I did tell you this project is about reforming ex-criminals. Which you technically are. We still haven't managed to give back all the money you took."
"It's not my fault i spent it." You see her shoot you a stern look as you say those words. Maybe you take a tiny bit of the blame. Money really does buy happiness.
She sighs before continuing. "Besides, im certain we only managed to recover 40% of all your crimes. So i suggest you use this time to reform and pay your debt."
It's closer to 25. But whose really counting? The point is, your lucky they only caught you that one time and the rest of your charges are from escaping jail.
So now your walking in for your first day of work with a big smile on your face like your happy to be there.
"Okay everyone, team meeting. We're doing an ice breaker." Robert announces at the head of the table. Staring right at you. "Blazer introduced you but now its time for you to say some words. Besides dousing flambe."
For fucks sake.
You hear a few chuckles across the room as he says those words. Flambe sitting in the corner with a grimace.
"Hi. My name is y/n. Uhh. Im here because they caught me during a bank robbery. Uhh. My powers luck."
There's a moment of silence after you introduce yourself.
Malevola is the first person to speak up. "Thats a pretty cool power dude. You turn that shit on and off or?"
"How you gonna let them catch you robbing a bank? They sent you here for that?" Prisim speaks to next. Tapping on her phone as she glances at you.
Coupe stands quietly in the background. "Just one? How juvenile."
That one you can't even disagree with. They did technically only catch you stealing from ONE bank.
"How'd they even let you on the team. Do you even count as a criminal?" Sonar and malevola walk in from a portal together.
Honestly, their reaction kinda surprises you. You sorta expected to get laughed at a bit. Having good luck as a power? Doesn't really garner a warm reception. Even flambe seems indifferent to what happened yesterday, giving you small glances in between filling his nails.
Weirdly enough you feel, respected.
Malevola chimes in. "I mean having luck is pretty cool but-"
Invisigal appears right next to you unannounced. "-Snagged this ones file from blazers office. They suspect her for like 87 robbery cases. Cleaned out like 30% of banks in the area. And she escaped from jail like 16 times."
"AACK!" You jolt as she appears before you. "You need to stop doing that. Amd technically, i was only charged for one robbery so-"
Flambe whistles from another corner of the room. "Damn bitch, 30%. No wonder they sent you here."
Punch up quickly pipes up from the news. "Aye, i think i saw this ones work on TV. Thats some luck."
Coupe sends you a nod of approval. "Impressive. Do you take requests?"
"Ye-"
"Okay! Lets stop that. Everyone. Shut the fuck up. This is a team meeting and-"
Sonar interrupts. "No one cares bobby! About those requests."
All of a sudden. Multiple voices are crowding you at once. Their all pretty crazy. But, maybe being a hero won't be so bad. Plus, those many, many debts you owe to different banks. Your gonna be here for awhile...
Thank you to those who were patient with me! This was honestly a pretty long fic surprisingly. Im definitely considering a part 2, so let me know! Sorry for those who voted for frat jjk. Still working on it.
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Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen!Reader (She/her)
Summary: As Daemon Targaryen’s only daughter without a dragon, you have never lacked for love, not when your father has spent your entire life ensuring you want for nothing, and certainly not when Caraxes has always treated you as though you belong to him, too. When you are betrothed to Ser Gwayne Hightower, Daemon is determined to despise the match. Unfortunately, Gwayne proves difficult to frighten away, especially when he begins loving you with the same gentle devotion you have always deserved.
Warnings: Protective father Daemon, excessive fluff, family teasing, arranged betrothal, brief insecurity about not having a dragon, one deeply inconvenienced Gwayne Hightower, and a very spoiled princess. caraxes being a spoiled brat
note: just a super long and fun one shot. mostly daemon pov, we die on the hill that he was born to be a girl dad.
masterlist
One shot
The first gift Daemon Targaryen ever gave his daughter was not a doll.
It was a Valyrian steel dagger.
“You cannot give that to an infant,” Rhaenyra said, staring down at the silver-haired babe sleeping peacefully in her father’s arms.
Daemon looked at the weapon, then at his daughter.
“She will grow into it.”
“She cannot even hold up her own head.”
“All the more reason to begin preparing her.”
The dagger was confiscated.
The second gift was a tiny silver crown, custom-made to fit a head that had barely grown enough hair to hold it in place.
The third was an entire chest filled with gowns sewn from silk imported across the Narrow Sea.
The fourth was a pale mare from the Reach, purchased before you had even learned to walk.
By the time you were five, you owned more jewelry than most noblewomen acquired in a lifetime.
By the time you were seven, Daemon had commissioned a private library because you once mentioned that the Red Keep’s collection did not contain enough stories about the stars.
By the time you were ten, he had purchased an entire ship after you said you liked the carved seahorse on its prow.
“You are going to ruin her,” Rhaenyra warned him.
Daemon watched as you stood on the docks, delightedly waving to the sailors now assigned to your entirely unnecessary vessel.
“She is a princess.”
“She does not need a ship.”
“She liked it.”
“She liked the carving.”
“And now she has both.”
Rhaenyra sighed.
Daemon smiled.
There were few things in this world that Daemon Targaryen loved gently.
You had always been one of them.
You were his first daughter, born small and quiet, with a soft heart that seemed entirely at odds with the fire in your blood. Where Daemon met the world with sharpened steel and bared teeth, you greeted it with patient smiles and open hands.
You apologized when servants bumped into you.
You carried spiders outside rather than allowing guards to crush them.
You cried when a kitchen boy burned his hand and remained beside him until the maester arrived.
Daemon did not understand where such sweetness had come from.
He protected it viciously.
The only thing he had never been able to give you was a dragon.
An egg had been placed in your cradle, as tradition demanded.
It had never hatched.
A second was brought from Dragonstone when you were three.
It remained cold.
When you were old enough, Daemon walked with you through the caverns beneath the Dragonmont, searching for some sign that one of the unclaimed dragons might accept you.
None did.
You had said nothing as the keepers led you away.
You had held your head high through supper and smiled when your younger sisters spoke excitedly of flying.
Only after the castle had gone quiet did Daemon find you curled beside the stone hearth in your chambers, your face hidden against your knees.
He lowered himself beside you without speaking.
For a while, you both watched the flames.
“I am sorry,” you whispered eventually.
Daemon’s expression darkened.
“For what?”
“For disappointing you.”
The words were barely audible.
They wounded him more deeply than any blade ever had.
Daemon turned toward you.
“You have never disappointed me.”
“I am a Targaryen who cannot claim a dragon.”
“You are my daughter.”
You glanced at him through tear-damp lashes.
“That should make it worse.”
“It makes it irrelevant.”
“But everyone else—”
“Everyone else is not you.”
Your lower lip trembled.
Daemon reached out, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“The dragons are old, stubborn creatures,” he said. “They are proud and temperamental, and most of them possess less sense than a drunken sellsword.”
Despite yourself, you gave a watery laugh.
“They have overlooked the greatest treasure in Westeros.”
“You do not mean that.”
“I have never meant anything more.”
He rose and extended his hand.
“Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“To show you that you are not without a dragon.”
It was well past midnight when Daemon led you onto the darkened fields beyond Dragonstone.
The wind coming off the sea pulled strands of silver hair across your face. You clutched your cloak around your shoulders and followed your father toward the enormous shape resting beneath the cliffs.
Caraxes raised his long head before you had taken more than a dozen steps.
The Blood Wyrm’s rumble moved through the earth beneath your slippers.
You stopped.
Daemon did not.
Caraxes had always known you.
When you were a babe, Daemon had carried you close enough for the dragon to breathe your scent. The dragonkeepers had protested until Caraxes lowered his head and gently pressed the warm end of his snout against your tiny blanket.
Your first word had not been father.
To Daemon’s everlasting offense, it had been something resembling Caraxes.
You had spent your childhood slipping the dragon pieces of roasted meat from your plate, brushing soot from his scales, and falling asleep beside his warm flank while Daemon trained nearby.
Caraxes had never been yours.
Yet he had always behaved as though you belonged to him.
That night, he moved toward you, his long neck curving until his enormous head rested in the grass at your feet.
You placed a trembling hand against his scales.
Caraxes released a low, crooning sound.
“He knows,” Daemon said.
“Knows what?”
“That you are upset.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I wish he had chosen me.”
Daemon stepped behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders.
“He did.”
You looked back at him.
“Not in the way dragons choose riders,” he continued. “But he has known you since the day you were born. He would burn armies for you.”
Caraxes huffed warm air across your skirts.
Daemon’s mouth curved.
“And apparently he would also like you to scratch beneath his jaw.”
You laughed and obeyed.
The Blood Wyrm’s eyes drifted half-closed with pleasure.
“Do you wish to fly?” Daemon asked.
You hesitated.
“Now?”
“The sky does not close at night.”
You looked from him to Caraxes.
“But I am not his rider.”
“No,” Daemon agreed. “You are mine.”
He lifted you into the saddle before climbing behind you.
Daemon wrapped one arm securely around your waist as Caraxes rose.
The first rush of wind stole the breath from your lungs.
Then Dragonstone disappeared beneath you.
The sea became a sheet of black glass, the moon scattering silver across its surface. The clouds opened around you, cool mist brushing your cheeks. Your father’s arm remained firm around your middle, his chest warm against your back.
Caraxes climbed higher.
You laughed.
The sound carried into the night.
Daemon lowered his head beside yours.
“Still believe you have no dragon?”
You rested your hands against the leather of the saddle and looked down at the world spread beneath you.
“No.”
After that, you flew with Daemon whenever he would allow it.
Which was often.
He took you across Blackwater Bay at sunrise, over the forests of the crownlands in autumn, and above the towers of King’s Landing when the streets below glittered with festival lanterns.
You sat before him as a child and behind him when you grew older, your arms wrapped securely around his waist.
Caraxes always seemed to know when you were coming.
He would lift his head before you appeared and release a pleased cry that echoed through the Dragonpit.
The dragonkeepers whispered that the Blood Wyrm was calmer when you were near.
He allowed you to touch his face, clean the smaller scales around his horns, and sleep against him during long summer afternoons.
Once, after a lord’s son mocked you for failing to claim a dragon, Caraxes snapped at the boy so fiercely that he fainted.
Daemon gave the dragon an entire sheep as a reward.
“You encouraged him,” Rhaenyra accused.
“I did nothing.”
“You told Caraxes, and I quote, ‘Well done.’”
“He showed restraint.”
“The boy wet himself.”
“I said restraint, not mercy.”
The court continued to pity the princess without a dragon.
You never understood why.
You had Caraxes.
You had your father.
And between them, no one in the Seven Kingdoms could have made you feel unprotected.
Then came Gwayne Hightower.
The betrothal was announced during a council meeting.
Daemon nearly overturned the table.
“A Hightower?”
King Viserys closed his eyes.
“It is a politically advantageous match.”
“It is an insult.”
“It will strengthen ties between our houses.”
“It will strengthen my desire to commit murder.”
“Daemon.”
“My daughter will not be handed to some green-cloaked peacock because Otto Hightower wishes to tighten his grip on the throne.”
Across the room, Otto’s expression hardened.
“This is not about my ambitions.”
“Everything you do is about your ambitions.”
“Father,” you said softly.
Daemon turned.
You sat near Rhaenyra, your hands folded neatly in your lap.
Unlike your father, you had not reacted with anger.
You looked nervous, certainly, but not afraid.
Daemon’s face softened by a degree.
“You do not have to marry him,” he said.
Viserys sighed.
“She has not even met him properly.”
“Then she is already better off.”
“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warned.
“What?”
“You are behaving like a child.”
“I am behaving like a father.”
“A deeply irrational father.”
“My daughter deserves better than a Hightower.”
Otto lifted his chin.
“My son is an anointed knight from an ancient and respected house.”
“He wears green.”
“Green is our house color.”
“Exactly.”
You pressed your lips together.
Daemon’s gaze snapped toward you.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
Your shoulders shook.
The sight did nothing to improve his mood.
The first time Gwayne arrived at the Red Keep after the announcement, Daemon made him wait outside the council chamber for nearly an hour.
Entirely on purpose.
“He has been standing there since the bells,” you reminded him.
Daemon continued sharpening Dark Sister.
“Has he?”
“You know he has.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Father.”
“He should develop patience. Marriage requires a great deal of it.”
“Being married to me?”
“Being married beneath my supervision.”
When Gwayne was finally allowed inside, he entered with the composed expression of a man determined not to acknowledge that he had been deliberately insulted.
He was dressed in the deep green of his house, his auburn hair swept back from his face. He bowed first to you, then to Daemon.
“My princess.”
“Ser Gwayne.”
His eyes met yours.
For a brief moment, you forgot your father was glaring at him from three paces away.
Gwayne smiled.
It was not the polished smile of a courtier.
It was warm and slightly nervous.
You smiled back.
Daemon’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.
“So,” he said.
Gwayne looked at him.
“So?”
“You wish to marry my daughter.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Gwayne glanced at you again.
Daemon noticed.
His scowl deepened.
“I have admired the princess for some time.”
“Admired what?”
“Her kindness.”
Daemon blinked.
It was not the answer he had expected.
Gwayne continued carefully.
“I have seen her visit the lower courtyards with food during winter. I watched her sit with an injured stable hand until a maester came. I have heard servants speak of her with genuine affection rather than obligation.”
You stared at him.
You had not known he had noticed any of those things.
“And you believe that qualifies you to marry her?” Daemon asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“I believe loving her might.”
The room fell silent.
Daemon leaned back.
“You have met her twice.”
“Four times.”
“You were counting?”
“Yes.”
“That is unsettling.”
“I thought it was romantic,” you murmured.
“It was,” Rhaenyra said from the doorway.
Daemon glared at both of you.
“No one asked.”
The unfortunate truth was that Gwayne Hightower was very difficult to dislike.
Daemon tried.
He tried with admirable dedication.
He arranged early morning training sessions and struck Gwayne hard enough to leave bruises beneath his armor.
Gwayne returned the next morning.
Daemon spent an entire evening describing, in vivid detail, every terrible thing he would do if Gwayne caused you pain.
Gwayne listened patiently.
When Daemon finished, he asked whether the list had been arranged by likelihood or severity.
You laughed so suddenly that wine nearly came from your nose.
Daemon did not find it amusing.
Gwayne remembered the names of servants.
He thanked cooks.
He listened to Viserys discuss old Valyria for nearly two hours without once appearing bored.
He brought flowers for Rhaenyra and a book of Dornish poetry for Helaena.
He treated you with a gentle attention that never felt rehearsed.
When you spoke, he listened.
When you became quiet in crowded rooms, he did not demand that you entertain him. He simply stood beside you until you felt comfortable again.
He learned that you liked candied lemons but disliked lemon cakes.
He learned that you preferred silver jewelry to gold.
He discovered that you read when you could not sleep and began bringing you books from Oldtown.
Once, after hearing you mention that a ribbon on a market stall was pretty, he returned to purchase it.
“You did not need to do that,” you said as he tied the pale blue silk around your wrist.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because you liked it.”
The answer sounded so much like something Daemon would say that you stared at him.
Gwayne’s brows rose.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
From the other side of the courtyard, Daemon watched with narrowed eyes.
Rhaenyra followed his gaze.
“You like him.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I tolerate his continued existence.”
“He reminds you of yourself.”
Daemon looked offended.
“He does not.”
“He buys her unnecessary gifts because she looks pleased.”
“That proves nothing.”
“He threatened a lord last week for speaking poorly of her.”
“The lord deserved it.”
“And now he is standing beneath the sun holding a parasol because she mentioned being warm.”
Daemon turned back toward you.
Gwayne held the parasol in one hand and your basket of flowers in the other while you knelt beside a patch of lavender.
He looked perfectly content.
Daemon frowned.
“He is holding it incorrectly.”
“Of course.”
Your favorite visits were to the Dragonpit.
Gwayne was less enthusiastic.
It was not that he was a coward.
He simply possessed a sensible awareness that Caraxes was a fire-breathing creature large enough to swallow him whole.
Daemon took great pleasure in this.
The first time Gwayne accompanied you, Caraxes raised his head and fixed one enormous golden eye on the knight.
Gwayne stopped walking.
Daemon smiled.
“Something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
“You have gone pale.”
“It is warm.”
“It is never warm in here.”
You slipped your hand into Gwayne’s.
“He will not hurt you.”
Caraxes released a rumbling growl.
Gwayne watched a thin curl of smoke rise from his nostrils.
“That does not sound particularly reassuring.”
“He is only curious.”
“He appears hungry.”
“He has already eaten,” Daemon said.
Gwayne glanced at him.
Daemon smiled wider.
“Mostly.”
“Father,” you chided.
Caraxes lowered his head toward you.
You released Gwayne’s hand and approached without hesitation, pressing both palms against the dragon’s warm snout.
The Blood Wyrm crooned.
The terrible sound softened into something almost affectionate.
Gwayne’s fear momentarily gave way to wonder.
You stood before one of the largest and most dangerous creatures in Westeros, your silver hair catching the glow of the torches, your forehead resting gently against crimson scales.
Caraxes was careful with you.
Almost impossibly so.
“He loves her,” Gwayne said quietly.
Daemon’s smugness faded.
“Yes.”
“Did he ever try to bond with her?”
“No. His bond is mine.”
Gwayne nodded.
“But she is part of you.”
Daemon looked at him.
Caraxes shifted, curling his long neck around you protectively.
“So he considers her his,” Gwayne finished.
Daemon studied the knight for a moment.
“You understand dragons better than I expected.”
“My sister was fond of telling me that creatures often understand love more easily than men do.”
“Your sister is irritatingly correct.”
You turned.
“Gwayne, come closer.”
He hesitated.
Caraxes stared.
You held out your hand.
Gwayne had faced tourneys, battlefields, and your father’s interrogation.
Approaching Caraxes was somehow worse.
Still, he moved toward you.
Slowly.
Caraxes growled when he came within several feet.
Gwayne stopped.
You reached back and took his hand.
“He is protective.”
“So I have gathered.”
“He needs to know I trust you.”
“And how do we convince him of that?”
You guided Gwayne’s hand toward Caraxes’s snout.
“Try not to smell frightened,” Daemon advised.
Gwayne shot him a look.
“That is tremendously helpful.”
Your laughter seemed to settle the dragon.
Caraxes’s growl faded.
Gwayne’s palm finally touched one crimson scale.
The Blood Wyrm huffed warm air over him.
Gwayne’s cloak flew backward.
He remained standing.
After a moment, Caraxes pulled away without attempting to bite off any part of him.
You beamed.
“He likes you.”
“He tolerated me.”
“From Caraxes, that is practically a declaration of love.”
Daemon crossed his arms.
“He has poor judgment.”
Caraxes turned his head and knocked Daemon sideways with his snout.
Gwayne coughed into his fist to disguise his laughter.
You did not bother disguising yours.
A few weeks later, Gwayne watched you fly for the first time.
Daemon had invited him to observe.
Invite was perhaps the wrong word.
Daemon had informed him that if Gwayne intended to marry a Targaryen princess, he should witness what he was attempting to take away from Dragonstone.
The implication was clear.
You mounted Caraxes behind your father, wrapping your arms around Daemon’s waist.
Your gown had been replaced by riding leathers embroidered with silver thread. Your hair was braided away from your face, and excitement made your eyes shine.
Daemon looked over his shoulder.
“Ready?”
“Always.”
Caraxes launched himself from the cliff.
Gwayne’s heart stopped.
The dragon dropped toward the sea before his wings opened.
Your laughter reached the cliffs.
Gwayne stood frozen, watching Caraxes climb into the sky.
You looked small against him.
Small, but not afraid.
Daemon guided the dragon through the clouds, then turned back toward Dragonstone.
As Caraxes swept low above the cliffs, you stretched one arm into the wind.
You looked radiant.
Not like a princess who had been denied a dragon.
Like a woman who had never needed to own the sky to belong in it.
When Caraxes landed, Gwayne approached as you climbed down.
Daemon placed both hands around your waist and lowered you safely to the earth, though you were perfectly capable of dismounting alone.
Your cheeks were flushed from the wind.
“Well?” you asked Gwayne.
He stared at you.
“Well what?”
“What did you think?”
“I think I understand why poets struggle.”
You blinked.
Daemon groaned.
Gwayne stepped closer.
“There cannot possibly be words for how beautiful you looked.”
Your cheeks turned warmer.
Daemon moved between you.
“There are many words. None need to be spoken.”
“Father.”
“What?”
“You invited him.”
“I invited him to watch. Not to become unbearable.”
The days passed more quickly after that.
Your betrothal no longer felt like something arranged by kings and councils.
It felt like walks through the gardens.
It felt like Gwayne carrying books to your chambers because he had noticed you were tired.
It felt like quiet conversations beside the sea and his cloak around your shoulders when the wind turned cold.
It felt like his fingers brushing yours beneath the supper table.
It felt like laughter.
It felt, increasingly, like love.
One afternoon, Gwayne found you alone on a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.
Caraxes and Daemon were distant shapes in the sky.
You watched them until they disappeared behind the clouds.
“Do you ever wish he were yours?” Gwayne asked.
You knew immediately whom he meant.
“Caraxes?”
“Yes.”
You considered the question.
“When I was younger.”
“And now?”
You smiled.
“No.”
Gwayne leaned beside you.
“Why not?”
“Because loving something does not always mean possessing it.”
His gaze settled on your face.
You continued watching the sky.
“Caraxes belongs to my father. Their bond is something ancient and rare. I would never want to change it.”
“But you love him.”
“Very much.”
“And he loves you.”
“In his own terribly loud way.”
Gwayne smiled.
You turned toward him.
“Does it concern you?”
“What?”
“That I have no dragon.”
“No.”
“Your family may prefer—”
“My family is not marrying you.”
His answer came without hesitation.
Gwayne reached for your hand.
“You are kind when you have every reason to be proud. You are gentle in a family that has taught the world to fear its fire. You make servants smile when you enter a room, and children follow you through the halls because they know you will stop for them.”
Your eyes stung.
“You sit beside dragons without needing to command them,” he said. “You do not need one to prove who you are.”
You lowered your gaze.
Gwayne lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles.
“I would choose you if you had ten dragons.”
He kissed your hand again.
“I would choose you if you had none.”
Naturally, this was the precise moment Daemon landed in the courtyard below.
He looked up.
Saw Gwayne kissing your hand.
And shouted something in High Valyrian that made Caraxes roar.
The wedding was held on Dragonstone.
Daemon had initially insisted it take place nowhere else.
“If the Hightowers wish to attend, they know where to find us.”
Otto objected.
Daemon was delighted.
The ceremony was beautiful, though not small.
Nothing involving Daemon’s daughter could ever be small.
Silver banners moved in the sea wind. Thousands of white flowers covered the stone walkways. Musicians played from the balconies, and enough food had been prepared to feed half of King’s Landing.
“You said it would be intimate,” Rhaenyra remarked.
Daemon surveyed the crowded hall.
“It is.”
“There are six hundred guests.”
“I excluded several houses.”
You wore silver silk embroidered with pearls.
Your hair was arranged in Valyrian braids, the small crown Daemon had given you as a child resting upon your head after being remade to fit you.
Around your throat hung a ruby pendant in the shape of a dragon.
A gift from your father.
When Daemon came to escort you, he stopped in the doorway.
You smiled nervously.
“Is something wrong?”
He said nothing.
His eyes moved over your gown, your crown, your face.
For once, Daemon Targaryen appeared entirely without words.
“Father?”
“You look like your mother,” he said quietly.
Your expression softened.
Daemon approached and adjusted a strand of hair that did not need adjusting.
“I can still end this.”
You laughed.
“No.”
“I could.”
“I know.”
“One word, and Gwayne Hightower will never cross your path again.”
“Because you will send him away?”
Daemon looked toward the window.
“Something like that.”
You took his hand.
“I love him.”
His jaw tightened.
It was not anger.
Not truly.
Daemon had spent your whole life ensuring that you never had to reach for anything he could not give you.
Now you had found something beyond his keeping.
A life that would carry you away from him.
“I know,” he said.
“And he loves me.”
“I know that, too.”
“You admit it?”
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
You kissed his cheek.
Daemon closed his eyes.
For a moment, he held you as he had when you were little—one hand at the back of your head, the other wrapped tightly around you.
“You will always have a home here,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“If he displeases you, come back.”
“Father.”
“If his family displeases you, come back.”
“I will.”
“If Oldtown is too cold—”
“It is warmer than Dragonstone.”
“Then if it is too warm.”
You laughed against him.
Daemon sighed.
“Visit often.”
“I promise.”
When you entered the hall on your father’s arm, Gwayne forgot to breathe.
Daemon noticed.
“Hm.”
Rhaenyra stood nearby.
“What?”
“He looks frightened.”
“He looks in love.”
“Similar conditions.”
Gwayne’s eyes remained fixed on you as you approached.
He looked at you as though the hall had emptied.
As though the music had faded.
As though you were the only thing left in the world.
Daemon placed your hand in his.
He did not release it immediately.
Gwayne waited.
Daemon tightened his grip.
“Father,” you whispered.
“I am considering my options.”
Gwayne, to his credit, did not attempt to pull you away.
Finally, Daemon released your hand.
“If she cries,” he said under his breath, “Caraxes will find you.”
Gwayne nodded solemnly.
“I assumed as much.”
“If she is unhappy—”
“Father.”
“—Caraxes will find you.”
“You already said that.”
“It bears repeating.”
The vows were spoken.
The cloak was placed around your shoulders.
When Gwayne kissed you, the hall erupted in applause.
Daemon did not clap.
He was too busy staring at Gwayne with the expression of a man reconsidering the political consequences of murder.
At the feast, Gwayne barely left your side.
He brought you wine, though you had not asked.
He moved your chair away from the draft.
He remembered to place candied lemons on your plate.
Daemon watched all of it.
Rhaenyra leaned toward him.
“You approve.”
“I do not.”
“You cried during the vows.”
“There was smoke from the torches.”
“You were standing outside.”
“It traveled.”
“Of course.”
Late that evening, Gwayne found Daemon alone on the cliffs.
The sea spread dark beneath them.
Caraxes rested nearby, one golden eye half-open.
Gwayne approached cautiously.
“I wanted to thank you.”
Daemon did not turn.
“For threatening you?”
“For trusting me with her.”
“I do not trust you.”
“You allowed the marriage.”
“Viserys allowed the marriage.”
“You could have stopped it.”
Daemon glanced at him.
They both knew this was true.
Gwayne looked toward the open doors of the hall.
Inside, you were laughing with your sisters.
“I know you believe no one is worthy of her.”
“No one is.”
“I agree.”
That earned Gwayne his full attention.
“I cannot promise that she will never be sad,” Gwayne continued. “Or that our life will always be easy. But I can promise that she will never question whether she is loved.”
Daemon remained silent.
“I will listen when she speaks,” Gwayne said. “I will protect her without attempting to cage her. I will bring her home whenever she asks.”
“Home?”
“Here.”
Daemon’s expression shifted.
“And when she wishes to fly,” Gwayne added, looking toward Caraxes, “I will never ask her to remain on the ground for my comfort.”
The Blood Wyrm lifted his head.
Gwayne swallowed.
Daemon stepped closer.
“My daughter has spent much of her life believing there was something missing from her because no dragon chose her.”
“There is nothing missing from her.”
Daemon studied his face.
“No?”
Gwayne looked through the open doors.
You had noticed them now.
Your eyes found his across the distance.
You smiled.
Gwayne smiled back.
“She has always been the sun,” he said. “Dragons have simply been circling her.”
Daemon followed his gaze.
His daughter.
His little girl.
Still smiling.
Still safe.
Still loved.
“Take care of her,” Daemon said.
“With my life.”
“If she misses Dragonstone—”
“I will bring her.”
“If she wishes to stay for months—”
“I will wait.”
“If she asks for a dragon—”
“I will remind her that she already has one.”
Caraxes released a low rumble.
Gwayne glanced toward him.
“Two, perhaps.”
Daemon almost smiled.
Almost.
“Welcome to the family.”
Gwayne’s expression softened.
“Thank you.”
“I was speaking to Caraxes.”
The dragon huffed.
Gwayne laughed.
Daemon did not, but some of the sharpness left his face.
Behind them, your voice carried across the terrace.
“Gwayne!”
He turned immediately.
You stood beneath the torchlight, one hand holding your skirts.
“Come dance with me.”
Gwayne bowed to Daemon.
“Prince Daemon.”
“Hightower.”
Gwayne returned to you.
You took his hand and pulled him into the hall.
Daemon watched as Gwayne rested one hand at your waist.
You whispered something that made your husband laugh.
Caraxes lowered his head beside Daemon.
“She is happy,” Daemon murmured.
The Blood Wyrm crooned.
“Yes,” Daemon said. “I know.”
the end.
-----------------
Bonus Scene: An Unexpected Visitor
Your new home was a Hightower estate several hours beyond King’s Landing.
It was not Oldtown—not yet.
Gwayne had suggested spending your first year somewhere closer to Dragonstone so that the change would not feel quite so severe.
He pretended the decision had been practical.
You knew better.
The estate was beautiful.
The stone walls were covered in climbing roses. The gardens stretched toward a clear lake, and your chambers had been arranged with every comfort Gwayne knew you preferred.
He had filled one room with books.
He had ordered blue silk curtains because they reminded him of the ribbon he once tied around your wrist.
He had even instructed the kitchens to keep candied lemons prepared.
You loved your new home.
Still, there were mornings when you woke expecting to hear Caraxes outside.
On those mornings, Gwayne held you a little closer.
“You miss them,” he said one evening.
You sat together beneath a tree overlooking the lake, your head resting against his shoulder.
“A little.”
“Your father or the dragon?”
“Yes.”
Gwayne laughed.
“You know we can return whenever you wish.”
“We visited last week.”
“Then we will visit again.”
“My father will think you cannot survive without his supervision.”
“Your father already thinks that.”
You smiled.
Gwayne kissed the top of your head.
A deep roar shook the sky.
Every bird in the trees scattered at once.
You sat upright.
Gwayne went still.
Another roar followed.
It was long, sharp, and painfully familiar.
Your face brightened.
“No.”
Gwayne stared toward the horizon.
A red shape moved through the clouds.
“No,” he repeated.
You were already on your feet.
“Caraxes!”
The Blood Wyrm descended over the estate.
Servants screamed.
Guards scattered.
Horses broke free from their handlers and fled toward the fields.
Caraxes swept over the towers so low that several roof tiles tore loose beneath the force of his wings.
Gwayne stood frozen beside the tree.
“This cannot be happening.”
You ran toward the courtyard.
Caraxes landed in the center of the gardens, crushing a fountain and half of a carefully maintained hedge beneath his claws.
He lifted his head and released a triumphant cry.
You laughed.
“Caraxes!”
The dragon lowered himself the moment he saw you.
You reached him and threw your arms as far around his snout as you could manage.
Caraxes crooned so loudly that the windows trembled.
“You came to see me,” you whispered, scratching beneath his jaw.
His golden eyes drifted closed.
Gwayne approached with extreme caution.
Behind him, guards stood with weapons raised.
“Lower those,” he ordered.
One of the men stared at him.
“My lord, the dragon—”
“Belongs to my wife’s father.”
Caraxes opened one eye.
Gwayne corrected himself.
“And apparently also to my wife.”
The guards lowered their weapons.
Gwayne stopped beside you.
“Did your father send him?”
“I do not think so.”
“You think he escaped?”
Caraxes huffed.
The gust nearly knocked Gwayne backward.
You looked up at the dragon.
“Did you leave the Dragonpit without permission?”
Caraxes gave a rumbling sound.
Gwayne stared.
“Is he answering you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did he say?”
“That he has no regrets.”
“You cannot possibly know that.”
Caraxes turned and demolished the remainder of the fountain with his tail.
Gwayne looked at the shattered marble.
“Never mind.”
A rider arrived less than an hour later.
He galloped into the courtyard on an exhausted horse, nearly falling from the saddle.
“My princess!”
You turned from where you sat against Caraxes’s foreleg.
The dragon had made himself comfortable in the destroyed gardens.
The messenger stumbled toward you.
“Prince Daemon sends word that Caraxes has escaped the Dragonpit.”
Gwayne looked at the enormous dragon occupying his courtyard.
“Yes,” he said. “We had gathered that.”
“The prince is on his way.”
Your eyes widened.
“My father is coming here?”
The messenger nodded breathlessly.
“He said—”
The pounding of another horse interrupted him.
Daemon entered the gates at speed.
He dismounted before the animal had fully stopped and strode into the courtyard.
His gaze moved from you, to Gwayne, to Caraxes, to the ruined fountain.
Daemon placed his hands on his hips.
“Caraxes.”
The dragon did not move.
“You disobedient beast.”
Caraxes closed his eyes.
“Do not pretend to be asleep.”
You covered your smile with your hand.
Daemon pointed toward the sky.
“Dragonstone. Now.”
Caraxes remained exactly where he was.
Gwayne looked between them.
“Does this happen often?”
“No,” Daemon snapped.
You raised a brow.
“Father.”
“Not often enough to be considered a pattern.”
“Caraxes escaped twice when I visited Driftmark.”
“An oversight.”
“And once when I stayed in King’s Landing.”
“Poorly secured chains.”
Gwayne stared at the dragon.
“He crossed half the crownlands because he missed her?”
Daemon looked offended.
“Obviously.”
Caraxes opened one eye and nudged you with his snout.
You laughed, placing both hands against his face.
“I missed you, too.”
The dragon purred.
Daemon sighed.
“You have spoiled him.”
“You gave him a sheep whenever he frightened someone who insulted me.”
“They deserved it.”
Gwayne rubbed a hand over his face.
“How do we convince him to leave?”
Daemon studied Caraxes.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“For her to tell him.”
You looked at the dragon.
Caraxes looked at you.
“I cannot ask him to leave immediately. He has only just arrived.”
Gwayne glanced at the ruined garden.
“Of course.”
“He can remain for supper.”
Gwayne stared at you.
“Your guest has destroyed our fountain.”
“He was excited.”
“He also crushed the roses.”
“They will grow back.”
Caraxes released a pleased trill.
Gwayne looked toward Daemon.
Daemon shrugged.
“She wants him to stay.”
“You are her father.”
“Yes.”
“Tell her this is unreasonable.”
Daemon’s expression became confused.
“Why would I do that?”
Gwayne closed his eyes.
By sunset, Caraxes had eaten three cows and fallen asleep across the western lawn.
Daemon remained for supper.
He criticized the wine, the chairs, the distance between your chambers and the nearest guard post, and the fact that Gwayne had not yet installed a dragon landing platform.
“We did not anticipate regular dragon visitors,” Gwayne said.
“You married my daughter.”
“I married a woman without a dragon.”
Daemon took a drink of wine.
“And yet.”
Outside, Caraxes rolled onto his side and flattened another row of hedges.
Gwayne watched through the window.
“I will have a platform constructed.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you.”
Gwayne’s irritation disappeared immediately.
Daemon noticed.
“Hm.”
After supper, you walked outside with Caraxes.
The dragon lowered himself so you could rest your forehead against his snout.
“I am happy here,” you assured him.
Caraxes rumbled.
“Gwayne takes good care of me.”
The dragon glanced toward your husband.
Gwayne stood several paces away, his hands clasped behind his back.
Caraxes exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
“I believe he is still deciding,” you said.
“I had hoped the wedding indicated his approval.”
“Caraxes is thorough.”
Daemon approached with your traveling cloak.
“Come.”
You turned.
“Where?”
“Caraxes will not leave without you.”
Gwayne’s brows rose.
Daemon draped the cloak around your shoulders.
“We will fly to Dragonstone. Hightower can follow tomorrow.”
Gwayne stepped forward.
“My wife is not leaving in the middle of the night.”
Daemon stared at him.
Gwayne stared back.
You looked between them.
Caraxes growled softly.
“No one is fighting,” you said.
Neither man moved.
You sighed.
“Gwayne may come with us.”
His face went pale.
Daemon smiled.
“Excellent idea.”
The three of you mounted Caraxes.
You sat before Daemon.
Gwayne sat behind him, holding the saddle with such force that his knuckles turned white.
“You may wish to hold on,” Daemon advised.
“I am holding on.”
“To something secure.”
“I am.”
Daemon looked down at Gwayne’s grip.
“That strap is decorative.”
Gwayne immediately wrapped both arms around Daemon’s waist.
You burst into laughter.
Daemon looked deeply offended.
“Remove your hands.”
“You told me to hold something secure.”
“Not me.”
Caraxes launched into the air.
Gwayne shouted.
You laughed harder.
The Blood Wyrm climbed toward the stars, carrying his rider, his beloved princess, and one deeply unfortunate Hightower across the darkened sky.
You looked back at Gwayne.
His eyes were tightly closed.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Is it not beautiful?”
“I have not looked.”
Daemon turned Caraxes sharply.
Gwayne’s arms tightened around him.
“If you strangle me,” Daemon shouted over the wind, “she will be widowed before reaching Dragonstone.”
“Fly straighter!”
“Caraxes dislikes straight lines.”
Caraxes roared in agreement.
You laughed until tears filled your eyes.
Below you, the world stretched silver beneath the moon.
Ahead, Dragonstone rose from the sea.
Your father’s arm was secure around you.
Your husband was clinging desperately behind him.
Caraxes flew happily beneath you.
Perhaps the court had been right.
You had never claimed a dragon of your own.
But as Caraxes carried you home through the clouds, you knew you had never truly needed to.
Summary: You have been tasked with looking after four members of the King's Guard who have stumbled into your Lord's keep in the middle of a stormy night. One of them is the Crown Prince in disguise and he's badly injured.
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8 || Part 9 || Part 10 || Part 11 || Part 12 || Part 13 || Part 14 || Part 15 || Part 16 || Part 17 || Part 18 || Part 19
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Notes: Unnamed reader character from Dorne, herbalism background, mysterious circumstances, no physical description, but female pronouns
Content Warnings: discussions of war, death of family members, allusions to violence and mild descriptions of injuries
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Also available on ao3!
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Deleted Scenes:
Scars - short deleted scene from between Parts 16 & 17
