brain's a square of grass

challenge (fluff, 0.9k) tonight is the night dr. abbot learns something new about you. if you don't chicken out.

ersatz (angst, 1.7k) jack thinks he's moved on from his late wife. he hasn't. you feel it. (can be read as part 2 to compromised objectivity following a time jump.)

don't worry about it (angst-ish, fluff, 2k) why does samira get to help jack and not you? :(

compromised objectivity (angst, 2k) jack feels guilty for moving on from his late wife and it takes a GSW for him to realise he doesn't want to lose you too.

favorite (smut, 1k) it's a slow shift, so dr. abbot figures he can take a quick break with you.

one of those days (fluff, 0.6k) reader sucks at asking for stuff and jack abbot is not helping.

blurbs:

dawn is is just shy of breaking through the phalanx of steel and glass skyscrapers when you step out onto the roof, jack only a silhouette against the cold artificial lights of early morning pittsburgh. hands in pockets, the embodiment of nonchalance staring into the abyss.

he doesn't react when the heavy door slams shut behind you, probably expecting robby.

"hey," you say when you reach the railing.

it's only then that he looks at you.

"robby is running late," you explain, "dana asked me to come get you for the handover." a lie. all three of you know it. yet you still play the game.

jack gives a little nod and turns his attention back towards the city below.

"i'll be there in five," he says, his voice barely carrying above a gust of wind.

you know he's telling you to leave, but you also know why he's standing on the wrong side of the railing.

you'd been sent up here once before. no one had thought to warn you then about what you were walking into and you don't want to fumble it a second time.

you move behind jack and snake your hands through the gaps between his arms and body. the railing is separating you, but you lean your head against his back and hug him gently.

"what're you doing?" he asks listlessly, making a feeble attempt at turning his head.

"i clearly suck at motivational speeches," you recall your last rooftop meeting, "so... this is the best you get."

jack processes this for a moment before facing forward again and draws in a deep breath in exasperation. you brace yourself for a break out attempt.

it never comes. he remains still, ribcage moving evenly below your cheek. you try to peek up. his head is tipped back a smidgen, the way he does when he shuts his eyes. perhaps the inhale was not done in exasperation after all.

"i can listen," you offer once the hug has gone on long enough for you to wonder if he needs an out.

"i'm good," jack all but whispers.

no hesitation.

you dare to tighten the hug a little.

jack is warm, you notice now. a beacon in the crisp april air. you feel him pull one hand out of the pocket, the bare skin of his arm brushing yours in the moment.

you never learn what he was intending to do.

the stairwell door falls shut with a bang, making you jump in your skin and away from jack.

robby finally made it.

"motivational speaker has arrived," you joke and scurry away.

you nod at robby as you pass him, wondering if what remained of the night was enough to conceal the hug from his eyes.

Tonight is the night Dr. Abbot learns something new about you. If you don't chicken out.

jack abbot x reader, fluff, can be read as platonic or romantic i think, reader is nervous but not for romantic reasons, gn!reader, medstudent!reader, reader is referred to as 'kid', 0.9k words

inspired by this blurb by my beloved @theeoracle-written (in turn inspired by my ask). see glossary at the bottom for specialised terms.

Dr. Abbot probably perceives you as little more than white noise, one of the many students that pass through his ED year after year, leaving no lasting impression, a there and gone ping on his radar.

You are intent on changing that. Not just because Jack Abbot is witty, kind and all around the coolest attending you've ever worked with, but because the two of you have something in common. Something he doesn't know about yet.

Something you're dying to share with him.

But you missed the opportunity when you first started at PTMC six weeks ago. And randomly mentioning it now would be… awkward.

But tonight you have a plan.

Tonight you're squeezed into a bar booth in between Drs. Toomarian and Whitacker, watching Dr. Abbot, waiting for a lull in the conversation, so you can –

"You okay, kid?" Dr. McKay asks you from one spot over, across Dr. Whitacker's back.

Dr. Whitacker is hunched over his drink, pushing the remaining ice cubes around with his straw. Hearing the question, he turns to check on you, too.

"I'm… fine?" you state as if it were a question, wondering what could've given Dr. McKay the the impression that you weren't.

"You've been kind of… fidgety all night," she explains.

"Oh?" You hadn't noticed. Your mind was… decidedly elsewhere.

She nods sympathetically, then leans closer over Dr. Whitacker's back. "Did Dr. Abbot say something to you?" she whispers.

You instinctively look across the table. Dr. Abbot is still sitting in a relaxed, leaned back position, one hand loosely hanging on to a glass that is almost empty. Listening to Dr. Robby. Nodding at something with a gentle smile.

"No..?" You answer Dr. McKay.

"No?" Dr. McKay whispers again. "Because you've been staring at him ever since he sat down."

You jerk away from her. From Dr. Whitacker's back, who is still watching you, too.

"I– I didn't…" You don't know how to explain it away without lying.

"Because if there is any problem," Dr. McKay begins, but you immediately shake your head.

"No, ma'am, no problem."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Ma'am?"

Crap. You didn't mean to say that.

"I know I'm on the older side among the residents, but 'ma'am'?"

"Sorry," you apologise despite Dr. McKay clearly smiling. "Force of–"

You don't get to finish the sentence because everyone's attention turns to the two chairs screeching on polished floor. Dr. Abbot and Dr. Robby are getting up. Leaving.

No no no, it's too early, why would they be leaving already, you wonder. You haven't had the chance to do your thing yet!

"Leaving so early?" Dr. Santos asks the question you don't manage to.

"Well, Dr. Santos," Dr. Robby replies, "the two boomers, as you called us this morning - incorrectly, I might add - need to be home by 9 for their beauty sleep." He shoulders his backpack. "And I suggest those you who are on morning shift tomorrow," he makes a deliberate pause to look each of them in the eye, "don't stay out much longer either." He pats Dr. Abbot on the shoulder, leading him away.

Dr. Abbot isn't even on morning shift, you think with furrowed brows, why does he have to leave?

Then you see it. Dr. Robby says something to Dr. Abbot, heads toward the restroom instead of the exit and leaves Dr. Abbot to wait alone by the bar counter. This is it. Best chance you got all night. The only one left.

Adrenaline spikes and you rush Dr. Toomarian to make way for you so you can climb out of the booth.

You dodge two other patrons carrying more drinks at once than they should, then slow down on your final approach. Straighten your clothes. Wipe your hands on your pants.

"Dr. Abbot?"

He looks up from his phone. "Present and accounted for," he says with mild curiosity.

You stand next to him by the counter. "I wanted, uhm, I hope this isn't inappropriate…" Your gaze is fixed on the floor and you don't catch him raise an eyebrow at the word 'inappropriate'.

Your hand slides into your pocket, touches cool metal.

You finally look up. Then, without breaking eye contact, you set it onto the counter. Swallow nervously.

"Coin check."

Dr. Abbot stares at you for a moment, the words not computing. Then he looks over at the counter. Takes in the oversized blue and gold coin. 'Air Force JROTC'.

He blinks, then looks back at you. Both eyebrows raised in astonishment. "You're kidding."

You're not sure whether he can't believe the audacity of challenging him with a high school coin or just surprised you were in the program.

"N-no..?" You say cautiously.

"Jack." Dr. Robby comes up behind you. "Ready to go?" He gives you a strange look that makes you lower your gaze to the floor again.

"Change of plan, Mike," Dr. Abbot replies, sounding like he can't believe it himself. "Gotta buy the kid a drink first."

Your eyes snap up to him, a grin already forming.

"Are you serious?" Dr. Robby asks.

"Dead," Dr. Abbot tells him.

Then he turns to you. "Pick your your poison, cadet."

Notes: JROTC (jay-rot-see): Junior Reserve Officers' Training Corps, US military classes/training offered at high schools Challenge coin: medallions issued by US military institutions to signify membership or achievements Coin check: a challenge coin owner presents their coin to group of other coin owners, prompting them to do the same. If someone fails to present their coin, they have to buy a round of drinks. If everyone is able to present theirs, the challenger loses and has to buy drinks.

Jack thinks he's moved on from his late wife. He hasn't. You feel it.

Jack Abbot x reader, angst, depression, suicidal ideation, probably f!reader, doctor!reader, coworker!reader, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader's clothes size is smaller than Jack's, reader wears dresses, reader has hair that can have loose strands, 1.7k words

Can be read as stand-alone or a part 2 to Compromised Objectivity, following a time jump. Jack is barely present in person here though, sorryyy >.< Inspired by this Robby fic and this Frank fic by the brilliant @annsfics, go read all of her stuff!! Also by this (my) ask and the movies Melancholia and Candy.

Pittsburgh PD called and Jack was out the door within minutes. "Stay. Eat up," he'd said with a fleeting kiss to your temple.

That's what you've been trying to do for the past half hour. But the pasta has gone cold. It tasted like ash anyway. You're still sitting at Jack's dining table. In Jack's house. Staring at Jack's plate covered in tomato sauce like a crime scene.

But it's not just Jack's house - he'd picked it with his late wife.

It's not just Jack's dining table - he doesn't give a shit about interior design.

You're sure his wife was the one who picked the plates, too.

He didn't moonlight for SWAT when he was with her either, never abandoned her in the middle of a date to re-live his glory days as combat medic.

You finally drop the fork and bring your hands to your eyes, press your palms against them as if pressure could block the tear ducts. A tear slips through anyway. Then another. You wipe them away hastily. How pathetic would it be to be jealous of a dead woman? Jack gave up his wedding ring for you. He chose you. You know that.

Still.

You feel like a shadow in his house. The walls are full of pictures of his happy days with her. A wedding photo front and centre on the fireplace mantel. Flanked by photos of his family and hers. You can see it from here. All the happy faces. Jack smiling a genuine smile. Not one laced with a perpetual low hum of melancholy like every smile you've seen on his face since you first walked into that ED.

You get up with a screech of the chair against the floor and walk upstairs, taking in the pictures lining the wall as you take one slow step after the other.

Jack and his wife at the lake house he took you to twice.

Jack and his wife celebrating their anniversary at their favourite restaurant. He took you there, too. Not the same table, though.

Jack and his wife with Robby and a woman you don't recognise at Mardis Gras. He hasn't taken you there. Yet.

Jack and his wife in a side-hug on the couch downstairs. A selfie from an age before selfie was a word.

By the time you reach the second floor your legs feel heavy, like you're fighting against glue every time you lift your foot.

Inside the bed room - Jack's bedroom, his wife's bedroom, a voice in your head corrects - you open the double-door closet. Neatly separated into his half and hers. You run a hand along the sleeve of one of Jack's hoodies. Soft. Worn in. If you pulled it out you'd see the logo of his alma mater emblazoned across the front. There is another one of these on the other side of the closet, smaller size, peeking out behind pretty dresses.

You reach for the violently red one. She was a beauty. Confident, outgoing, from what you've gathered from the snippets of her life you were allowed to see. She didn't mind if her dress attracted attention. You've never worn red in your life. And yet Jack gifted you one. Not quite as glaringly red as this one. One with floral designs.

You pull the dress out of the closet and lay it onto the bed - Jack's bed, his wife's bed. You wonder if this used to be the side she slept on, if you're taking her spot every time you sleep over. Or if Jack gave up his side for you so hers would remain untouched by another woman.

You shed your own dress and leave it crumpled on the floor. Step on it when you reach for the red one. It doesn't sit right. Not quite your size. Not quite your figure. You leave it on still.

You walk to the dresser. Open up your drawer. Close it again. Open up Jack's drawer. Stuffed full because he used to have two and gave up one for you. His wife's two drawers remain preserved like part of a living history museum. The top one houses a small wooden box. Floral design. You know what's inside. You open it anyway. Three rings. The larger dark one you've seen on Jack's hand for years, and a set of golden wedding rings. Fine lines, a single gemstone on the wedding band. Not a ruby, something that started with S, you believe. Ruby is the pendant hanging around your neck right now. Birthday present. Your fingers hover over the golden set. Don't do it. Too far. Don't do it. You pull back and shut the box again. You let your fingers glide over the relief of wooden petals, wondering what object was inside the box before Jack put the wedding rings in instead. What Jack did with it. Which museum exhibit it became a part of.

You go to sit at the vanity, frozen in time like everything else in this house. You recognise the purple perfume flacon. One of the first gifts you got from Jack. You didn't know then where he drew inspiration from for it. You add another spritz to the scent you already walked in through the door with. Not yours. But becoming yours, you suppose. Or you're becoming its. Its new canvas. Ersatz human flesh to keep the scent alive.

You carelessly drop the bottle in the middle of the vanity surface, the cap sitting to the side, not doing its job, allowing the molecules to escape from the glass and contaminate the air around it.

You finally glance up to the mirror. She stares back at you. Somebody that you used to know, you think. Is that from a song? You can't quite remember. Your hair is different now from what you're used to. You let it grow because Jack seemed to like it. The way he'd fondly smile at you when he'd get the opportunity to brush a loose strand behind your ear. You never got it to be as sleek and shiny as his wife's. You thought about dying it the same colour as hers once and dismissed the idea. You wish you had a pack of box dye now.

You move to the bathroom. There isn't as much stuff here that is obviously hers. But there are tiny embroidered flowers in the corners of the towels. Wavy lines that could be entwined plant stalks on the mat below your feet. You open the cabinet and reach for the pack of fresh razor blades you've been eyeing for weeks now. When your fingers touch the cardboard you freeze. What are you doing? This is Jack Abbot's house - and his wife's, the voice adds.

You close the cabinet out of habit and move back downstairs. You've been watching too many movies. Haven't been thinking clearly. Razor blades and bathtubs, what a cliché. You're a doctor. Jack's a doctor. His office is stocked with enough medical supplies to outlast an apocalypse. A 10-blade will be more appropriate.

You don't reach the office. You hear keys in the door and stop dead in your tracks. Why is he back already? You hear the blood flow in your ears, feel its rapid pulse. You should run upstairs, take off the dress, put everything back the way it was. But your legs won't move. Somewhere, in the back of your head, you don't want them to. Let him see, you think. Let him see what he's doing to you and correct course. Let him see and say how sorry he is and hold you until your tears run dry.

Jack is barely through the door when he freezes. Your breaths are short and fast and shallow now. He swings the door shut behind him with one hand, never looking away from you.

"What the hell is this?" he asks. Cold. Angry. Not loud.

There will be no holding, you realise, no apology.

"Take it off," he says with a calm that is chilling rather than soothing.

You give up.

Your breathing steadies.

Thoughts clear in a way they haven't felt in weeks. Months, maybe.

You take off the dress that isn't yours right where you stand. In the living room that isn't yours. In front of the man that isn't yours.

"Thought this was what you wanted," you tell him defiantly and abandon the red fabric at your feet just like you did with your own dress.

Jack watches you walk up the stairs, then walks over to carefully pick up the dress.

The razor blades are still there, the voice reminds you as you bend down to pick up your own dress, the bathroom door you left open inviting you in with a warm light. The blades are still there. Lock the bathroom door. He will need time to break it down. Not enough to end it, probably, but enough to scare him.

If he even suspects anything.

If he even comes upstairs to check on you.

You hold the dress in your hand and sit down onto the edge of the bed, deflated. Would it even hurt him if you were gone? Wouldn't he just find someone else to fill the mould his wife left behind? Your eyes drift to the dresser. You had assumed Jack took his ring off to show you he was ready to move on. Now that you see the pattern you realise it was because he didn't want to taint its sanctity while being with someone who wasn't her.

Jack is sitting on one end of the couch when you come downstairs, the red dress neatly draped over the backrest next to him. If you wanted to sit you'd have to leave the space free - for her.

When Jack sees you steer towards the exit he calls out. "We need to talk about this." Not soft. Not apologetic. Accusatory.

"Talk about it with your therapist," you say with an equal amount of reproach and walk out.

Images: Edgar Degas - L'Absinthe, The Pitt

anyways absolutely amazing work !!!!!

waaah! >.< thank you!!! 💙💙💙

screaming crying throwing up fr 😭😭💗

eeek! my first ask ever! and omg what an ask! >.< thank you so much!!! 💙💙💙

why does samira get to help jack and not you? :(

jack abbot x reader, gn!reader, resident!reader, angst-ish, fluff (after the break room pic), mutual feelings, no description of reader, no y/n, author has no medical knowledge, 2k words

ah yes, another take on *that* scene, a rite of passage for abbot writers. :3

"did you do this intubation?"

"under active fire, yeah."

your eyes automatically snap to jack, catching him glancing over his shoulder.

"are you serious?" santos asks.

you turn your attention back to the patient, but make a mental note to check on jack later.

jack, however, stays to chat with robby and the new day shift attending once his SWAT colleague is stabilised, and you busy yourself with charting until he comes out of trauma 1.

"dr. abbot?" you catch up to him as he makes his way to the lockers, "were you hit, too?" you scan his shoulder for blood. "if you need help, I can..." you offer without finishing the sentence.

jack gives you a look you can't quite decipher. "it's nothing," he says after a beat, "bullet grazed my vest. don't worry about it."

you nod and let him walk away.

yet, only a few minutes later, when you move between patients, you see samira stand behind a shirtless jack, presumably taking care of the injury you were told not to worry about.

jack's eyes meet yours across the central hub and, like an idiot, you look away as if you were the one caught in a lie.

why would he have samira do it when you've already offered, you wonder. why lie and say he doesn't need help instead of telling you he'd rather someone else do it? although the latter would've hurt to hear, too, you admit.

'don't worry about it' resounds in your head.

your double shift feels even longer than usual. going offline was frustrating in itself. subsequently having to digitise all documents meant you got to take your half-time nap at the worst possible point in your circadian and failed to fall asleep at all. none of which is helping the low mood you've been in since jack snubbed you.

you're counting down the minutes until handover as you're finishing up on the last few charts for the day, when jack takes the chair next to you.

now what? you inadvertently tense up.

jack rests his arms on the desk and leans in closer to you to keep his voice low. "care to give me a hand changing my dressing?"

you're pretty sure jack is just throwing you a bone because he noticed your weird reaction to seeing him with samira. a grazed vest shouldn't require a new dressing so soon. unless that was a lie, too.

you don't want the bone. you don't need his pity.

"uh, dr. mohan is already in," you try to sound casual.

"i saw. i'm asking you," jack says with an intensity that threatens to make you flustered.

"what happened to continuity of care?" you fake lightheartedness, "really should have her do it." you turn back to your screen, putting an end to the conversation.

jack doesn't move a little too long for your liking, so you look back at him with what you hope is an oblivious 'anything else?' look on your face.

"...okay," jack then finally relents and pushes himself off the desk.

you immediately feel like shit. jack goes out of his way to make you feel better and what do you do? passive aggressively blow him off. not to mention the audacity to think you were somehow more deserving of helping him than samira, somehow special, like you're entitled to jack's... what? attention? favouritism? what were you even thinking asking him whether he was hit in the first place? it's none of your business. jack is none of your business.

just finish the charting, you tell yourself. make it through handover. get some sleep. act like all is good when you come back tomorrow and hope jack forgot about it by then.

a day and a half later, you're hanging back in central 10, watching nazely go through the initial evaluation of a 21 year old with alcohol poisoning.

you're a little more rested now and significantly less cranky, and jack acting like his usual self has you hoping that he's not holding the dressing change thing against you. if you're extremely lucky he didn't even think anything of it.

what you did realise after catching up on sleep though, is that you've missed out on your one chance of getting to see him shirtless up close. touch him, even. in a medically necessary and not at all inappropriate way. you wonder if samira was wearing gloves. wonder what it might feel like to let your fingers roam over his skin. what it might taste like if you kissed his shoulder better.

next to you, the door swings open and pulls you back into reality.

speak of the devil. "got a sec?" jack beckons for you to come out.

nazely seems to have the drunk man and his marginally less drunk brother handled, so you leave her to it.

outside the patient room, jack crosses his arms and leans a shoulder onto the wall, drawing you into a secretive huddle.

"i didn't ask her for help," he says and you instinctively look back toward the door you just walked through. "nazely?" you ask confused.

"mohan," jack clarifies. "my shoulder."

a wave of mortification crashes over you and you struggle not to show any reaction.

"she came in looking for a patient," jack continues, "saw i couldn't reach, offered her help."

time for damage control.

"okay...?" you say, hoping this one word sufficiently conveys 'i don't know why you're telling me, i wasn't being weird about this in the slightest.'

jack stares at you in silence until you get uncomfortable and break the eye contact.

"you get dibs on my next workplace injury," he offers.

you scoff. "i'm good, thanks." you need to get out of this conversation. "was there anything else?" you ask.

"no," he admits, "you're free to go."

you return to the alcohol poisoning, resisting the urge to bang your head against the door as you close it.

"i need you," jack taps on your shoulder as he walks past you while you're charting outside of central 8. you abandon the chart and hurry after him, hoping for a case more interesting than the kidney stone you were wrapping up.

except, instead of taking you to a patient, jack leads you to the staff break room. you watch him with curiosity as the door swings shut behind you and jack goes for the first aid locker.

"time to shine," he says and shows you his hand, sporting a barely there cut.

you don't catch on fast enough and jack has to prompt you again. "come on," he tells you as he carries the supplies to the table.

"wait, is this about the dibs thing?" you say in disbelief, still unmoving.

'you get dibs on my next workplace injury,' he told you six weeks ago.

"you were serious about that?"

"oh absolutely. just didn't think it'd take that long." he sits down by the table and nods for you to take a seat as well. "was on the verge of riling up my patients to trigger a code hula hoop."

you glance over at the door and watch the bustle of the ED on the other side of the glass pane. how would you explain this to anyone who happened to look inside, or even worse, came in? tell them you really needed to brush up on minor cuts?

"considered shooting myself in the foot," jack continues while you make up your mind, "but what if i got the wrong one, you know?"

that finally earns him an exasperated look. best get it over with, you figure. and quickly.

thankfully, jack is seated with his back to the door. you position your chair opposite him, counting on the angle to protect you from view of the walkers-by.

jack holds out his hand to you, a far too content smile on his face.

you scoot closer, having to slot one of your knees between his to reach his hand comfortably at the unnatural angle required to examine the cut on his fifth metacarpal.

"what happened?" you ask as you turn his hand this way and that, assessing the small cut.

jack doesn't reply and when you look up at him, his brows are furrowed and his gaze fixed on his hand in yours.

does he not trust you to treat a tiny nick? you look back down, wondering if there is something he sees that you don't.

"oh shit," you drop his hand, "i forgot the gloves!" you're immediately on the move, but jack's grabs your hand again, holds you in place.

"it's fine," he says, pulling you back down into your seat.

"it's not a problem, i can get some," you say.

"it's fine," he insists. "sit."

you oblige.

jack lets go of your hand so you can ready the antiseptic. the small spray bottle is unopened, the cap still sealed in plastic.

"what happened?" you ask again.

this time, the answer comes promptly. "thrashing patient met unsteady intern hands," jack says calmly.

"scalpel?" your eyes snap up to his.

"hadn't made the cut yet."

you nod. sterile blade, good.

"clean it?"

"yes."

why is jack suddenly so quiet, you wonder as you struggle with the plastic, where did all the wisecracking go?

"feel like you could've handled this one yourself," you try.

"hm."

you manage to unwrap the plastic and are about to remove to cap when you feel jack's hand on your knee.

you turn to him, but he just gives you a faint smile.

oh. your gaze drops to your lap. all he did was position his hand for your convenience. fifth metacarpal up, the other fingers holding onto you for stability. makes sense.

still, you feel the points of contact burn through the thin fabric of you scrubs. his hand lies heavy in a comforting way, its warmth seeps into your skin.

...as does the warmth of his leg. which you have practically squeezed in between your thighs.

all your blood seems to rush up your neck at once. when did this happen? have the two of you been sitting like this from the start? wouldn't you have noticed? did jack notice?

"sting," you warn jack out of habit before you spray the antiseptic onto the wound.

"ouch," he jokes, but you're too flustered to react or let him see your face.

you dress the wound more thoroughly than strictly necessary, but you figure a doctor's hands are at heightened risk of infection. "intern's gonna think he cut down to the bone," jack comments.

"you don't like it, you do it yourself."

"this how you talk to your patients? do we need to work on your bedside manner?"

you feel his eyes on you. you know the damn smile is stll there, too.

you pack the supplies back up and stand to return them to the first aid ocker.

"no care instructions?" jack complains. "how are you keeping your scores up?"

you sigh in exasperation, but before you can fire back john walks into the break room.

"what happened to you?" he immediately asks upon seeing jack's hand.

you don't stay to hear the story.

you only make it a few steps out before jack catches up to you.

"thank you," he says softly with a hand on your back and overtakes you.

"remember that time i came in with the SWAT guys? with a GSW to my shoulder?" jack asks on a random friday two years later, sitting in a bathtub between your legs.

you stop running your fingers over his back. in between the blotches of foam covering his skin, you can still see the tiny scar the incident left behind.

"yes...?" you ask cautiously.

"and you were sulking because i didn't let you treat it?"

"i– was not sulking!" you insist.

"right. must have imagined that." you can hear the grin in his voice.

"i did want to, you know" he says sincerely and turns his head even though he still can't see your face. "wanted it too much."

you're grateful you're sitting behind him and he can't see you tearing up over such a trivial thing.

you swipe the foam off his shoulder and kiss it better like you wanted to two years ago.

it tastes of soap.

"me?" you walk over to the nurses' station, where robby and jack are hunched over the counter, already discussing handover.

"who sends me flowers?"

"no card," dana says.

you check anyway.

"any idea who your secret admirer might be?" dana asks.

"probably just a patient saying thanks," you shrug. there is, in fact, no card. "think i can give them to someone upstairs? some elderly patient whose family doesn't visit? they'd probably like flowers, right?"

"sure, but don't you wanna keep them?" dana sounds disappointed.

"to watch them wilt and die? see enough death as is." you pick up the bouquet. "be right back," you tell her and walk off.

once you're out of earshot, robby pats jack on the shoulder, "i'm sorry, man."

"i don't know what you're talking about," jack stops following you with his eyes and looks back onto the tablet in front of him.

robby doesn't even acknowledge the obvious lie. "could try again with potted flowers next valentine's."

"any suggestions where i don't have to wait a year?"

"birthday?"

jack makes a one-sided tsk. "december."

robby ponders for a moment.

"halloween?"

jack stands up straight and crosses his arms.

"flowers for halloween?" he asks.

robby follows suit and stands, "i was thinking potted pumpkin. one of those miniature ones," he forms a little ball with his hands, "could be cute."

they stand frozen in place for a moment, staring at each other, jack's face scrunched up as he's trying to discern whether this is a real option or if he is insane for even considering it.

"no," he decides at last, "too far out."

"then i don't know how to help you, man" robby says and leans back onto the counter.

dana rolls her eyes, "jesus, mary and joseph, are we back in junior high? own up to the flowers and ask for a date, it's not that difficult!"

robby agrees, "she's not wrong."

jack didn't even realise dana was still listening in. he sighs. "how about we deal with the handover for now and save my dating life for later?"

"you're dating again?" john's voice cuts in from behind.

jack throws his hands up. grabbing the tablet off the counter, he heads off to find langdon or mohan, might as well talk to them about handover, he figures.

"he's dating again?" john repeats and takes a sip of his coffee.

"it's uh... complicated," robby says.

jack feels guilty for moving on from his late wife and it takes a GSW for him to realise he doesn't want to lose you too.

jack abbot x reader, angst, gn!reader, resident!reader, no description of reader, mutual feelings, gunshot wound, minor character death mentioned, suicidal ideation (jack), 2k words

jack would never miss an anniversary. his wife's birthday, their first date, their wedding day. the date of her passing. those numerals are seared into his memory.

this one isn't an anniversary per se, but it is an annual tradition nevertheless and it slipped his mind. ever since jack and his then-girlfriend accidentally walked into the first iteration of the pittsburgh little italy days while out on a date, they'd made it a habit to attend every year. and even after her passing, jack upheld the tradition.

this year however he's caught up at work and his TEMS side gig and his one day off for the duration of the festival he spends at the bar with his coworkers.

because you're there.

it's only a few days later that he overhears a patient mentioning the festival and realises he missed it.

it scares him. it's only been two and a half years and already he's starting to forget his wife? because he got distracted by a little crush? he won't let it happen again.

so jack distances himself from you. it's subtle and most people don't notice anything different. he guides you as your attending, stays professional where professionalism is required, jokes when the situation allows for it. same as he does with everyone else.

but that's just it. with you it used to be... more. a little too much warmth, a pat on the shoulder for a job well done that lingered a little too long, flirty remarks that seemed a little too real. the remarks are never flirty anymore. and he avoids going out for drinks now if he knows you're coming.

you notice. of course you do. you used to savour every trivial exchange, every accidental touch. looking forward to jack's quips kept you motivated to come into work when you felt like you could sleep for days.

you can't think of anything you've done wrong and you sure as hell can't ask him why he's stopped his subtle displays of favouritism. you start to doubt there ever was any to begin with. maybe it was all in your head and you were subconsciously forcing these interactions. maybe jack just finally caught on to your inappropriate feelings for him.

so you step away. you don't jump at the opportunity to work on a case with him anymore. report to shen more often. just enough to give him space. not enough to make him notice. you make a conscious effort to smile. trinity even comments that you seem more upbeat lately. in reality getting out of bed is becoming a chore. you could probably use a distraction, but when mateo asks if you're joining for drinks, you decline, because you'd heard jack say he'd think about it. with time, the forced smile begins to fade.

robby and dana notice that something is up with jack. that he seems to be getting worse again after all the progress he'd made in therapy. eventually robby finds him on the roof top again. that's when he finally gets jack to confess he missed the little italy festival. robby tries telling him that maybe this is not a bad thing, that maybe it means jack is moving on. but moving on is not what jack wants.

it's not like jack sought it out. he was just trying to help his buddy hiro. yes, he hadn't cared all that much for his own life in the situation. but it's only natural for a field medic to risk their life to save another. he's done it before. he knows the bullet didn't hit his carotid, otherwise he wouldn't still be here, on a gurney, on the way to PTMC. hiro, on the other hand, is in a body bag.

the first face jack sees once the ambulance doors swing open is robby, who clearly didn't expect his GSW patient to be jack, judging by the flurry of curse words and admonishments.

the second face is yours. wide-eyed and scared. terrified, even. jack wishes he had been more careful after all, if that had kept you from looking like that. you two aren't even that close, so why are you making that face? have you never had to treat someone you were close with before?

he loses sight of you as he's being rolled in, he thinks he hears robby yell at you. he'll need to tell him to tone it down with his outbursts at staff once he's out of surgery.

huh.

he does want to make it out of surgery, doesn't he? not a sentiment one should be surprised by.

inside trauma 1 everyone huddles around him, it all becomes a blur of noise and white and red. robby has switched from being pissed to reassuring jack. "we got you, brother," jack faintly hears among the other voices. he tries to make out the faces above him. it's hard to look around with three sets of hands working on your neck. jesse, santos, mckay, donnie. even langdon appears to be back. half the ED is working on him, but where did you go? jack feels like he hasn't seen you in days. he must have. he knows you were scheduled together. you just never interacted anymore.

"BP dropping!" someone calls out to his left.

jack should count himself lucky. he survived two gunshot wounds – he hadn't even registered the one to his shoulder – and figured out he wasn't ready to go. to a large part because he wanted to see you again.

but here he was, second day in recovery, and he hadn't seen you since the ambulance bay. everyone jack considered to be on friendly terms with had come to visit, some in a larger group when he first woke up from surgery, others dropped by throughout the day for more personal visits. you were never one of them.

robby is a frequent visitor, of course. even now he's leaning back in a chair by jack's bed, telling a story about someone getting impaled by the american flag that jack only listens to halfheartedly.

"listen," robby leans forward and jack's absentminded fidgeting with his wedding ring ceases. "i gotta ask you..."

jack raises an eyebrow, giving robby his full attention.

robby still hesitates.

"as the chief attending... i have to..." he rubs his face in frustration.

"wow, this gotta be serious," jack comments on his friends odd behaviour.

robby just stares at him for a moment.

"jack... are you fucking your senior resident?"

jack's eyebrows shoot up. "excuse me?"

robby leans back again. "you heard me, man, don't make it more difficult than it needs to be."

"let me get this straight," jack says, "you're accusing me of sleeping with one of my residents? you?"

"i'm painfully aware of the hypocrisy, i am. but as the chief atten–"

"yeah, right, chief attending, got it," jack dismisses him. "how do you even... why would you think that?" jack asks.

robby rubs his forehead, thinking.

"when you were brought in..." robby laughs in distress, "the shmuck dipped out of the case, man." he gives jack a pained look. "disappeared into fucking thin air," he spreads his arms, "poof, gone," he shrugs. robby seems close to hysteric. jack should've realised this would remind him of adamson. "got mckay to jump in," robby continues. "claimed compromised objectivity when i asked." he leans his elbows onto his knees. "so i need to know, jack. i need to know whether... whether this was a case of job abandonment or incompetence or what."

when robby remains silent, jack turns away and stares at the ceiling.

"i'll have to get back to you on that one," he finally says.

"jack... don't do this, man. just... do i need to tell gloria we have an opening for a senior attending?"

"fuck, robby, no," jack turns to face him again. "don't... don't blow this out of proportion."

"you could have died, jack," robby says, getting agitated. "and if this... if the two minutes until mckay got to us..."

jack can't be certain of your reasons, but he saw your face. and he trusts your judgement. you knew you couldn't do it and you did the next best thing.

downstairs you're swallowing the last piece of a granola bar as you walk out of the break room, tossing the wrapper into the bin as you walk past it. your phone dings and you take a quick look.

Dr. Jack Abbot: 'Just a heads up, I told Robby you couldn't work on my case because of our affair.'

you stop dead in your tracks. are you having a stroke? you read the message again. a third time. still the same words. does affair have a secondary meaning, you wonder. then, a horrible thought hits you: was this meant for someone else? is jack having–

your phone buzzes in your hand, making you jump and drop and it.

"fuck," you hurry to pick it up.

lena is eyeing you over her glasses, "you okay there?"

"yeah all good," you assure her and glance at the new message.

Dr. Jack Abbot: 'Should probably bring this to HR.'

it's almost 10pm when you finally manage to sneak out for a minute. jack might already be asleep, recovery wards don't exactly cater to a night shift circadian, but this is driving you insane, you need to at least check.

a faint shimmer of light is seeping out from underneath the door to jack's room. the tv maybe, or a table lamp. so you hope you don't wake him when you knock.

"yes?" comes back almost immediately.

you poke in your head first. "dr. abbot?" the small lamp on his bedside table is indeed on and the tablet in jacks hands casts additional light onto his face. "could i come in for a minute?"

"better late than never."

"oh i'm sorry," you say, stepping in but still holding on to the door handle, "i can come back in the morning," you suggest.

"not what i meant," jack says, "come in," he turns off the tablet and sets it onto the bedside table.

you stand a little ways away to the side. "i uhm, got a weird text message," you begin.

"first you refuse to work on me, "jack interrupts, "and now i don't even get a 'how are you'?"

a moment passes as you digest what he just said. yet another mention of you not working on his case.

"how... are you?" you finally ask, sounding robotic.

"never been better."

wow, you think, that's a lot of sarcasm even for jack abbot.

"were..." you rephrase, "did you... missend those messages?"

"missend?"

"sent them to the wrong person," you clarify.

jack looks somewhat dumbfounded. "how many people do you think there are that noped out of my case due to 'compromised objectivity'?"

"i... wouldn't know, i wasn't there," you joke meekly.

jack smiles half a smile.

"robby was on the verge of getting you fired," jack explains and you start to panic. "he's not going to," jack immediately assuages, "not now that he's not doubting your reasons.

"oh." jack lied to save your job. "thank you. i'm sorry i put you into this position."

"it wasn't a lie, was it?" he asks, "the compromised objectivity?"

blood rushes to your head. you can only admit to the unprofessional feelings that may or may not have made jack uncomfortable enough to avoid you or you can leave him to believe he unwittingly lied to his friend.

"no." you want to add 'i'm sorry.'

"can i ask you out on a date, then?"

a flutter of butterflies erupts in your stomach.

you suffocate them immediately. jack doesn't mean that. maybe he's joking. maybe he hit his head during the incident.

"to keep up appearances with dr. robby?" you ask.

"no," jack says, "i'm serious."

he sounds serious.

ah.

"you just had a near-death experience," you remind the both of you. "maybe give it a week or two for the–"

"it's not that," jack interrupts, sounding serious again.

don't fall for it.

you give him a smile that is supposed to be sympathetic, but even you feel must look condescending. "i should go back to work," you tell jack, "thank you again for saving my job."

you turn to the door and pretend not to hear him calling out for you to wait.

part 2 (time jump)

notes: pittsburgh little italy days are a real thing, first created in 2002, and are held in mid august over the course of four days. also, i really hope i used shmuck correctly, english is not my first language and yiddish even less so, but i really needed a gender neutral term and couldn't think of anything better. corrections are welcome!