saving all my delusions here

At the end of the day.

You and Soap, or Johnny rather, were joined at the fucking hip. That duo who always showed up together, never apart for as long as they could help. It’d been that way since childhood, rainy days in Paisley after his parents had moved back down to the central belt. Pushing and chasing one another around the dull streets, name calling and loud laughs all the way through till late adolescence. Absolutely fuck-all came between you aside from his burning love for Rangers and yours for Celtic.

Match days were a fight, no doubt.

When he joined the Army it pissed you off. You’d known he was going to, christ, it’s all he’d yapped on about till he was old enough. But saying that last goodbye to him selfishly kicked up a storm in your stomach, willingly forgetting to recognise it was all he’d ever wanted. His dream, if you will.

But he wrote you letters, regardless of your sour faced send-off. Letters you’d dampened with tears, allowing the ink to run free across the page, now barely legible. His handwriting was barely legible anyway, but the tears certainly didn’t help.

Didn’t stop you from stashing them into a box under your bed though. An Adidas shoe box titled: ‘Fucker.’ You never were one for warmth.

And over time that box filled with all sorts of shite. His letters, patches, some photos — fuck even a few sticks and random fabrics he’d sent in envelopes with loads of ‘ha ha ha’s’ written on the back. When he got home you’d showed him said box and he still laughed with himself at the sticks.

“Got that in Azerbaijan, I mind picking them up.” His voice would rise in pitch, defending his past self.

Not that he had anything to defend. You’re the one that kept them.

Different story when he’d found the letters. Fuck, that was a day and a half. “You kept these aye?” He’d skimmed through the crumpled paper, “Greetin’ on them too.” A nudge of your shoulder

And that right there was the hour your friendship had transcended into something more. The whole hour actually, feelings were shared and truths came out. Johnny knew. Of course he knew. But you confirming his thoughts felt like getting into bed after a long day. Banging.

After that his deployments were all a routine. You’d cry, hate him for a maximum of a week for leaving you behind in the shithole that was Glasgow, receive a letter and then miss him. Repeat.

Above all else though, you were soulmates and that was absolutely undeniable. Finishing one another’s sentences, laughing until your sides hurt, speaking in silence by exchanging looks across rooms and dining tables. You’d even share your work gossip with him any chance you got, and he’d match your drama with his own, forever the menace even in such a serious profession. Additionally, letting you test your chances against wrestling him from time to time. Never did let you win though.

“That’d be you cheating.” He’d say as his arms pinned you down, “You’re no even tryin’ are you?”

Windup. Merchant.

“How’d they even let you in, you’re a big wain.” You’d frown at him, attempting to kick his stomach only resulting in a grapple to the floor.

“They let me in ‘cos i’m class.”

There wasn’t anything specific about Johnny that made you love him. It was a mix of everything, time included as you’d convinced yourself it was love from the ripe old age of thirteen. And actually, so did he. Whether it was a platonic love he’d recognised or something more — he told you all the time. Forever the emotional soul, Johnny. “I love you, y’know, kid.” Even though you were the same age. “You’re the one darlin’, marriage!” All slurred whenever you’d picked him up from a drunken night out, allowing him to crash in your bed.

He was a softy, really.

Again. Not that it was a secret.

You loved the way his eyes turned soft whenever listening to you, always finding yours in a room full of people. The hand he instinctively placed on your lower back when walking you through a crowd. His dirty cackle. The smile he produced enough to cover for both of you, the story-teller in him and the proud compliments he gracefully gave you in public.

But Johnny loved even more about yourself.

He loved your attitude and the way you stood up for yourself. ‘Bite n Fight’ as he liked to call it. He loved your eyes and how expressive they were, your brows that never failed to host a frown you weren’t even aware of. Each and every one of your habits, ones he’d always take for granted before leaving for months at a time. Your gorgeous smile and that dip on your bottom lip that was only reserved for his. Your roaming hands, the way they wandered up toward his hair whenever you’d kiss him deeply, pulling at the roots lightly but still tight enough to provoke a growl from him.

He just loved you.

So that night last Summer when he’d finally got down on one knee and fumbled his way through a speech, making himself (and you) laugh in the process. It was fucking emotional. “I ‘adn’t prepared one.” He’d smile with his teeth together, lifting his shoulders up toward his neck in laughter. “Yes or no. Christ, my knee can’t handle this.”

“Yeah. Yes, obviously yes.” You waved your hands in a gesture for him to stand up, laughing loudly into the night sky when he had lifted you up and kissed all over your neck.

Soulmates were an odd concept.

You never thought you’d meet yours, not until Johnny had stuck around and practically taught you the definition of the word over years. Landing the MacTavish name and unlocking endless boring stories about his family history and the clan.

Although, you’d be lying to say you didn’t enjoy the way his face lit up when telling you about it all. As if you weren’t Scottish yourself, and hadn’t heard his stories over a hundred times.

“You’re no even listening, mate.” He’d quirk a brow, stretching over the table to bosh your flat palms with his own.

“Don’t fuckin’ mate me. And I do listen, thanks. All Highland and…” You’d drag out the last letter before a long pause. “Stuff.”

“Yer a minx.” He’d push a hand through your hair to purposely mess it and wind you up, receiving a smack to his still outstretched palm. Loud laugh filling the room as well as your heart.

You look delectable straddling his hips.

Naked and soft, plump tits sitting prettily in his hands. His thumbs swipe idly around your perked nipples as you ride him slowly, early morning sun peeking through the curtains and lapping at your skin. What a way to wake up, what a sight.

He stares at your lips and how they part for him—something he still has to get used to, though he probably never truly will. How dulcet does his name sound if it’s your voice whispering it, how beautiful your eyes when they take in his face.

Soft hands are pressed on his chest for leverage, and you’re treating him with a view he keeps pinned to the forefront of his brain—gliding your cunt until you’re chock-full of him, stroking yourself until you’re shivering.

He likes it when he’s on top, sure. He’s used to taking the lead and orchestrating every detail, in and out of the job. 

But when you allow him to sit back and take it? Hell, sign him up. He’d do it every day. Especially when it’s this lazy sex here, in which you’re canting your hips to cum before he does, giving him the blissful chance of feeling you clench around him when he's still hard. 

Goosebumps rise under your nails as they graze down his chest and brush his stomach. Your hands wander blindly on his belly, then his sides, as you clock his eyes with your heavy ones, panting softly, idly—my beautiful, beautiful girl.

But then you inadvertently brush his ribs, and he stiffens—even squirms, and your movements come to a halt.

You blink as conscience returns to you slowly, and the room sinks into tense silence. His cock twitches inside of you when you tilt your head inquisitively, squinting your eyes.

Experimentally, you brush your fingertips against his ribs again, and his biceps flatten to his sides, trapping your hands.

Your eyes widen, and his do the same.

“Don’t.”

You gasp, “Oh my God.”

“Darling, no.” He warns, but you’ve clearly made up your mind already.

Your lips are curled in a smile that promises mischief, and he can only give up, sit back, and count his losses.

“Darling, yes.”

Simon feels your fingers wiggle under the tight press of his arms, but no matter his strength, they're seemingly useless against that playful resolve you're displaying.

His cock is still embarrassingly hard inside you, and Simon reckons it won't soften any time soon. You don’t seem eager to get off him either, thus prolonging the torture with each tiny movement you make.

He inhales sharply and fights tooth and nail to school his expression into neutrality. His eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is locked tight. The only thing giving him away is the flush of his cheeks, getting pinker by the second because he refuses to open his mouth to breathe a much-needed lungful of air. Knowing that if he would, he'd bark a laugh that would proclaim you as the winner of this fight.

He would never.

You roll your hips, then—cheap trick. He unravels with a shaky breath, and his biceps give out enough for you to slip your hands away.

And then, he knows he's done for.

“Cut it out.” He barks, trying to sound stern and miserably failing. He knows because you're laughing even harder.

Your fingers feel like tiny bugs crawling up his sides, and they make his breath catch in his throat.

“Never.” You say, with a grin that scrunches your nose. A smile that would normally make his heart throb, but right now just makes him wish he were a lesser man so he could throttle you.

“Fuckin’-“

You chuckle.

You evil little cunt.

Resistance lasts a few more seconds before he bursts.

It’s not a full laugh that leaves him; more of a wheeze that makes you chortle like a wicked witch. His chest heaves as your fingers frantically tickle his sides. Tries to get you off him by shaking his hips, but that only makes the two of you falter and moan, and then chuckle and catch your breaths.

His shoulders shake in a breathless, choking laugh that pitches upward as you continue with your assault (yes, assault—he is not being dramatic), eyes veiled with tears of frustration and mirth. He shrieks when your hands travel under his armpits—the sound makes you giggle in a way that would have him melt. 

“That laugh’s lovely, baby.” You say with a smarmy grin he wishes he could wipe with a kiss, hands unrelenting against his sides. “Sound like a kettle whistling.”

He tries to glower and push you off, but you’re surprisingly strong when you’re focused. Right now, your only goal is to apparently make him hate you—he'd rather be held at gunpoint than being forced to hold in a laugh that makes his stomach hurt.

Simon now looks shockingly harmless, with his cheeks flushed bright red and his voice an octave too high—wouldn't look dangerous if he tried.

“Tea ready, yet?” You add, batting your lashes, because why not rub salt into the already embarrassing wound marring his pride.

It’s that unfathomably stupid joke that finally makes Simon crack. He barks out a laugh that bubbles up his throat, rippling through his stomach so suddenly that you bounce above him. Your own laugh follows soon after, because each time you manage to steal one from him, your heart vibrates with loving triumph.

But still—he is Simon Riley, isn’t he? Member of Task Force 141. Lieutenant in the UK Special Forces, SAS. The Ghost. There is some pride in there, one he'd like to keep intact.

He tries to recollect his breath, sniffling, and his arms shoot out to wrap around your waist. He rolls onto his side, taking you with him.

It’s then that you find yourself in a position of utter disadvantage, on your back with your big brute of a boyfriend holding you down. You’re wide-eyed and still smiling with barely contained giggles, and he’d be lying if he said it doesn't make his heart soar.

Sure, he’s panting, still proper flushed and apple-cheeked, with shivers wrecking his spine and unshed tears in his eyes—but he takes great pride in having won yet another fight (again, not overreacting at all, if you ask him).

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

You fix him with a look. “Simon, no.”

Before you can add more to your complaint, he rams his cock into you until your chest stutters, your lips mouthing around a shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

He fucks you into the mattress, then—once, twice, until the remnants of laughter vanish from your face and you’re trembling in bliss, eyes rolled back under heavy eyelids.

He places a sloppy kiss down to your collarbone.

“Simon, yes.”

Trinity rolls her eyes, standing up from her seat as she starts tugging on your arm as well, while Victoria nervously glances around the bar, trying not to get kicked out because you’ve had too much to drink.

You stand up abruptly, faster than a drunk person should be able to move, which sends them tumbling into each other. Chugging down the rest of your drink, the dayshifters can only watch in horror as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand– a loopy grin forming on your face.

"Whadd’ya say this is called? Blue Lagoon? Get me anotha’ round of ‘em– for the ‘lot!” you exclaim, and Mel quickly shoots a glance at the bartender, shaking her head as she does a cutting motion with her hand.

“No, no– she- she doesn't mean that!”

“Yup, I defffinitely do– mmph!” A hand clamps over your mouth before you can continue bankrupting yourself at 10 PM on a Tuesday. Blinking, you’re met with Dennis’ sweaty face, a painful smile forced onto his face.

Of course, staying silent while a hand is physically blocking your mouth is only optional. 

Licking his palm, you sigh in content when he finally lets go.

Dennis jerks his hand back, eyes widening in horror at the slick trail of saliva now streaked across it.

“Oh what the fu–”

“I wanna’ dance,” you garble, stumbling on your feet as you shake off the hands gripping your frame.

“Absolutely not,” Trinity snaps immediately, already bracing herself as you attempt a very ambitious spin that ends in you nearly concussing yourself and her.

You pout, swaying awkwardly as you roll your eyes dramatically.

“But I feel the music!” you exclaim, and do a…shimmy?

“There’s literally no music playing,” Victoria mutters quietly, shrugging when Samira shoves her shoulder lightly. “What? It’s true, I mean– it’s a Tuesday– who gets blackout drunk on a–”

“Well…she did say she’s been having a rough week at work,” Mel softly interrupts, a gentle frown on her face as she watches Trinity wrestle yet another drink you’ve magically gotten, out of your hands.

Victoria grows silent, a slight regretful look on her face. 

Though whatever apology you might have gotten is long forgotten when you start doing the robot.

“There’s music in my bones– c’mon fruitcake, dance with me!” you holler, and Dennis sinks further into the wall, unable to watch anymore. 

He needed to look away if he wanted to be able to give you a semblance of respect tomorrow.

Samira sighs, giving you a pitiful smile.

“New plan– how about we head home, honey?” she speaks as gently as she can, slowly lowering your flailing arms, trying to preserve some of your dignity.

“No!” you gasp like she was suggesting something criminal, “We just got here–”

“No, we just got here– you’ve been here since 7 PM,” Trinity mutters, already reaching for your bag.

You can feel her irritation, despite the overflow of alcohol in your system right now.

Suddenly– you halt– slumping back in your chair as your lower lip wobbles, pathetic sniffles escaping you.

A collective, panicked rambling ensues, trying to prevent a drunken disaster.

“Oh no–”

“Hey, come on– you’re fine!”

“We– we were just joking–” Samira rushes, immediately crouching in front of you, hands cupping your face as your expression crumples further.

Your eyes glass over, lashes clumping together as your breathing hitches– dramatic and shaky, a complete overreaction.

“No you weren’t,” you mumble while shaking your head adamantly, voice thick. “You guys hate me!”

“We do not hate you,” Trinity says quickly, crouching beside you now too, her usual bite completely gone. “You’re just like, really drunk,”

“And kind of embarrassing,” Victoria adds quickly, before shrugging helplessly at the glares she receives “...But like, in a cute way!” she amends weakly.

That does not help.

A sob wracks through your body, and Mel looks about three seconds away from getting an Uber home and spending the entire ride looking at lava lamps. 

“I– I just–” you whimper, breath catching in your throat, “I’ve had a bad week–”

Dennis exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before stepping closer. “Yeah, we know–”

You shake your head again, sniffing loudly.

“No– everyone keeps, like, leaving mid-conversation, or saying they’ll text and then not texting and– and I think this one guy blocked me before I even finished writing–” you babble, hiccuping in between words. 

“Honey, that’s not on you,” Samira quickly responds, her patient satisfaction skills working overtime. “They’re idiots– you’re a total catch!”

Despite your tear streaked face and bloodshot eyes– with mascara running down your face and your sorry attempt of reapplying your lipstick smudged way past the lines of your lips–  a soft, hopeful smile wobbles onto your face.

“Really?”

The four remaining dayshifters quickly perk up at the glare Samira, once again, sends them over her shoulder, a chorus of agreements suddenly being heard.

“Of course!”

“You’re, like, super smart too–”

“Y-yes, you’re a stunner!”

“Beautiful, honestly–”

You sniff, eyes darting between them like you’re trying to decide if they’re lying or telling the truth. Not that you would be able to tell anyways.

“…You’re not just saying that?” you ask, voice small, hesitant in a way that makes all of them soften instantly, despite the one man circus you’ve been running for the past few hours.

“Of course not!” Samira reassures, wiping the makeup smudging under your eyes. The rest of the group nods adamantly, Mel reaching for your bag, while Victoria grabbed your jacket, Trinity and Dennis already taking hold of each of your arms

You squirm out of their grip, stumbling on your feet.

“Okay…we can go, I just– I really need to pee…” you swallow thickly, wiping the snot from your nose.

Once they see the queasy look on your face and the drops of sweat forming on your forehead, they stop fussing– keeping you at arms length while they lead you towards the bathroom in the back.

“Are you sure you’re okay in there?”

You hear Mel call out, though slightly muffled from the door you slammed shut in your hunt to find the nearest toilet to spill your guts into.

“Mmph– m’fine–” you manage to force out, before another wave of nausea washes over you, forcing your head back into the toilet bowl.

You hear the footsteps retreating over the sound of your heart beating in your ears, and end up slumping against the cool tile wall, sitting on the disgusting bathroom floor.

Groaning, you weakly tug on your phone that's currently digging into your hip– making the position even more uncomfortable than it already is.

You sink back against the cold porcelain, gaze unfocused when they land back on your phone.

Rubbing your bleary eyes, you grab it staring at the apparatus in your hands.

“Piece of crap, stupid assholes…” you snivel, angrily tapping on your screen as you scroll through the endless amounts of names in your contact list. “You–you’re all jerks!”

Your thumb keeps sliding across the screen, vision blurring every few seconds as fresh tears gather.

“Don’t need any of you,” you mumble stubbornly, hiccuping as your head thunks back against the toilet seat. “I have plenty of options,”

Your phone nearly slips from your grip before you fumble it back, squinting at the glowing names that refuse to stay still.

One contact catches your eye.

Jake.

One of your recent failures that spent the entirety of the date rambling about his failed career as an professional athlete, because of an injury he got in high school. 

When you explained to him that a sprained finger doesn’t result in never being able to play soccer again, he– for some reason– got upset and stormed off, leaving you with the bill.

You suspect he did it on purpose.

“Tch…he had the nerve to tell me I’m boring? I- I’m a fucking doctor– I need to tell that piece of shit he’s the boring one, I’m not boring at all–” you mutter lowly, a sudden determination in your veins as you tap on the call button.

Bringing it to your ear, you listen to the ringback– and the call connects within seconds.

Oh. You didn’t think he’d actually pick up.

“Hello–”

“Pfft…don’t ‘hello’ me you…you boring asshole!” you slur, words sticking together as you try and sit up straighter against the wall.

“I think you have the wrong numb–”

“Oh yeah? Real mature Jake–  I have the wrong number? I can’t believe you left me with the bill after I went with a salad and you ordered the fucking steak–”

“I think you should take another look at who you’re speaking to right now,” a gruff voice interrupts, and you falter for a moment. 

Huh, you think to yourself, Jake’s voice managed to get a lot deeper in a week.

You scoff, struggling to keep yourself upright as you start sliding down the wall again. 

“Geez, that sooooo scary– “

“I’m not Jake,” the voice huffs out, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was laughing at you.

You groan as you pull the phone from your ear, only doing it so that you can prove your point, before looking down at the caller ID.

Jack Abbot.

“It literally says–” the words die on your tongue as you do a double take, bringing the phone back down from your ear and blinking at the screen

Jack Abbot–

You scramble to press the phone back to your ear, nearly dropping it in the process.

“I– Doctor Abbot?”

The line goes quiet for a few seconds, and in your drunken state of mind, you almost think he’s hung up on you. But then, you hear the sounds of sheets rustling on the other end, and a soft grunt as he speaks into the phone again.

“So, this Jake guy, huh? Seems like a real jerk,” 

You sniffle softly slowly letting yourself sink down against the wall again.

“Yeah…he was,”

“You okay, kid?”

“M’fine, my head’s just pounding” you mutter slowly, before sighing– immediately bouncing to the next subject. “You know, you have it so much easier, Doctor Abbot–”

“Jack,” he reprimands softly, and you adjust promptly, scoffing into the speaker.

“Whatever, Jack– you– you have, like, women throwing themselves at you from every corner!”

“Where did you get that idea from?” Jack replies, voice low, rough with sleep but unmistakably amused.

“Uhm, hello– do we not work at the same hospital? I’ve seen the way people go– Oh yes handsome doctor man– please save me–“ you say, voice pitching up as you reenact an overdramatized interaction that Jack can’t recall ever having. 

“And you’ve witnessed this happening?” his raspy voice crackles through the speaker and you subconsciously find yourself pressing yourself closer to the device, blinking sluggishly where you’re draped across the floor.

“I’m a victim of it, baby–” your voice comes through in a horrible southern accent, and Jack lets out a surprised laugh, which in turn makes you giggle as well, the sound echoing around the empty bathroom.

Jack Abbot is a fifty-year-old war veteran and amputee, currently laughing into his phone like some love struck teenager.

He’s been married once, then widowed. He’s been on the ledges of buildings, and pulled himself away from them– he’s lived an entire life keeping his guard up– only to have every wall he’s ever built torn down by his twenty-something-year-old, resident, currently in a drunken fit of giggles on the other end of his phone. 

At the realisation of how fucking stupid he should feel, his chuckles falter, eventually reaching an end, and the sound of your uneven breathing is all thats heard from the speaker of his phone, currently echoing in his otherwise silent room.

Jack knows better.

He knows he should probably hang up, to let you get home and forget all about this– to see you at work tomorrow and pretend like you didn’t shake his whole world view from just one phone call.

“Christ– how much have you had tonight?” he finds himself asking instead, ignoring the way his stomach stirs at the sound of your heavy breaths.

There’s a small pause on the other end, before another one of your soft giggles breaks it.

“That's not important,” you mumble, words slow and syrupy, like they’re melting together.

Jack huffs quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

“Somehow, I doubt that,”

“Mmm,” you hum, shifting slightly. There's the faint sound of fabric dragging against tile, a soft thud like your shoulder bumps the wall again before you sigh loudly. “This is so not helping my crush on you,”

Jack freezes where he’s sitting against his headboard– heart thudding so loudly in his chest he’s thankful you’re drunk– convinced you might have heard it otherwise. 

“Alright, I think it’s time we–” he begins, only to be cut off by you.

“What, like you didn’t know? You’re like, the hottest man I’ve ever seen, I can barely even speak to you at work–”

Jack should not be feeling as smug as he is right now, sitting up straighter in bed at your words.

He needs to hear more.

“Yeah? I— is that why you keep avoiding me? You think I’m hot?” he finds himself asking, the words foreign on his tongue. He’s swallowing thickly in suspense as he awaits your answer.

It’s sick, honestly— the way he’s using your drunkenness to satiate his own greed, but Jack never claimed to be a righteous man.

If anything, he’d happily throw all his years of discipline and restraint away if it meant having you.

You snort, rolling your eyes at his words. In your intoxicated state of mind, his words don’t register as amused or particularly curious— just disbelieving, which you can not have.

“Pfft, seriously? You’re acting like you don’t walk around practically beggin’ for it in that SWAT-uniform,”

Jack laughs again, the sound crackling from your speaker.

“You’ve been thinking of me in my SWAT-gear?”

“Are you kidding? I love that stupid thing–”

A loud knock on the bathroom door interrupts your rambling, and you turn towards the noise sluggishly. Your phone drops to the floor just as the door opens, and Samira Mohan is the first to rush over at the sight of you sprawled over the bathroom floor.

“Holy shit– are you okay? Did you fall–”

“Wha– no, I just got tired…” you mumble, wriggling out of her hold on your shoulders. You let out a grunt, trying to reach your phone, but the dayshifters seem to have a different idea.

“Yeah, okay, time to go Frank Gallagher!” Trinity huffs, grabbing your arm as she and Victoria pull you to your feet. You lean your weight on them, motioning weakly towards your phone on the floor.

“Need…need my phone–” you mumble, arm flopping uselessly in its direction. “Wait– hold on, he’s still–”

“What?” Trinity frowns, following your half-hearted gesture before spotting it on the tile. “Oh, for fuck’s sake– huckleberry, grab her phone so we can go already!”

Dennis narrowly avoids your swaying figure, before he bends down and  picks your phone up off the ground. As soon as he grabs it, the screen flickers on, revealing an ongoing call.

Dennis reads the name on the screen, before his face drops, a panicked look forming on it as his head snaps up towards the rest of the group.

Samira is the first to notice, pausing in her action of wiping the dried vomit from your chin.

“What?”

“I– uh–” he stutters, looking between the phone and you, who’s currently wrapping yourself around Trinity, koala style.

“Don’t – uh– fuckleberry, move!” Trinity snaps, trying to keep you upright as you sag further into her shoulder.

“No, I,” Dennis continues to look between the phone and you, then back again, his expression twisting into something between horror and disbelief. “She’s…on a call,”

“So?” Victoria mutters. “Hang it up!”

“I don’t think I can!” he half whispers- half yells back at them, before turning the screen so that they can read.

Trinity lets out a disbelieving laugh looking down at you with an impressed look on her face as she holds you firmer against her.

“Holy shit– you’ve got balls!”

Dennis pales even further, clearly the only one worried about his future career as a doctor, now that his friend, and he says that very lightly after tonight, has drunk dialed their boss.

As in, the night shift attending they so frequently bump into at work.

Snatching the phone, Samira promptly presses the mute button, before looking around the room.

“Fuck– what do we do? Do we hang up?”

“We can’t just hang up!” Victoria exclaims, eyes wide. “...Can we?”

“I don’t think that's a good idea– hasn’t he already heard us on the phone?” Mel chimes in, only to frantically wave her hands around at the way everyone seems to further panic. “Or maybe he hasn’t! I just– I mean, since he hasn’t hung up, maybe he’s just…waiting for confirmation that she’s okay?”

The room seems to still at that, the rest of the group letting out a collective exhale.

Samira nods, still holding the phone as far away from her as possible, like it's an explosive.

“Okay– yeah, I mean– that makes sense. We can do that. Just…go ahead!” she waves the phone, motioning for someone to grab it.

No one steps forwards.

“Come on guys, we need to say something,” she laughs awkwardly, smile faltering when nobody moves again. “...Guys?”

“Jesus fucking Christ– give it to me!” Trinity sneers, snatching the phone out of Samira’s grip, dumping you onto Dennis, who scrambles to catch you before you face plant onto the floor.

She takes a deep breath, glancing across the room before pressing the unmute button, clearing her throat.

“Doctor Abbot?”

You wake up in cold sweats, neck cramping from where it’s bent uncomfortably on the armrest of the couch.

The feeling of your head spinning as you try and sit up, causes you to clutch it– your stomach grumbling loudly. Your eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, and you quickly realize you're in Trinity and Dennis’ apartment. Below you, Samira is passed out on the floor, Victoria on the armchair next to the couch. Mel must have taken the first chance she could to go home.

Good for her, your mind echoes.

Blindly reaching beside you, you feel for your phone, wincing when the screen lights up and the time flashes.

05:36 AM

Great, at least now you could try and cure this hangover before work.

Pushing yourself off the couch, you almost fall flat on your face as you try and avoid stepping on your friend whose long limbs are stretched across the space between the coffee table and couch.

Finally, you manage to make it past without waking anyone, pressing on your temples as you feel your way towards the bathroom, blinking blearily when you turn the light on.

What greets you in the mirror is a horrid sight– you, but after a night out. 

“Fuck me,” you mutter in disbelief, reaching up to touch your face. 

Your hair was a tangled mess, looking more like a bird's nest than something you have on your head, your makeup– what was left of it– had been smudged across your face, like you’d taken your makeup bag and just shoved your face in there.

At least you didn’t feel nauseous, but the thought leads you to wonder over just how hard your friends had to work to get you home last night.

Tip-toeing into the kitchen, you take the first of many aspirins that day.

The five of you walk into the ER, each one clutching a bottle of gatorade in one hand, and an iced coffee in the other.

You’re sporting a pair of sunglasses, and Dennis’ eyes somehow look even more sunken in than usual.

Victoria’s hair is sticking out of the ponytail she lamely attempted to throw together, and Samira just looks unfairly put together– ready as ever to work.

Trinity is the last to walk in, shivering into the collar of her jacket she’s pulled up over her lower face.

Robby stands by the patient board, eyes quickly moving over his residents– before stopping as he realizes the state you’re all in.

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” he says, a wry cackle escaping him as his hands land on his hips, looking like a disappointed father.

You groan, shielding your already covered eyes from his glare.

“Please, Robby– I’ve already been verbally berated today,” you utter quietly, not trying to send Trinity into another fit of rage.

“Yeah, because you–” Trinity starts up again, only to be led towards the lockers by Dennis, her spew of insults fading away.

You dump your backpack under the desk, then slump over the counter, pressing the space between your eyebrows.

“Alright– is there anyone except Doctor Mohan that’s ready to work today?” Robby sighs, rubbing his forehead.

You glare weakly at him, straightening up.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you say firmly, though the slight tremble in your chin makes him sigh again.

“You’re on triage,” he points directly at you, and you splutter, trying to plead your case.

“But–”

“No buts!” his tone sharpens, “When you walk in like some kind of hungover “Breakfast Club”, you don’t get to choose your cases, and since I have a pretty good idea of who the bad influence was– you’re in triage!” Robby interjects, before grabbing your bag and then your shoulder, steering you towards the lockers. 

“Change your clothes, and if I hear that you’ve gone to the bathroom more than twice in an hour, you’re done for today, got it?” he gives you a menacing smile— then drops it immediately, walking back to start handoffs.

“I’m Michael Robinovitch– I’m the boss—” you mock, shoving your bag into the locker and slamming it shut with way more force than necessary. 

When you turn back towards the entrance, a yelp escapes you at the sight of the nightshift attending, standing by the doorway.

“Shit— you scared me Doctor Abbot!” you say through nervous laughter, hoping he didn’t just hear you make fun of his oldest friend. 

Instead, Jack leans against the entrance, toned arms crossing over his chest as his eyes roam your frame, studying your slow blinking and sluggish movements.

“How are you? Is your head feeling alright?” 

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion– did you look that hungover?

“Uh, fine, thanks. How’s yours…?” you ask awkwardly, 

“My head?” he repeats, a breathy laugh rumbling in his chest, “My head is fine,”

“Oh,” you blink, lips stretching into a thin-lipped smile as you nod. “That’s good,”

There's a beat of silence, before you shift on your feet, grabbing your zip up hoodie from the locker and clearing your throat.

“Well, I should probably…ya’ know…” you motion with your thumb vaguely towards the door. Then, just as you start to step past him, his hand shoots out, grabbing your arm and holding you in place.

His gaze lands on your forehead, more specifically, the redness above your eyebrow. In an instant, he’s sandwiching you against the locker, eyebrows furrowed as he runs his thumb over the scar.

“What’s that?”

Your breath catches at the sudden closeness, your back pressing flat against the cool metal of the lockers. Wincing at the reminder, you watch as his jaw clenches at the sound, giving you a slight nudge on the chin as he forces you to hold his gaze. 

“It’s nothing, Doctor Abbot—”

“That’s not nothing,” he mutters, his thumb brushing over the tender spot again, slower this time, like he’s testing how much it hurts. His brows knit tighter, jaw flexing. “Did someone do this to you?”

“What? No—”

“Are you sure?” he presses, gripping your chin as you try and avoid his gaze once again. “Hey– eyes on me. I need you to give me an answer,” 

You pause, overwhelmed by his sudden overflow of concern, and Jack looks about ready to drag you out of the ER and home, if you don’t give him an answer within the next minute.

“Yeah!” you say quickly, then correct yourself. “ I mean, yes— we all just had a little too much to drink last night, I must have just banged my head or something," 

 He watches for a second longer than necessary, and you can feel the doubt in his eyes. 

“I swear,” you say, softer this time as you try to reassure him, though you don’t know why he suddenly cares this much.

Jack lets out a controlled sigh, biting his lip to keep himself from saying something he might regret— then let’s go, stepping just far enough so you still have to squirm to get past him.

“Alright, then. Go ahead,”

You nod, a little dazed and lingering for a moment, before walking into the ER.

Jack watches as the crowd of people working swallows you up, only slumping against the lockers when you’re out of sight.

Pressing a hand to his chest, he rubs gently— the pounding in his chest rivaling the one he usually only gets when working under active fire.

“Have you talked to Abbot yet?”

Victoria Javadi walks into the break room around noon, just as you’re downing your second aspirin of the day.

The memory of him pressing you against the locker flashes in your mind. His warm touch, his concerned gaze– the way his voice grumbled so low you were sure you could somehow feel it in your chest–

Grimacing as you down the painkiller, you shake your head.

“Doctor Abbot? Why would I do that?”

Victoria pauses halfway through opening the fridge, slowly turning to look at you with a perturbed look.

“…Okay,” she says carefully.

“What?” you frown, giving her a suspicious look before you take another sip. 

“Last night?” she asks, “You don’t remember what happened?”

Your face pales, heart dropping from your chest at her words– only the worst words to ever be uttered after a night out. 

“What are you talking about?” you ask slowly, water bottle lowering from your face.

Before she can reply, Perlah peeks her head in through the doorway, glancing between the two of you with a regretful smile.

“Incoming traumas from the SWAT-team– we need all hands on board,”

The two of you nod, and she leaves just as fast as she arrived.

“You’re telling me everything after we’ve dealt with this,” you whisper as the two of you head out of the room and back into the chaos of the ER.

“Somebody get me a clear view of this thing!” You call out, eyes narrowing as you try and see through the blood currently obscuring the wound.

A nurse moves in immediately, pressing down with fresh pads that immediately turn crimson. You lean in, jaw tightening as you finally catch a glimpse beneath the mess.

“Okay– gunshot wound, lower abdomen and looking…” you wait until they’ve flipped the patient slightly, before nodding “Penetrative– the bullet is still inside,” you confirm, glancing up at the loudly beeping screens.

“Vitals dropping!” someone calls out from behind you, a sigh escaping you.

“Someone get me Robby–” you say, hands moving fast as muscle memory takes over, despite the lingering headache from earlier.

“I’ll do you one better,” a gruff voice speaks up, and before you know it, Jack Abbot is by your side, dressed in his military green SWAT-uniform.

Tearing your gaze away, you gulp, focusing on the person in front of you instead.

“Talk to me,” Jack says, already gloved up, stepping in without hesitation.

“Penetrative gunshot wound to the lower abdomen,” you reply, voice steadier than you feel. “Vitals are unstable, possible internal bleeding,” 

“Alright,” he nods, hands moving alongside yours, “We’ll assume the worst then, that he’s hemorrhaging internally– what’s your next step Doctor?"

“Uh,” you sigh, before shaking your head– realizing there’s no time to doubt yourself. “Somebody page surgery, and I want blood ready!”

“Good,” Jack nods, before his gloved hand lands on yours, readjusting your hold. “Pressure here,” he corrects softly, watching the way your eyes flicker across the area, assessing every possible outcome.

Your eyes land on the patient, gaze softening at the sight of his frightened look.

“Stay with me,” you mutter, giving him a weak smile as his vitals turn steady, “You’re going to be alright, you hear me?”

He gives you a long, acknowledging blink in return.

“OR’s ready,” Perlah informs, phone clutched to her ear. 

You nod immediately, watching as they take over where you’re standing, moving the bed out of the trauma room and towards the elevators.

After taking a moment to decompress, you finally let out a quiet sigh, striping off your gown and gloves, and wiping the sweat off your temple.

“Good work with that patient,” Jack speaks up as you turn around to face him.

Without the adrenaline and distraction of trying to save a life, you can take in the full sight of him, dressed in that damn uniform.

“Thanks,” you say, the reply coming out a beat too late, than your usual quick remarks.

You keep your eyes on your hands, roughly rubbing hand sanitizer into them.

Jack steps closer, head dipping down to try and catch your averted gaze.

“I thought you said you liked seeing me in this uniform?”

You freeze at his words, brows knitting together as you search his face, trying to figure out how in the hell he could have known about that.

“You don’t remember?” His words cause a wave déjà vu, and before you know it, Victoria's words from earlier in the breakroom echo in your head.

Did you talk to Abbot?

Jack smirks at your panicked look, then takes a step back, moving towards the door.

“Alright then,” he chuckles, shaking his head as he walks backwards towards the exit, "Come find me when you do,"

With that, he leaves you alone to think about what the hell it was just happened.

“What the fuck happened last night?”

Your voice is sharp in the otherwise, finally calm, central station.

Samira pretends not to hear you, Victoria just laughs weakly– mumbling something about needing to run something past Robby.

Mel squirms uncomfortably, and you honestly don’t have the heart to interrogate her.

Dennis keeps his gaze on the computer at all costs, not even blinking.

Like a shark smelling blood, your eyes land on him.

“Whittaker,” you press, glare narrowing into slits. 

“Dennis, you keep your mouth shut–” Trinity points her index finger at him, but you grab the back of his chair, turning it so that he’s facing you.

“Spill!”

“Don’t you dare–”

“You drunk dialed Abbot last night, and he told us that if we keep quiet about it he’d buy us breakfast for a month!”

Dennis finally bursts out, as a collective groan spreads around the area you’re all occupying.

“You had one job, fuckleberry!” Trinity grumbles, head falling into her hands.

Samira massages the bridge of her nose, not even bothering to look at him.

“Pathetic,” she mutters quietly, and Dennis physically recoils into himself.

You find Jack Abbot– thankfully in his scrubs this time– standing in the ambulance bay, squinting at his phone screen.

Clearing your throat, you watch as he glances over his shoulder, only to turn fully when he sees that it’s you.

“Doctor Abbot,” you begin, a shameful look on your face.

“Doctor,” he counters, a half smile on his face as his hands lock behind his back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Your smile tightens, and you try not to react to his smug, frankly provocative, expression.

“I’m here to talk about last night,” you exhale, trying to relax your stiff shoulders.

“Last night?” He repeats it like he’s testing the phrase on his tongue, brow lifting just slightly, “You’re going to have to be more specific.

“Doctor Abbot–” you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to look at him.

“Jack,” he reminds you and you’re about two seconds away from running in front of the next ambulance that pulls in. 

“Jack,” you hiss, taking a deep breath, “If you’re going to hold this over my head, please just get it over with so I can get some peace of mind!”

“Why would I do that?” he asks, switching the weight between his feet as he looks down on you.

“What?” You blink, looking up at him. “Because, it’s the nice thing to do–”

“No, why would I hold it over your head?” 

You physically bite your lip to stop yourself from crashing out on your boss.

“Because you’re like– angry with me or something? Isn’t that why you told my friends to not tell me what I did? Because you’re going to take me to HR or, probably even straight to Gloria herself–”

You can feel yourself spiraling anyways, words coming faster now, defensive and messy– like if you keep talking you can outrun the embarrassment doing its best to chase you down.

“And I get it,” you add quickly, “I mean, obviously I crossed a line, I was drunk, I was being unprofessional, and I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I just– I don’t even remember what I said exactly but I’m assuming it was bad enough, and really can’t lose my job over–”

Jack chuckles, and the sound stops you mid sentence.

Did he just laugh in your fucking face?

Thankfully, he speaks up before you can open your mouth and jump to any conclusions.

“I’m not going to HR,” he begins, taking a step closer, “Or Gloria,” another step, “And I didn’t stay quiet because I was planning on using it against you either,” 

He stops just an inch away from you, so close you can feel his warm breath fanning over your cheek.

Your eyes flicker across his face– from his hazel eyes, to the bridge of his nose, down to his moving lips and finally, back to his eyes again.

“I didn’t say anything, because I wanted you to know that when I finally asked you out,” his hand lands on your jaw, tilting your face up, “It wouldn’t be because of something you regret,”

You can’t find the words to respond, not after what he’s just revealed.

Your boss, the same one you've been crushing on since starting your residency six months ago, is telling you he liked you?

Jack takes your silence as rejection, and you can see the way his face crumbles as his hand drops from your face.

You panic at the defeated look on his face, spluttering as you try and come up with something, anything, to try and say to him. But your mind is blank, the shock of his sudden confession leaving you speechless.

Impulsively, in the only way you know how to convey your feeling for him right now– you press yourself into his arms, crashing your lips onto his.

Jack freezes at the action.

Then, almost instinctively, his hands grip at your waist, steadying you.

You can feel it in the way he squeezes you, like he's trying to hold back, to keep it contained. Something he can play off later, incase things somehow manage to go south– not for his own sake, but for yours.

That's not what you want.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, lips moving with frenzy as you tug on his shoulders, let your hands grasp freely at the arms you've spent more time than you'd like to admit daydreaming about.

Jack slowly finds his restraint slipping, unable to resist with you, finally in his arms, in a way he'd thought he'd only get in his sleep. His hands glide along the expanse of your curves, grasping at whatever you’re willing to give him while you’re pressed against him.

His greed sickens him.

The world fades away around you, and all his senses are tuned into your every touch and sound, desperately wanting– no– craving more. 

Eventually though, the need for air burns at your lungs, and only when it becomes unbearable, do you pull away– Jack still holding you close enough to press his forehead against yours, heavy breaths mingling.

Your mind wanders as you collect yourself, remembering why you had hunted him down in the first place. 

Watching the way his eyes slowly flicker open, his disoriented gaze meeting yours, a soft smile twitching on the edge of your mouth. Leaning in again, you paus, just a breath away from his own waiting lips.

“...Did you really try to bribe my friends?”

☆END NOTE: Is it really one of my fics if it doesn't end on a fuckass question? I am also extremely sleep deprived, so excuse any typos, I'll come back and edit in a few<33

He pulls out so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash, scrambles off the bed, trips over his own boots, falls face first into the floor. "Shite!"

He gets up and shakes you. "Bonnie! BONNIE! Please! I'm sorry! I dindnae mean to go that hard!"

You remain unconscious, having the most peaceful little nap of your life.

Soap's spiraling now. "Oh god. Oh Christ. Oh fuck. Do I call an ambulance. Do I tell them my dick stopped her heart??"

He tries to check your pulse but his hands are shaking so bad he can't find it.

"No pulse! She's got no pulse!"

He looks down at himself. His pants are inside out around his ankles. He's got a hickey on his neck. There's a condom wrapper stuck to his ass check. "This is how they'll find me. This is how I go down in history. 'Sergeant MacTavish killed his girlfriend with his knob, court martialed, dishonorable discharged-"

He doesn't even pull his pants up properly- zipper in the back, belt loops twist- doesn't even bother with a shirt, and goes sprinting into the hallway.

Ghost, Price, and Gaz were having a nice quiet evening when they hear distant screaming getting closer. "- DEAD! She's DEAD! I've murdered her! Call the police! Call a priest! Call ma mum to tell her I'm sorry my dick's a weapon of mass destruction-!"

The three of them look at each other.

The door explodes open. Soap stands there shirtless, pants on backwards, one sock on, hair looking like he stuck a fork in a toaster, eyes absolutely feral with panic.

"LADS!" he screams. "Code Red! Defcon One! All hands on deck!"

Price slowly puts down his crossword. "...Johnny?"

"She's dead!"

Ghost's hand goes to his sidearm. "Who's dead?"

"Ma girlfriend!"

"What?!" All three of them are on their feet now.

"She just- we were having sex- "Soap's voice cracks. "Really good sex- and she made this wee noise- like a really good wee noise- and then she just died!"

Gaz's eyes are huge. "She what!?"

"Just went limp! Lights out! Flatlined!"

"Did you check for a pulse?!" Price barks.

"Aye! Nothing! Well- maybe... I couldnae tell because ma hands were shakin'-"

Ghost is already moving. "Where is she?"

"Ma room, hurry!"

They all sprint down the hallway, Soap leading the way while giving a play by play nobody asked for. "She was fine! Everything was great! Best sex of ma life, actually, and then BAM! Lights out! What if I gave her a heart attack! What if ma technique was too much! WHAT IF I'M TOO GOOD IN BED?!"

"Soap, I swear to God-" Ghost growls.

They burst into the room to find you still passed out in the bed, but breathing steadily. Still very much alive.

Price immediately goes into medic mode, checking your pulse. "She's fine. Pulse is steady. Breathing normal."

"Fine!?" Soap shrieks. "She's not dead!?"

Ghost spots something on his nightstand. "... MacTavish. When's the last time she took these?" He holds up a bottle of your iron supplements.

Soap blinks. His brain is still in panic mode. "... what?"

"Her. Iron. Supplements."

"I... she... what?"

Gaz walks over and takes the bottle and checks it. "Mate. This prescription was filled a month ago. It's still full."

There's a long pause.

"...Oh." Soap says weakly.

"Oh?!" Price rounds on him. "Oh!? You brought us here- made us think there was an actual emergency- because your girlfriend forgot to take her iron pills?!"

"I didnae know!" Soap wails. "I thought my dick killed her!"

Gaz loses it. He just starts howling with laughter, doubled over, clutching his stomach.

Ghost pinches the bridge of his nose. "You thought your penis was lethal."

"It was a reasonable assumption!"

"It really wasn't!" Price roars.

"She went limp! What was I supposed tae think!?"

"That maybe she fainted??"

"I've never made anyone faint before!"

Gaz is crying with laugher now, literally on the floor. "Oh my god- he thought- he really thought-"

Ghost just stares at Soap with the most judgement look in history. "You ran through the barracks screaming about murdering someone with your cock."

"...aye."

"You're wearing your pants backwards."

Soap looks down. "Aw, fuck."

Right at that moment, you start to stir. Your eyes flutter open to find four fully grown SAS operators hovering over your bed like the world's worst boy band.

"... why are there four of you," you mumble groggily. "Did I die? Is this hell?"

"BONNIE!" Soap shoves past the others and grabs your face. "YER ALIVE!"

"Why... wouldn't I be alive?"

"You passed out!"

"Oh." You blink slowly, brain still rebooting. "Oh shit. I forgot my iron pills again."

"Again!?"

Price backs away from the bed. "Right. She's fine. Soap, get her some orange juice and make sure she takes her meds. And for the love of god, keep your bedroom activities to yourself in the future."

"But I thought- "

"We know what you thought," Ghost says dryly. "We all know. The entire base knows. MacTavish you're an idiot."

"But-"

"An idiot."

"I was just-"

"Idiot."

Price heads for the door. "I'm leaving before this gets worse."

Anyway, it's safe to say that nobody ever lets Soap forget this. Ghost casually brings up registering his penis with the Geneva convention. Gaz gets the both of you a card that says "RIP your bed frame, killed by the Weapon of Ass Destruction. Gone but not forgotten." There's a sheet taped up in the common room titled "Soap's Dick: Threat Level Assessment." that nobody ever admits to putting up but Captain Price has signed his name under 'mediocre'. You get an official documentation from Laswell forbidding you from dying during sex because the paperwork is horrendous and MacTavish can't handle it.

Six months later at the annual base meeting, there's an official slide in safety presentation reminding everyone to ensure partners with medical conditions take their prescribed medications to prevent unnecessary panic and disruption of base operations.

Soap puts in his transfer request that day.