Hawaii Girl

She leans back into Jack's steady frame, letting her head rest against his shoulder while her hands reach out to pull Robby closer. The movement brings Robby's chest flush against her own, his breath hitching as he feels her urgency.

Robby's hands slide from her waist down to her hips, gripping her with a sudden, possessive intensity. He tilts his head, his beard grazing her jawline before he captures her lips in a deep, demanding kiss. It's a sharp contrast to the sleepy tenderness of the living room; the air in the small bathroom suddenly feels heavy and humid.

Behind her, Jack's hands travel upward, sliding beneath the hem of her vintage cardigan. His palms are warm, his touch deliberate as he maps the curve of her ribs. He nuzzles into the crook of her neck, his lips pressing firm, slow kisses against her skin that send shivers racing down her spine.

"Shower's a waste of time," Robby murmurs against her lips, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly rasp.

He breaks the kiss just enough to glance back at Jack. A silent agreement passes between them, a spark of shared mischief and hunger. Robby's hands begin to wander, tugging at the edges of her clothing with a restlessness that suggests he's completely forgotten why they entered the bathroom in the first place.

She reaches back for Jack and forward for Robby, guiding them out of the bathroom and back toward the bedroom. They move as a single, clumsy unit, a tangle of limbs and frantic breath. The short walk is barely a walk at all; it's a slow, stumbling dance of redirected energy.

Robby keeps his lips pressed against her jaw, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that makes her toes curl. His hands are busy, his fingers hooking into the hem of her cardigan and pulling it upward. He pauses just long enough to shoot Jack a look of intense focus, a silent request for backup.

Jack is more than happy to oblige. From behind, he helps guide the fabric over her head, his hands lingering on her bare shoulders for a moment, his palms warm and rough. He lets the cardigan fall to the floor in a heap of vintage knit, his touch immediately returning to the curve of her waist.

"Much better," Robby murmurs, his voice a low vibration. He stops her in the middle of the room, his eyes dark as he looks at her. He reaches for the buttons of his own hoodie, his fingers slightly unsteady. "I think we've had quite enough of 'getting ready' for one morning."

She reaches out and helps Robby out of his hoodie, her fingers working the zipper down before gripping the fabric and tugging it over his head. He cooperates with a grateful grunt, tossing the "Beers of the Burgh" zip-up carelessly toward a chair.

Now down to his black scrub top, Robby looks lean and intense, the gold Star of David pendant around his neck catching the light. He doesn't waste a second, stepping back into her space and pinning her against the edge of the mattress. His hands find the hem of her shirt, lifting it slowly to expose the skin of her stomach.

Jack remains a constant, grounding presence behind her. He slides his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest as he begins to unbutton his own shirt. The rhythm is slow and deliberate, the friction of fabric and the heat of their skin creating a thick, electric tension.

"You're both far too focused on the clothes," she teases, glancing back at Jack.

Jack lets out a short, dry chuckle, his voice a low vibration against her spine. "We're just following protocol, darling. Removal of obstacles is step one."

Robby grins, his eyes scanning her face with a hunger that makes her breath hitch. "And I've always been a fan of efficiency."

She reaches out, grabbing the collars of their shirts and pulling them both down onto the bed with a sudden, playful force. The three of them collapse in a heap of tangled limbs and laughter, the mattress dipping under their combined weight.

Robby lands partially on top of her, his chest pressing her into the sheets. He lets out a sharp, surprised laugh, his eyes shimmering with heat. He doesn't miss a beat, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other begins to work on the waistband of her pants.

"Impatient, are we?" he murmurs, his beard scratching against her cheek as he nuzzles into her skin. "I can work with that."

Jack settles beside them, his larger frame creating a warm wall of muscle against her side. He's still half-dressed, his shirt hanging open, but he's already focused on her. His hand slides up her thigh, his touch firm and possessive, grounding her even as Robby's intensity threatens to sweep her away.

"You've got us right where you want us," Jack says, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrates through the mattress. He leans over, pressing a slow, deep kiss to her temple.

She leans in and presses a warm, lingering kiss to Jack's chest as she undresses him, her lips brushing against the steady rhythm of his heart.

Jack lets out a slow, shaky breath, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, holding her there for a heartbeat longer. He remains still, his body humming with a quiet intensity as she works the remaining buttons of his shirt. When the fabric finally slides off his shoulders, he looks at her with an expression of absolute trust, his guarded nature completely gone.

Robby, now bare-chested and impatient, lets out a soft, feline huff from where he lies. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of her hip, pulling her slightly back toward him.

"You're playing favorites," he murmurs, his voice a playful rasp. "I'm just lying here like a discarded piece of medical equipment while he gets all the affection."

She laughs, the sound light and airy in the quiet room. She shifts her weight, balancing between them, her hands moving to the waistbands of their pants.

"Patience, Robby," she teases, glancing between the two men. "I'm getting to you."

Forgetting the clothes for a moment, she pulls them both into a deep, desperate kiss. She bridges the gap between them, her lips moving from Robby's hungry mouth to Jack's steady, grounding presence, weaving them together in a tangle of heat and breath.

The air in the bedroom feels thick, the world outside the four walls of their sanctuary completely erased. Robby responds with his usual intensity, his hand sliding up her back to pull her closer, his fingers digging into her skin with a possessive urgency. He tastes of coffee and raw desire, his kiss demanding and electric.

Jack's response is a slow burn. He wraps his arms around her from behind, his chest a warm wall against her spine. He doesn't rush; instead, he kisses the hollow of her throat, his breath hot against her skin, grounding the chaos of Robby's energy with his own silent, unwavering strength.

"To hell with the clothes," Robby mumbles against her lips, his voice a gravelly wreck.

In a flurry of motion, the last remaining barriers vanish. Robby kicks his cargo pants away with a sharp movement, and Jack helps slide her pants down her legs in one fluid motion. They end up stripped bare, skin meeting skin in a feverish rush.

The remaining fabric is cast aside, leaving them completely exposed to one another in the soft morning light. There's a heavy, electric silence that follows, broken only by the sound of their synchronized, heavy breathing. They've been apart for a week—lost to the grueling demands of the hospital and the museum—and the pent-up need manifests in the way they cling to her.

Robby sinks into her touch with a needy, almost desperate sigh, while Jack's hands remain firm and guiding, grounding the experience.

"I've missed you both so much," she whispers, pulling them closer into her space.

The admission seems to break something in Robby. He lets out a shaky breath and buries his face in the crook of her neck, clinging to her with an intensity that borders on desperate. He isn't his usual sarcastic self; the armor of the Senior Attending has completely crumbled, leaving behind a man who is simply starved for affection.

"Tell me again," Robby murmurs, his voice muffled against her skin. "I need to hear it."

Jack's response is quieter but no less potent. He shifts, bringing his weight over her in a way that feels like a warm, protective blanket. He kisses her jaw, his hand sliding down to interlock his fingers with hers, pressing her hand firmly against the mattress.

"We've both been drowning this week," Jack says, his voice a low, grounding rumble. "You're the only thing that feels real right now."

He leans down, his lips finding hers in a kiss that is slow and deep, tasting of a long-awaited homecoming. While Robby continues to nuzzle her neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake, Jack's presence remains the steady anchor, his body pressing her deep into the sheets.

"I want to feel both of you," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of their breathing.

Robby reacts instantly. He shifts his weight, sliding his body lower and pressing his hips firmly against hers. He lets out a ragged sigh, his forehead resting against hers as he looks at her with a raw, unfiltered hunger. There's no sarcasm left in him, only a desperate need to be close. He begins to move against her in a slow, tentative rhythm, testing the friction, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches.

Jack remains the steady anchor, though his composure is fraying. He shifts his position, sliding one arm beneath her neck to lift her slightly, while his other hand travels down to her thigh. He pulls her leg up and over his hip, opening her up to Robby's touch.

"Right here," Jack murmurs, his voice a low rumble that resonates through her entire body. He presses a firm, searing kiss to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his teeth grazing her lightly.

The combination is overwhelming—Robby's frantic, needy heat in front of her and Jack's methodical, grounding passion behind her. The air in the room is thick with the scent of salt and skin, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains as they lose themselves in each other.

"Take it slow," she whispers, pulling them both closer, her voice a soft command that cuts through the thick tension.

Robby lets out a shuddering breath, his forehead resting against hers. He remains still for a moment, fighting the urge to rush, his muscles coiled like a spring. He closes his eyes, focusing on the scent of her skin and the gentle pressure of her embrace. The desperation in him shifts into something deeper, a focused kind of longing that makes his touch more deliberate.

He begins to trail kisses along her jawline, slow and searing, while his hand slides from her hip to the small of her back, pressing her firmly against his heat.

Behind her, Jack responds to the request with his usual steady precision. He shifts his weight, his chest expanding against her back in a slow, rhythmic breath. His hand moves from her thigh to her waist, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles into her skin. He avoids the frantic energy of the moment, instead opting for a patient, grounding pressure that anchors her.

"We've got all day," Jack murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through her spine.

He leans over, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of her shoulder, his lips barely skimming the surface.

"I want you both," she whispers, arching her back into them.

The movement bridges the remaining gap, pressing her curves firmly against their heat. Robby lets out a strangled sound, a mix of a groan and a sigh, as he feels the full length of her. He shifts his weight, his hand sliding from her back to the curve of her hip, gripping her with a sudden, possessive strength. He looks at her, his eyes dark and dilated, his gaze searching hers for permission before he leans in to claim her lips again.

Behind her, Jack's composure finally snaps. The steady, grounding presence remains, but it's now laced with a raw, hungry edge. He doesn't hesitate, his hand sliding from her waist to between her thighs, his fingers finding her with a precision that makes her breath hitch. He moves slowly, mirroring her request for patience, but the intensity of his touch speaks of a week's worth of bottled-up longing.

"You have no idea," Jack murmurs against her skin, his voice a gravelly shadow of its usual self, "how much I've needed this."

Robby pulls back just an inch, his breath hot against her mouth. He looks over her shoulder at Jack, a silent communication passing between the two men. The competitiveness is gone, replaced by a shared, singular focus on her.

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Day Off" by Alexander_Black

It happens on an otherwise ordinary afternoon, the kind that starts with dishes in the sink, laundry waiting in a basket, and you telling yourself you will sit down in “just a minute” after you finish one more thing. You’re in the kitchen, moving on autopilot the way you always do, because the house never really stops needing something from you, and you’ve gotten so used to carrying all of it that the warning signs barely register anymore.

The room tilts once, very slightly, like your body is trying to tell you to slow down, but you brush it off. Stress, you think. Exhaustion. Maybe your period is late because you have been running yourself too hard again, juggling Aria, Michael, the house, the endless little tasks that never seem to end. You reach for the counter...

And the next thing that happens is the sound of your own body hitting the floor.

It is not dramatic in the way people imagine it. No warning, no graceful collapse, just a heavy, frightening thud and then nothing. The kitchen goes blurred at the edges, then dark, then all you can hear is a small, panicked voice that sounds far away at first and then suddenly very close.

“Mama?”

Aria.

Her little footsteps come rushing into the kitchen, fast and uneven, and when she sees you on the floor, her voice breaks immediately. “Mama!” She runs to you, tiny hands hovering over your face like she is afraid to touch you wrong, afraid you might disappear if she does. Your vision flickers in and out, and you can barely keep your eyes open long enough to see her frightened face above you. She sounds so small, so terrified, that something in your chest aches even through the fog.

“Baby…” you manage, though even that feels weak.

She starts crying at once, but there is no hesitation in her, no freezing in panic. You and Michael taught her what to do for emergencies, because Michael insisted on it more than once what to say, what numbers to dial, how to stay calm enough to ask for help. And now, with tears streaking down her cheeks, she does exactly what he taught her.

Her tiny fingers fumble with the phone on the counter, but she gets it, and when the dispatcher answers, Aria’s voice trembles hard but stays determined.

“Help… help my mama,” she sobs, sucking in a breath. “Please. She fell down.”

The dispatcher speaks gently on the other end, and Aria listens the best she can, repeating your address in a tiny shaky voice, exactly as instructed. “PTMC,” she says when asked where to bring you, because that is where Papa works. Because in her little mind, that is where safety lives. When the ambulance arrives, the flashing lights fill the driveway in a way that makes the whole house feel too bright and too unreal. By then you are awake enough to register movement, voices, the weight of being lifted carefully onto a stretcher, but everything still feels floaty and strange around the edges.

And then Aria is there again, holding onto the side of the gurney with both hands, crying quietly while the paramedics work around her. One of them asks if she is okay, and she nods even while tears are still falling. “I called 911,” she says, as if this is both her proof and her apology.

“You and papa taught me.” There is so much pride in that last part, even through the fear, that your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. She looks so small beside the stretcher, so brave and terrified all at once, and when she tells you again in a trembling voice, “I called the ambulance like Papa said,” you want nothing more than to scoop her up and tell her she did everything right.

At PTMC, the moment the ambulance doors open, Michael is already moving. He sees the stretcher before anything else, sees your face and Aria’s tears and the way the whole world seems to go still around them. His expression changes so fast it is almost startling—professional reflex first, fear underneath it, and then something sharper when Aria looks up and spots him.

“Papa!” she cries, rushing toward him before anyone can stop her, still clutching the edge of her stuffed bunny that one of the paramedics tucked into her arms. Michael drops down instantly, one hand on her shoulder and the other already reaching for you as they wheel you into the ER. “What happened?” he asks, and there is no doctor voice now, only father and husband, strained thin with worry.

Aria answers for you because you can’t yet explain it properly. “Mama fell,” she says, still crying. Then, as if remembering something very important, her little face straightens with effort and she adds, “I called the ambulance. Just like you said, Papa.” Michael looks up at her sharply then, his eyes widening for a split second as the words hit him not because he doubts her, but because there is something so heartbreaking and beautiful in the fact that she did exactly what he taught her to do, even while she was scared out of her mind. He cups the back of her head immediately and kisses her temple, whispering, “You did good, baby. You did perfect.”

The medical side moves quickly after that. Dana is there first, all focused calm and familiar reassurance, while Samira steps in to help with your vitals. Michael stays close enough to see everything but far enough to not get in the way, which might be the hardest thing for him to do. He keeps one hand on Aria and one on you whenever he can, his jaw tight with worry.

At first everyone thinks the fainting spell was just stress and exhaustion, maybe overwork from too much cleaning and not enough rest. You think it too. You are embarrassed, even a little annoyed with your own body, because it feels stupid to need an ambulance over something that probably should have been obvious.

Then Samira orders a routine test because your blood pressure is lower than they like and your symptoms do not quite fit only stress, and the room shifts in that quiet, almost invisible way hospital rooms do when the answer is not what anyone expected. Michael notices first, of course, because he is watching everything—your color, the staff’s tone, the tiny glance Samira gives Dana, the way the test panel is carried in with more care than before.

You are still half out of it when Dana returns, but she is smiling in a very particular way, the kind that says something has just been uncovered that will change the shape of the whole day.

“Michael,” she says lightly, and then looks at you. “Congratulations.”

You blink at her. “For what?”

For a second, nobody answers. Michael’s face goes blank in that stunned way of his, his eyes moving from Dana to Samira to you as if the room has just rearranged itself around a truth he hasn’t reached yet. Then Samira gives you the kindest, gentlest smile and says, “You’re pregnant.”

The words barely land at first. Your brain catches on them and then drops them again, because they do not fit inside your current understanding of the day. Pregnant. That is not possible, or rather, it is possible, but not something you had been thinking about because you were too busy being tired, too busy chasing schedules and chores and Aria’s needs and Michael’s long hours and the constant noise of life. The lateness of your period suddenly makes horrible, bright sense in a way that makes your face heat all at once. Stress. Exhaustion. The symptoms you had blamed on everything except this.

Michael makes a sound somewhere between disbelief and shock and a laugh that never fully becomes a laugh. “Pregnant?” he repeats, as if saying it out loud might make the room confirm it more clearly. His eyes flash to yours instantly, and the emotion there is so raw and surprised that for a second even you cannot look away. “You’re pregnant?”

And because the universe apparently enjoys watching him process things one after another, Aria gasps too, loud and delighted through her still-sniffling tears. “A baby?” she whispers, then looks between you and Michael like this is the most important discovery ever made. “Mama, is there a baby?”

The whole room falls briefly into stunned silence before Michael’s face changes again and this time into something softer, more careful, more stunned than anything. He steps to your side immediately, one hand moving to your shoulder while the other hovers near your stomach like he is suddenly aware of how to touch you all over again. “You didn’t know?” he asks, and the answer is so obvious in your expression that he exhales slowly, almost laughing in disbelief. “You really didn’t know.”

“No,” you say, still trying to process it yourself. “I thought it was stress.”

Michael looks at you for a long second, then gives that tiny helpless shake of his head that says of course you did. Because you always carry too much. Because you always assume your body will keep up with your life. Because none of you imagined this would be the reason you passed out in the kitchen while your daughter called for help like a tiny emergency operator.

And then Aria, still holding onto the side of your bed with her stuffed bunny tucked under one arm, looks at your stomach with absolute wonder and says, “I saved Mama and the baby?”

That does it. Something in Michael’s face breaks open completely. He laughs once under his breath—not because anything is funny, but because it is overwhelming and ridiculous and terrifying and beautiful all at once. He leans down, kisses Aria’s forehead, then bends to kiss yours too, his hand warm against your cheek.

“You did,” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. “You absolutely did.”

Aria beams, still teary but proud in the way only a child can be when she knows she did something big. She hugs your arm carefully, then looks at Michael with all the seriousness in the world and says, “I called the ambulance like you taught me, Papa. I was very brave.”

Michael swallows hard, eyes shining as he wraps one arm around her and the other around you, drawing the two of you into him as gently as he can in a hospital room that has suddenly become the place where your family’s life changes all over again. “You were,” he whispers. “You were perfect.” And standing there between the beeping monitors and the quiet hum of the ER, with Aria tucked close and your hand in his and a brand-new tiny life already beginning to exist, he looks at you like he cannot decide whether to laugh or cry first.

Maybe both.

Probably both.

She leans back into Jack's steady frame, letting her head rest against his shoulder while her hands reach out to pull Robby closer. The movement brings Robby's chest flush against her own, his breath hitching as he feels her urgency.

Robby's hands slide from her waist down to her hips, gripping her with a sudden, possessive intensity. He tilts his head, his beard grazing her jawline before he captures her lips in a deep, demanding kiss. It's a sharp contrast to the sleepy tenderness of the living room; the air in the small bathroom suddenly feels heavy and humid.

Behind her, Jack's hands travel upward, sliding beneath the hem of her vintage cardigan. His palms are warm, his touch deliberate as he maps the curve of her ribs. He nuzzles into the crook of her neck, his lips pressing firm, slow kisses against her skin that send shivers racing down her spine.

"Shower's a waste of time," Robby murmurs against her lips, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly rasp.

He breaks the kiss just enough to glance back at Jack. A silent agreement passes between them, a spark of shared mischief and hunger. Robby's hands begin to wander, tugging at the edges of her clothing with a restlessness that suggests he's completely forgotten why they entered the bathroom in the first place.

She reaches back for Jack and forward for Robby, guiding them out of the bathroom and back toward the bedroom. They move as a single, clumsy unit, a tangle of limbs and frantic breath. The short walk is barely a walk at all; it's a slow, stumbling dance of redirected energy.

Robby keeps his lips pressed against her jaw, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that makes her toes curl. His hands are busy, his fingers hooking into the hem of her cardigan and pulling it upward. He pauses just long enough to shoot Jack a look of intense focus, a silent request for backup.

Jack is more than happy to oblige. From behind, he helps guide the fabric over her head, his hands lingering on her bare shoulders for a moment, his palms warm and rough. He lets the cardigan fall to the floor in a heap of vintage knit, his touch immediately returning to the curve of her waist.

"Much better," Robby murmurs, his voice a low vibration. He stops her in the middle of the room, his eyes dark as he looks at her. He reaches for the buttons of his own hoodie, his fingers slightly unsteady. "I think we've had quite enough of 'getting ready' for one morning."

She reaches out and helps Robby out of his hoodie, her fingers working the zipper down before gripping the fabric and tugging it over his head. He cooperates with a grateful grunt, tossing the "Beers of the Burgh" zip-up carelessly toward a chair.

Now down to his black scrub top, Robby looks lean and intense, the gold Star of David pendant around his neck catching the light. He doesn't waste a second, stepping back into her space and pinning her against the edge of the mattress. His hands find the hem of her shirt, lifting it slowly to expose the skin of her stomach.

Jack remains a constant, grounding presence behind her. He slides his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest as he begins to unbutton his own shirt. The rhythm is slow and deliberate, the friction of fabric and the heat of their skin creating a thick, electric tension.

"You're both far too focused on the clothes," she teases, glancing back at Jack.

Jack lets out a short, dry chuckle, his voice a low vibration against her spine. "We're just following protocol, darling. Removal of obstacles is step one."

Robby grins, his eyes scanning her face with a hunger that makes her breath hitch. "And I've always been a fan of efficiency."

She reaches out, grabbing the collars of their shirts and pulling them both down onto the bed with a sudden, playful force. The three of them collapse in a heap of tangled limbs and laughter, the mattress dipping under their combined weight.

Robby lands partially on top of her, his chest pressing her into the sheets. He lets out a sharp, surprised laugh, his eyes shimmering with heat. He doesn't miss a beat, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other begins to work on the waistband of her pants.

"Impatient, are we?" he murmurs, his beard scratching against her cheek as he nuzzles into her skin. "I can work with that."

Jack settles beside them, his larger frame creating a warm wall of muscle against her side. He's still half-dressed, his shirt hanging open, but he's already focused on her. His hand slides up her thigh, his touch firm and possessive, grounding her even as Robby's intensity threatens to sweep her away.

"You've got us right where you want us," Jack says, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrates through the mattress. He leans over, pressing a slow, deep kiss to her temple.

She leans in and presses a warm, lingering kiss to Jack's chest as she undresses him, her lips brushing against the steady rhythm of his heart.

Jack lets out a slow, shaky breath, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, holding her there for a heartbeat longer. He remains still, his body humming with a quiet intensity as she works the remaining buttons of his shirt. When the fabric finally slides off his shoulders, he looks at her with an expression of absolute trust, his guarded nature completely gone.

Robby, now bare-chested and impatient, lets out a soft, feline huff from where he lies. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of her hip, pulling her slightly back toward him.

"You're playing favorites," he murmurs, his voice a playful rasp. "I'm just lying here like a discarded piece of medical equipment while he gets all the affection."

She laughs, the sound light and airy in the quiet room. She shifts her weight, balancing between them, her hands moving to the waistbands of their pants.

"Patience, Robby," she teases, glancing between the two men. "I'm getting to you."

Forgetting the clothes for a moment, she pulls them both into a deep, desperate kiss. She bridges the gap between them, her lips moving from Robby's hungry mouth to Jack's steady, grounding presence, weaving them together in a tangle of heat and breath.

The air in the bedroom feels thick, the world outside the four walls of their sanctuary completely erased. Robby responds with his usual intensity, his hand sliding up her back to pull her closer, his fingers digging into her skin with a possessive urgency. He tastes of coffee and raw desire, his kiss demanding and electric.

Jack's response is a slow burn. He wraps his arms around her from behind, his chest a warm wall against her spine. He doesn't rush; instead, he kisses the hollow of her throat, his breath hot against her skin, grounding the chaos of Robby's energy with his own silent, unwavering strength.

"To hell with the clothes," Robby mumbles against her lips, his voice a gravelly wreck.

In a flurry of motion, the last remaining barriers vanish. Robby kicks his cargo pants away with a sharp movement, and Jack helps slide her pants down her legs in one fluid motion. They end up stripped bare, skin meeting skin in a feverish rush.

The remaining fabric is cast aside, leaving them completely exposed to one another in the soft morning light. There's a heavy, electric silence that follows, broken only by the sound of their synchronized, heavy breathing. They've been apart for a week—lost to the grueling demands of the hospital and the museum—and the pent-up need manifests in the way they cling to her.

Robby sinks into her touch with a needy, almost desperate sigh, while Jack's hands remain firm and guiding, grounding the experience.

"I've missed you both so much," she whispers, pulling them closer into her space.

The admission seems to break something in Robby. He lets out a shaky breath and buries his face in the crook of her neck, clinging to her with an intensity that borders on desperate. He isn't his usual sarcastic self; the armor of the Senior Attending has completely crumbled, leaving behind a man who is simply starved for affection.

"Tell me again," Robby murmurs, his voice muffled against her skin. "I need to hear it."

Jack's response is quieter but no less potent. He shifts, bringing his weight over her in a way that feels like a warm, protective blanket. He kisses her jaw, his hand sliding down to interlock his fingers with hers, pressing her hand firmly against the mattress.

"We've both been drowning this week," Jack says, his voice a low, grounding rumble. "You're the only thing that feels real right now."

He leans down, his lips finding hers in a kiss that is slow and deep, tasting of a long-awaited homecoming. While Robby continues to nuzzle her neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake, Jack's presence remains the steady anchor, his body pressing her deep into the sheets.

"I want to feel both of you," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of their breathing.

Robby reacts instantly. He shifts his weight, sliding his body lower and pressing his hips firmly against hers. He lets out a ragged sigh, his forehead resting against hers as he looks at her with a raw, unfiltered hunger. There's no sarcasm left in him, only a desperate need to be close. He begins to move against her in a slow, tentative rhythm, testing the friction, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches.

Jack remains the steady anchor, though his composure is fraying. He shifts his position, sliding one arm beneath her neck to lift her slightly, while his other hand travels down to her thigh. He pulls her leg up and over his hip, opening her up to Robby's touch.

"Right here," Jack murmurs, his voice a low rumble that resonates through her entire body. He presses a firm, searing kiss to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his teeth grazing her lightly.

The combination is overwhelming—Robby's frantic, needy heat in front of her and Jack's methodical, grounding passion behind her. The air in the room is thick with the scent of salt and skin, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains as they lose themselves in each other.

"Take it slow," she whispers, pulling them both closer, her voice a soft command that cuts through the thick tension.

Robby lets out a shuddering breath, his forehead resting against hers. He remains still for a moment, fighting the urge to rush, his muscles coiled like a spring. He closes his eyes, focusing on the scent of her skin and the gentle pressure of her embrace. The desperation in him shifts into something deeper, a focused kind of longing that makes his touch more deliberate.

He begins to trail kisses along her jawline, slow and searing, while his hand slides from her hip to the small of her back, pressing her firmly against his heat.

Behind her, Jack responds to the request with his usual steady precision. He shifts his weight, his chest expanding against her back in a slow, rhythmic breath. His hand moves from her thigh to her waist, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles into her skin. He avoids the frantic energy of the moment, instead opting for a patient, grounding pressure that anchors her.

"We've got all day," Jack murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through her spine.

He leans over, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of her shoulder, his lips barely skimming the surface.

"I want you both," she whispers, arching her back into them.

The movement bridges the remaining gap, pressing her curves firmly against their heat. Robby lets out a strangled sound, a mix of a groan and a sigh, as he feels the full length of her. He shifts his weight, his hand sliding from her back to the curve of her hip, gripping her with a sudden, possessive strength. He looks at her, his eyes dark and dilated, his gaze searching hers for permission before he leans in to claim her lips again.

Behind her, Jack's composure finally snaps. The steady, grounding presence remains, but it's now laced with a raw, hungry edge. He doesn't hesitate, his hand sliding from her waist to between her thighs, his fingers finding her with a precision that makes her breath hitch. He moves slowly, mirroring her request for patience, but the intensity of his touch speaks of a week's worth of bottled-up longing.

"You have no idea," Jack murmurs against her skin, his voice a gravelly shadow of its usual self, "how much I've needed this."

Robby pulls back just an inch, his breath hot against her mouth. He looks over her shoulder at Jack, a silent communication passing between the two men. The competitiveness is gone, replaced by a shared, singular focus on her.

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Day Off" by Alexander_Black

Chubby looks like a raging breadroll offended that you brought her into this world. Fair. She's perfect there.

"Jackie, you've been weird all week. If you don't tell me why now, I'm going to assume it's because her birthday is reminding you of...you know, time."

Jack's gaze stays on his wallpaper for a bit too long, but he sets his phone down just as you set the piping bag down. He laughs once.

"I'm fine, Sleepy."

He decides he's gonna distract him by making coffee, and you just have to watch him grip the pot with his beautiful, broad fingers that are usually steady. Steady enough to curl inside you in ways that nearly kill you. Steady enough to have been threading central lines before you were even born.

Today, apparently, they tremble as they reach for the bag of dark roast.

"She's just turning one. I know they say time flies by, and it does...but tomorrow she will still be one. It'll take another whole year for her to turn two. A decade or so for us to be bawling our eyes out at her graduation---"

"Yeah, I got it." Jack's words come out flat, and he knows how he sounds, which is like an asshole. "I'm sorry. Just...sorry."

Sorry, kiddo. Just been spending the last twelve months accounting for everything he could still lose. His age started to feel like a damn prognosis when he met you, and that's only more true now that Chubby's one year closer to growing teeth. Just beating the dead horse. Which is fitting, because his mortality has been beating him over the fucking head.

"Just---a balloon arch you didn't let me help you make and a homemade cake and loud party ain't gonna change the fact that I'm gonna be sixty when she's in middle school."

...You're furrowed brow at that, but you know what he needs, because he's being cruel so he can hate himself for it later, and when he's like that, you know what he's asking for.

And you also stopped caring about how easy it is to give Jackie anything and everything.

"Many kids have older parents---"

"She's gonna notice I look like I'm supposed to be her grandpa by the time she can read. And if I stay great with taking my meds, which I will, the best-case scenario is that she grows up with dad that can't run after her without his heart feeling like it's trying to kick out of his chest. Trying. Not that it will. Hence, best-case scenario."

Your hands curl around each other as you swallow. Jack rolls his neck, putting the coffee grounds in the filter. You watch the river of his veins pulse.

"Jack, not today, please."

He nods.

"Yeah, I can self-loathe over the people who look at me and you and think 'how the fuck did that happen?' some other time. Sorry. You're trying very hard to throw a perfect party. The least I can do is keep my bullshit to the other 364 days of the year."

And the thing is, he's being genuine. There's not a once of snark targeted at you in his jab. He just needed to drag every stranger who's glanced at you and him too long. Okay. You get that. That's adjacent to his morality.

You swallow harshly.

Jack presses the coffee machine button and walks over to you, hands slipping around your waist to pull you into his stern body. You let him. Why wouldn't you? Because of his self-prolaimed bullshit? You've handled worse from him.

And he smells too good, anyway. You could suffocate happily like this.

You take a deep breath, greedy for the woody, earthy musk. Jack rests his cheek on the top of your head.

"I'm just talking the crap, Sleepy. I'm sorry, don't mind me. I'll be good."

He makes a humored noise when Chubby coos, like she's telling him, 'yeah, you better.' You follow with your own giggle.

You make the mistake of giving him more leeway than she does for the next few hours.

By noon, the house is full with a small party of people, some from the Pitt...mostly from the Pitt, although you're lucky to have a few friends outside of your job to stop over for a quick gift-giving. Besides, as Jack said with obnoxious accuracy, your baby girl can get overstimulated to a fit of tears.

Like her dad that way, social until she's tired.

Robby comes with a stuffed bear wearing a Steelers jersey. He thinks it's funny, and it is! What's funnier is Jack's reaction.

"That's not seeing the light of day in my house."

When you invited Santos, she said she would only buy a gift if there was beer. And there is, but you're still surprised to see her show up with a bag.

...Mostly because the bag's bigger than Chubby.

"I, uh, I kinda blacked out in the baby aisle."

Dana is generous enough to film some of the party, and you guess she's allowed to be delighted in how she catches Chubby smacking your hand when you try to put the party hat back on her head.

And the day almost saves itself that you forget that Jack loves her and you so much that it's harmful. That every new thing she does and will do is a countdown as much as it is a blessing.

But you do notice a little, because when she claps, cause everyone else claps, Jack looks like he needs to sit down like he hasn't taken his meds. But...he does a good job soothing himself by kissing her sticky hand.

Things are perfect all the way to cake time.

Your baby girl sits in her high chair as everyone gathers around. You're pretty sure she knows that food is coming, because both of her fat fists beat on the tray. You can barely hold your excitement in a way that is manageable and not embarrassing. But you birthed her, it's okay.

Jack stands beside you as you light the candle. The flame flickers hot with its orange glow, and Chubby, who was babbling for no reason other than that she's a baby, goes quiet.

She stares at the flame like it's the most beautiful thing in the world. Which, wrong, that's her. But your heart bursts anyway as she opens her mouth in wonder.

"I think this is the first time you've ever witnessed fire, huh?"

A few people laugh. Jack stares at her in a way you can only describe as reaved, if you're remembering the definition of that word correctly. Oops.

You brush your shoulder into his, bumping bicep to bicep before you kiss him.

"We’ll help her," You murmur. "You and me."

Jack doesn't answer, but his hand finds the spot between your shoulder blades. For that one second of a heavy, gruff breath, he looks...just fine. Happy. A happy, happy man with a thin smile.

"Alrighty, one, two three..."

Everyone begins singing.

"Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you..."

Chubby jumps in a way that almost stops you from singing just to laugh, but it's the gummy smile she gives after that nearly kills your mommy heart.

"Happy birthday to you, dear..."

Your cheeks hurt from smiling, and you could not give a shit. Jack's hand deepens against your back.

You gasp softly when Chubby reaches for the flame.

"Oh, no---"

It happens fast, and even though your monkey mommy brain gets your heart startled, you know quickly she's not in danger. You're right here, and the candle's far enough from her that you don't even have to be quick as you laugh softly.

You go to reach for her pudgy hand.

"That's hot, baby---"

But you hear more laughter halting at Jack moving in a possible second.

...You don't know how else to describe it than that he kinda lunges.

"Jack, what are you doing---"

It's a dramatic word, but that's how fast he is as one of his hands softly clamps around your daughter's reaching wrist.

He blows the candle out with a harsh breath. The flame ghosts the cake.

The room stops singing, and for another half-second, it's just silence to fill it until Chubby begins to cry.

And she cries. Very, very loudly. And with every shrill wail that sounds out, your stomach churns.

God fucking damn it, Jack!

You pull her wrist free from Jack's frozen hold as her face begins to flood with tears, as she looks at her dad like he blew out the candle just to scare her.

You pull Chubby out of her high chair and settle her against your chest. She basically baby-sobs into your shoulder as her roll-riddled arms flail before her clutches at your dress top.

"Mommy's got you, Chubs. It's okay. I know, you wanted to blow out the candle with Mommy and Daddy? It's okay."

Robby clears his throat.

"Jack...what the hell was that, brother?"

Should that be enough for his shame to enter? For him to realize how little his audacity was worth it? You don't know at this point. You just watch every wrinkled, handsome line of Jack's face harden as he scratches his chest.

"She reached for the flame."

You shut your eyes as you bounce Chubby. You auto-bounce a rhythm with your wailing baby in your arms as you try to breathe. As you try to take one second for yourself.

You gave him enough seconds, enough chances to turn away his fear and insecurities. You gave him seconds enough to make up your baby's first year on Earth. Does he measure that, too? Will he count those?

Chubby sobs harder, her face sticky with tears.

Jack again, rougher, speaks. His head tilts low.

"She reached for the flame. She could’ve burned herself. I stopped her before anything happened. Didn't mean to rush it...just...it's fire. She could've burned herself."

You stare at him. Really? How long will it take for him to boil over the fact that there's nobody to blame except the man standing in front of the cake you made?

...Five seconds apparently. Maybe because he catches whatever's burning behind your eyes as you glare. His mouth tightens.

Good. You'll feel like the most awful lover in the world later, but good. Feel bad like you always apparently do, Jack. Burn over this before you blow out another candle.

"She's crying, Jack. I need to go, uh...I need to clean her up. Clean me up, too."

You can hear Jack's throat bob, and you wonder how his heart feels when you flinch from his touch.

He goes unblinking. Maybe angry, maybe guilty. You don't care how he feels right now. Caring is how you let him get close enough to the cake in the first place.

"She'll forget in a minute---"

"Cause if she forgets, what you did doesn't count? Something like that?"

That's how he measures, maybe. The harder it is for the people he loves and needs most to forget, the harsher the self-punishment is. Hm. That's a terrible thing for the man you think is perfect to lay upon himself.

You sniffle, pulling the worst furrows of your face and trembles of your voice back into a lip bite. The way you soothe your baby helps.

Are you going to make every happy thing in your life answer for the pain it might become later? Are you never going to bear the fact that the baby you put inside me is growing? How many parties and smiles are you going to pick at while you can't, Jack? I love you so horribly sometimes, I need you all the time, but...

You lean in to whisper. He's still in place.

"I am so tired of you making us mourn you while you’re standing right fucking here."

When Jack's face softens and drops into nothing, you feel regret flicker the way the candle did, but you're crying now too. On your baby's day.

"I asked for today, that's it. I'm more than okay handling any other day. I enjoy---" You do. "Why couldn't you just keep it down for a few hours?"

What did you see when she reached for the candle?

"Sleepy...I---"

You had it in your head. Jack would be smushed into your back, arms around you, and Chubby. Of course, she wouldn't be able to blow it out, but it would've been all three of you taking that flame on together.

How did he take even that?

"You're right."

Chubby hiccups herself into silence, finally bored of tears, but what scares you is that Jack doesn't seem to be all that angry. Not at you, not at himself. You blink your tears away.

His hand, the one that had grabbed Chubby’s wrist, curls into a fist at his side.

"Jack---"

"No." You're concerned and pretty damn mad at how politely he nods, because he's suddenly calm in the face, the lines of it are settled. "You’re right. You're right, kid---"

Jack takes a step back. Robby moves toward him.

"Jack, sit down."

"I’m fine. Just..."

He looks at you, then your---your and his daughter, and that flicker of regret you don't really need right now burns high when you see that his eyes are shining.

"Dad's sorry, Chubs. M'sorry."

Chubby only stares at him, unsure eyes still wet.

You don't know what exactly to feel but your stomach falling out of you when Jack tries to smile. Give her...and you something fatherly to look at.

He looks back at you, half-smile growing by an inch.

"I'm sorry. Thanks for...thanks for telling the truth, kid."

Grateful for its execution.

"Jack!"

You call out after him when he turns and walks out of the room. It's a very quiet retreat, and that's what worries the shit out of you. You stand still with your sniffling birthday girl.

Damn it. You really, really don't need this right now---

Dana catches you by the bicep, and it's where you realize you were going to follow him. That's how instinctual it is to need Jack. You're there before you can think to take the first step.

You want to follow. You're pissed at how pissed you are at Dana for stopping you.

Robby goes after him. Maybe it's for the best, because whatever state you could find Jack in, you may panic enough to forget what he did today.

Then it wouldn't count, right?

Robby finds Jack in the garage, of all places. He thought the guy might go to his garage-gym shrine for you, for...well. He doesn't know...self-soothing purposes? No. No. That's a gross thing to think.

It smells like sweat, obviously, and he finds Jack, in particular, sitting on the floor with his back against the washer.

He took off his prosthetic very quickly. Must've. From the kitchen to here.

It's already a concerning sight, but with the way the guy's head is tipped back? Like he can't get enough air in his lungs? While he's clutching the hell out of his chest?

...Was Jack planning on just crawling to his laundry room to die alone on his kid's birthday?

Robby kneels down instantly, sighing low.

Knew Sunshine was gonna be trouble for your old heart. Won't say that now. Might be the thing to do you in.

"Is it chest pain?"

Jack laughs, or tries to. It comes out wrong, like he's choking on it. Might explain the shortness of breath.

"Fuck off, Robby."

"M' taking that as a yes." Robby takes in the rest of his guy in a quick, clinical sweep. Color? Not good. Breathing? Fucked. Hand to chest, sweat dripping already. God. "Fuck, I think we gonna call an ambulance, Jack---"

"No ambulance. You think I'm dying? Drive me. Put it on your gas tab."

"I don't think you really get a vote if you've given yourself cardiac arrest on your kid's birthday."

Jack scoffs. "It's a panic attack, at worst. I know my own body."

...You hate your own body, Jack. Enough to study it to death. Literally. Not the same thing.

Jack shuts his eyes, pressing his palm harder into his chest. Robby puts a hand on his shoulder, mouth parting with what is a stupid fucking question. He realizes that once he asks it.

"You want her in here---"

"No. No---No---" Jack's voice cracks, and even though Robby tries to get him to stop talking and calm down, he continues with high-lidded eyes and a flaring nose. "Please. She comes in here, she'll give me the bullshit. She'll be nice. Worried. If she's nice, I can't...not gonna keep it where it belongs."

Robby blinks fast. "...Where what belongs, Jack?"

Jack laughs right this time, almost like he knows how stupid the answer is.

All this punishment. It'll be too easy to turn kiddo's anger into a weapon against herself if she comes in here and decides to love me again just cause she thinks I'm dying. Rather just die. What else do I deserve?

Well. Another day. Gotta be another day. They still gotta open gifts.

The teases he could find then, God. Not now. 

“That’s…ill-advised.”

Yep. You know him so well. That’s only your heart’s fault, really…amongst other factions of your anatomy, all pulsing, all needy—

What’s wrong with you?

“It’s fun. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”

Jack only mms in the depths of his throat. It’s where he takes the moment to eye your badge. And your shoes. And the numerous tiny pins you’ve forced upon your scrubs. 

You pout, and unfortunately for your dignity, it’s purposeful, as if these ridiculous, cutesy bits could do anything to Jack.

...Well. Sometimes they do, although you think you exaggerate his stiff flusteredness. But those moments, riddled with the pulsing veins in his forehead or cheeks going just slightly red, are addicting. 

You’re chasing it now. 

“You already look like a craft store exploded on you.”

You gasp. How dare he? You know very well he’s not as annoyed with the way you wear your personality on your sleeve…for the most part. 

“Excuse you. These are curated accessories.”

Jack does another once over, slow—badge, pins, shoes. He turns his eyes away in a quicker glance off to the hall, and his smirk is awfully slight. 

“Mmhmm,” he mutters. “Very curated.”

You bounce on your heels despite Jack’s inability to see why this is the most amazing thing to ever happen to the Pitt. 

“I have options. Real options. I can finally color-coordinate with my shoes, or I can wear my themed tops! Or—”

“No themes, Sleepy. It’ll take less than half the shift for someone’s bodily fluids to get on Winnie the Pooh.”

…How could he possibly know you have Winnie the Pooh theme scrubs?

“You don’t get a vote, Dr. Abbot.”

Dr. Abbot merely rolls his eyes, and you wonder if the clearing of his throat comes out harder than he wanted it to. 

“Just—don’t go overboard. It’s a hospital, not a fashion show.”

“You say that like I own anything boring enough to not turn free scrub Friday into one.” 

“That’s exactly what worries me, Sleepy.” 

Jack steps closer, burning the distance away with a deep sigh, leaving his awful, stomach-flipping smile.

There it is, the burning in the fat of your face. Screw you, Dr. Abbot—Jack, Jackie. As stoic as you are, you know what you’re doing. 

“This attending, for one, can’t wait to see Tigger and friends bloodied up for your laundry pile on Friday.” 

Jack turns back to the sign, neck rolling stiff.

“Yeah, definitely would boost my morale. I don’t know about yours.”

Your heart skips a beat at his nearly muttered quip, or two—enough for it to make it down the hall in a half-second.

Jack watches you go and immediately wants to slit bits of him off for how invested he already is—in a way he can’t deny. It’s not just curiosity or a mild, rightful interest in seeing what the hell you plan on wearing. He’s sure everyone is. 

…It’s the thought of you presenting yourself in a way that’s not dictated by hospital policy that sets something restless humming under his skin. 

“You planning on wearing somethin’, Abbot?”

“The scrubs we’ve been mandated to wear for the past ten years.”

This burning, over fucking scrubs. Who knew that this would be the joke that makes up his life? He imagines it without meaning to, and that’s what he needs to tell himself. 

Color. Movement. Something stupidly cheery that clashes with the Pitt’s fluorescent misery. Something that makes Kiddo look ever more like herself. 

Like she needs to turn more heads than she already does. His little attention seeker.

The word’s anticipation. Jack can admit that, because…God…wanting to see what you’ll wear for free scrub Friday? 

It’s at the bottom of the list of things he’s wanted to see when it comes to you, Sleepy. Still, it comes as warm as it comes unwelcome.

Whatever God that isn't there help him, he needs to see what glitter and color Kiddo is going to riddle herself with, and like with everything else in reference to her, her, her, he hates himself for how much.

Friday morning is a trap that Jack walks into willingly. He walks in earlier than he needs to, and it doesn’t take long for the Pitt to hum itself to life. 

“Oh…Jesus.”

It’s Dana, because of course she wouldn’t leave before she sees whatever you’ve got planned. Jack assumes it’s you who is the victim of her exclamation. 

He turns. 

…He's correct. There you are.

You—normally grey scrubs, sparkles smuggled in through pens and clips—wearing a soft pink top with white accents. Which—that’s not the worst. Not at all. Pink to go with your shoes, he expected that. 

It’s what’s scattered across the fabric that Jack can’t help but eye. Jesus Christ. 

It’s…they're--

They're feminine cartoon rabbits. Pink-eared, white-bodied girl rabbits. Your badge reel somehow matches. 

You’ve got a fucking bow in your hair. 

And you look criminally happy. 

Jack’s throat bobs. 

God fucking help me. 

“Jack…DON’T say anything yet. Wait—”

There it is, the familiar urge to turn you into something squeezable, scoopable. 

Crushable. 

“I wasn’t…” He swallows. “You look…”

God fucking damn it. 

He steps back and stops, because the only words he can find are fucking adorable and pathetically precious, and those are words that will get him sent to HR. Or worse, he’ll be emotionally exposed. 

“Oh my god, sunshine. You look like a Saniro sticker collage.”

Saniro? Is that the name of the rabbit girl? 

Dana laughs. 

“That’s shockingly appropriate. Man, you’re making me wish I had the initiative to wear my Bugs Bunny scrubs.”

You do a tiny spin, just enough to make the fabric flutter. “Free Scrub Friday! I waited my whole life for this moment.”

Jack’s past the point in denying that he has to fold his arms hard across the hammering of his heart. This is not the first time he’s had to suffocate the impulse to smother you, but Saniro—it’s making it pretty fucking hard to.

“This is a seismic level of distraction. Peds is calling.”

Something in his chest clenches. Hard. Just when you grin at him. 

“That’s your way of saying you like it.”

Who the fuck cares if it is? Why are you smart enough to know that? 

“I want you to go start an IV on four before I—”

Jack stops himself. Resets. 

Before I say or do something filthily unprofessional, because I need to choke you for how adorable you are, see if you can squeak when I crush your bones, because grounding myself in holding you is the only way to stop the feeling from seeping out of my skin.

I don’t know why I know that. I think I’ve dreamt of this, kiddo.

“Next Friday, wear something boring.”

Why wouldn’t your smile turning dopey worsen his affection turn feral? Why? It’s not like he deserves otherwise. 

“And miss out on that beautiful smile you’re giving me, Dr. Abbot? No promises.”

“I am not smiling.”

“You are. It’s just doing that thing that makes it look like you’re in pain.”

You pull on the hem of your scrub top, flattening out the material to present it like a poster. 

The material at the top tightens around your bra. 

He can only swallow at the sharp, visceral spike hitting him square in the sternum. Yep, why wouldn’t it, Abbot? With all the things you’ve dreamt about. 

“Next Friday, wear something fun.”

Dana pffts. “Jack in anything that isn’t black or camo? I’d pay to say that.”

It ends there, thank God. He wouldn’t be able to get past the night if you asked him if he thought you were cute—his brain would’ve supplied twenty inappropriate, filthy, bone-crushing reactions and zero usable sentences. 

But later, because of fucking course, you catch his eye from across the floor and grin.

Like you could know, like you could possibly know that there’s this stupid, animal impulse to squeeze your perfect, resentful body until you pop in his arms because of your stupid fucking rabbit scrub and bows.

Like you could know that even though this is very much your fault, Sleepy, it’s what gets Jack to hate himself even more.

This aggression at the altar of your ridiculousness.