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Reader going out for drinks with Trinity Santos and calling Park to come pick them up because they are super drunk and genuinely forgot that Uber is a thing…also Trinity maybe got them kicked out of a bar when a guy tried to grab Reader’s backside and Trinity reacted accordingly
…Park comes and gets them and Reader is so blitzed she’s psyched when he pulls up like “OMG Bren!! Hi!! No one told me you were coming!!”
And he’s just sighing like “you called me, dear.”
Reader makes him go though the in and out drive through because drunk her needs fries and Trinity wants a milkshake. She keeps trying to feed him fries and the poor man puts up with her shenanigans and Trinity and her constant chattering.
Park does drop Trinity off at her apartment rolling his eyes when Reader yells at her not to text Garcia at the top of her lungs alarming poor Whitaker…
Reader maybe does try to talk Park into pulling over because he’s so handsome and she wants to show him how handsome he is…oh yeah she’s gone because man is in sweatpants and a faded Steelers t shirt. He’s half asleep and has had a long day…she insists she wants to suck him off…he’s got on gray sweatpants and drunk her attempts to explain what they say about gray sweatpants to a tired and confused Park.
He manages to shake off her advances distracting her with the radio. She flips it to a pop station claiming the rock station he had on was too loud. She actually won’t stop changing the station…and when she finally gets quiet and stops singing along to ABBA he realizes she’s asleep
He’s carrying her drunk ass to bed and taking off her pretty sparkly party dress and the too high heels she tried to kick off in his car. He knows she’s gonna be annoyed she fell asleep in her makeup but she’s out cold.
He’s tucking her into bed and grabbing aspirin and a bottle of water cause she’s gonna need it.
The next morning Reader whines that she’s never drinking that much ever again making Park promise that he’s going out with them next time…she thinks Trinity may have punched a guy…Park is like 👀 you didn’t mention that last night…yeah he’s definitely going out with them next time…
summary: you think about all the times brendon park has been good to you whilst others question if he could ever partake in a relationship. (wc: 2.3k)
pairing: brendon ‘the shark’ park / pitt!f!reader
content: fluff. secret relationship with the pitt’s shark. grumpy x sunshine duo. pilates princess!reader?? 100% park the shark ooc because i didn’t watch all of the season & he’s on for all of 1 minute lmao.
dedicating this draft to @novatheory for dragging me by the collar back into the pitt obsession
“Do you think he ever feels anything other than bitter resentment?”
You peered over the monitor you had been using to compete in the catch up with Santos on your charting—something Dr. Al-Hashimi took great pride in addressing from time to time. Whitaker and Javadi had their elbows leant against the work station, whilst Santos pressed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets from the mild distraction caused by her peers.
(Safe to say, you were winning the catch up game. Well, until your interest had piqued too.)
Fingers paused on the keyboard, you awaited the conversation to strike up against after a pregnant pause.
Whitaker hummed, “I think he just stares at a wall when he goes home.”
Who were they talking about? You craned your neck to look into Trauma One, where—from your seated position—you could only make out a green fleece and rounded shoulders.
“Dr. Robby?” You dove into the discussion head first. Three sets of eyes turned to the sound of your voice, and you managed to return the blank look on their faces. “Are you talking about Dr. Robby?”
It would make sense. You weren’t partial to the knowledge that Dr. Robby could hold an immense amount of resentment, and spend his spare time boring his eyes into the blank slate of a bedroom wall. There was a great depth of sadness behind those brown eyes and weathered features that would wrinkle in amusement any time you spoke.
Dr. Robby liked you. A breath of fresh air in an all-too-consuming atmosphere that often felt like the walls were closing in with no exit in sight. In spite of this, you weren’t immune to his wrath of a bad day and unaddressed mental health problems that he struggled to pin down.
However, it didn’t entirely make sense for the three musketeers loitering at the work station, to be putting negative connotations on their nuanced Chief Attending; that often gave them the benefit of the doubt.
Santos rubbed at her forehead, speaking lowly, “No. They’re talking about Park the Shark.”
Now, that was a name that made you forget about the looming deadline of your charting.
Park the Shark. The rather foreboding entity that bestowed his abrasive presence within the ED when he was called down from Orthopaedics to leer over a case. Broad shouldered with sharp facial features and an attitude that would silence a room rather than liven it up. Some would assign him to the adjective: arrogant.
If you were playing the same crossword, you much preferred the noun: boyfriend.
(Something that wasn’t common knowledge to the hub of gossip in the PTMC.)
Your smile grew wickedly. Nothing quite like hearing your boyfriend of five months and ten days catching strays whilst inspecting a broken femoral bone alongside Dr. Robby.
“Oh—” You started, standing from your spot to join Whitaker and Javadi with your half drunken coffee in one hand. You nudged Whitaker to move up, “—I’m sure he’s a kitten beneath all of that mean facade.”
“Coming from the person who always gives people the benefit of the doubt?” Javadi laid her eyes on you with a playful smile, “Yeah. Your opinion is invalid. Look where that landed you last time.”
Javadi was referring to the dicey situation you landed yourself in with a flighty forty-year old man with a bad burn and enough pills in his bloodstream to hallucinate that you were a six-foot threat holding a knife designed for his jugular. You had taken the case with a pep in your step, and a broad smile—because you wanted to help. The same friendly smile and dash of naivety that got wiped clean off your face when the man lunged at you with the intention to block your windpipes on a more permanent basis.
It took Donnie, Robby and Jesse—with a couple of fists to the back from Dana—to pry the guy off of you.
You scrunched your nose up at the memory. “Low-blow, Dr. J.” You took a sip from your straw, eyes trained on the large surface area of your boyfriend’s back as he manoeuvred around the patient.
Javadi spoke again, “Can you imagine him in a relationship?”
Yes. Yes, you could!
By all means, Brendon Park was nothing short of a grouch. Low-browed, body made up of ninety-nine percent brood, loathing things such as, his time being wasted, small talk; or long queues in traffic and in the stores on his rare day off.
The other one percent, though? All made for loving you.
When it came to you, Park the Shark—as he had been so graciously titled in the Pitt—was all softened edges and lack of authority in contrast to his razor-sharp reputation in the workplace. When Brendon Park was around you, doors would magically open, the caffeine addiction wouldn’t come with a small dent in your chequing account, and if you suddenly found the inspiration to invest in a herb garden at 9AM? Brendon Park conjured up a green-thumb and made it happen.
He would press a soft kiss to the back of your hand at stoplights, power through four episodes back-to-back of Love Island, despite finding it the most mind numbing piece of garbage that was ever thrown on TV. He would find the right angles for semi-planned candid photos for your Instagram feed, with zero means of protest. He would sweat through a Pilates class after some light teasing from you, that someone with his stature couldn’t possibly make it through an entire session. (He did, but he wasn’t far from quitting.) One time, in between sharing a bad takeaway and a movie that you had pleaded to watch, Brendon tried out your LED face-mask that you had bought on a whim.
Just because you asked him to.
Let’s not even address what had happened behind a closed curtain and the aggressor of your attack, when Park had found out upstairs.
Which, funnily enough, had been the pinnacle moment in where you began to realise how deep Park’s feelings ran for you.
1.) Because what business did an OR surgeon have with a man under the influence of narcotics and a bad burn on his forearm? And 2.) Because it hadn’t always been smooth sailing seas to the heart of the Shark hunting the shallow waters of the ER.
“You’re like a cockroach.” Park had stated with a yank of his latex glove. He had been brought down with Garcia, and quickly realised that he was surrounded by incompetent butchers, which only furthered his impatience when you approached him with the sunniest disposition and a mouthful of conversation for him.
It seemed that you were the only person in the entirety of the PTMC that would rush to the opportunity to speak to the infamous, Park the Shark. Your consistency was a little vexing, because Park didn’t exude the whole ‘please talk to me!’ vibe, in fact, the only other thing than work that he put effort into; was being closed off.
(Didn’t mean he shut off the ability to recognise a visually astounding resident.)
You placed a hand to your chest in faux-flattery, “Thank you, Park.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Despite wanting to project a healthy amount of space between him and you, Park still made sure to hold the door open by his foot until you sauntered past him. You flashed him a mischievous grin in passing, “The symbolism of a cockroach is that they’re resilient. They thrive even in the most extreme environments.”
With his palm held beneath the dispenser, Park didn’t spare you as much as a glance as he scoffed, rubbing the spit of sanitiser up to his wrists before stalking over to the stairs to retreat back into the confines of the OR.
You had watched him go, calling out to him before he disappeared, “I’ll be ready with more animal facts for whenever you’re needed down here!”
And, you did exactly that.
Any snippet caught of Park the Shark lurking in the murky waters of the ED with a hardened expression and little time for pleasantries, you were there with useless facts on a vast array of animals. It started off vague, and then you thought it would be fitting to only present shark facts to the local grump.
The first fact had been met with a brief look up and down in utter silence. The second time, you had matched his strides toward Trauma Two and uttered that capybaras made great companions to alligators which earned you a shake of the head, and a slight curl of his lip—something you would have missed, if you hadn’t been inspecting his facial expressions. The third, fourth and fifth time, Brendon Park could be considered a hypocrite. No apparent time for small talk, but now, he would find himself slowing his walk whenever you giddily rounded the work station to do your fair share of sugar talking.
A man of few words spoke a great deal when it came to his actions.
So, when Park the Shark idled up next to you with his hands braced against the edge of the countertop, and a thunderous face; anyone might have presumed you were about to receive an earful.
(You hoped not. This was the day that, just hours prior, a patient had you in a chokehold.)
“Female sharks have evolved to have skin that is three times thicker than male sharks.” Park uttered the fact to you, whilst his eyes softened remarkably under the intrusive lighting overhead.
You blinked, not expecting him to partake in your adolescent game. “I—Uh…”
“All good?” He interjected.
“Yeah…Yeah, I’m good.” You swallowed, cringing when the reminder of the assault struck a sharp pain down your throat. You smiled meekly.
Park gave a curt nod, “It’s been dealt with.” And, then he knocked his knuckles against the surface top and parted through the sea of nurses and patients.
You were left utterly bedazzled.
Dana Evans, who stood close by and had no intentions of minding her business when she witnessed the lonesome Shark prowling about her ED, swimming up to one of the fresh-faced residents with all the suaveness he could muster from his cold exterior; simply let out an impressed chuckle, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder to give it a quick squeeze.
You tilted your chin up to stare at the mother figure of the Pitt.
“You did it, kid.” Her accent thick as she spoke into your ear, “You’ve caught a shark.”
The charge nurse was then subjected to a tight-lip and a nonchalant shrug if anyone—like Perlah or Princess—queried Park the Shark’s regular attendance in the ED, even when he was not required. She turned a blind eye to the coffees delivered under your name with a cryptic note that had been left for your deciphering only. And, when you adorned a cute little shark pin on your badge…well, Dana Evans bit her tongue and diverted her attention to what mattered.
The only thing Dana had commented on was that, against all stereotypes of the big bad boyfriend and bubbly girlfriend, she had become privy to the knowledge that Brendon Park liked his luminous green matcha and you liked your black coffee; this was after she had caught you sneaking a kiss with the intimidating OR figure before your shift started, both grappling onto your drinks of choice from the local coffee shop a few blocks down the road.
It was also the first time Dana had ever seen a smile on Park’s face. (Something she thought about for the rest of her shift, because clearly, you were doing something right to soften that concrete shell of his.)
So, as a collective, Brendon Park exceeded all expectations for a man who severely lacked the traits of a social butterfly. He was a man that proved that being mean to the world never encroached into the space of when it came to loving his girl.
And, you were being loved right.
With all this thought about having a magnitude of gratitude for the hostile OR surgeon that made enough space for you and your bizarre animal facts to slot into his life, you watched as Park peeled the latex gloves from his hands and exited the room that Dr. Robby remained in for a few moments more. His hand—as everyone’s routinely did—came to the sanitiser dispenser; eyes scoping the chaotic scenes of the Pitt until he managed to find you amongst the other residents.
No animal facts today, big guy.
You took a sip of your coffee.
Park tilted his chin at you when he began to rub the sanitiser into the callus of his hands. There was not a singular hint of a smile, but from the intensity of his stare, you could presume his thoughts were far from the means of child friendly.
(Neither of you had the desire to catch a HR case with Glorida Underwood. So, the PDA of it all stayed within the confines of the PTMC car park, or either of your apartments.)
“He’s looking right at us.” Javadi muttered under her breath, body turned to face Whitaker—who was quick to busy himself with his watch—and you from the side to prevent the obvious staring you had all been doing.
Park began to wade through the ED, eyes set on you as he made his way back to the stairs—because he didn’t have time for elevators. You spoke to him through the subtlety of facial expressions, and he exchanged yours for a brief wink which made your skin prickle with heat.
He disappeared to the staircase, and your phone brightened up in your scrub pockets.
Sharky (4:26pm): You’re beautiful. Love Island tonight.
Yeah. You thought. Who could ever tame a shark like that?
may i suggest a fic with the sharks after work all soft and cuddly and kind with each other? maybe someone from the pitt sees them out and about holding hands and laughing is like ?? the hell ??
the dichotomy of them being so abrasive at work but only soft for each other mmm i would eat that up! no pressure tho feel free to ignore meee
I tried to make it soft but then ended up with crack
brendon park x peds wife!reader
the two of you sat on the floor against the wall outside the stairwell of pediatrics. legs stretched out, side by side.
A cup of instant noodles in your hand.
the look on Brendon's face was one you familiarized yourself with. His expression fell into what you saw when someone answered his question wrong. not disappointed. barely even a look of disapproval. It was his way of saying “really?” without the verbalization.
“you want some?”
“Do you know how much sodium that has?” he unintentionally ignored your offer. your eyes roll.
“It’s a yes or no, Brendon.” you respond, mouth full. It earns a quirked brow from him. already knowing what he was going to say. already knowing what your kids would say. If they were here. Seeing as you tell them all the time to never speak with their mouths full. but it was late. you were tired. And hungry. the shift had wiped you out.
the fucks to give was minimal if not nonexistent.
“You require actual nutrition.” brendon said flatly as he took a bite. the offer from moments ago apparently tempting.
“We’re attendings, you know–” it was a fact. A matter of stating the obvious. “I’m aware.” you nod, arms crossing over your chest as you lean your head on his shoulder. “—we make money and we’re sharing ramen on the floor.” He passes the plastic fork to you.
“Anything else you’d like to point out?” you say without looking. taking another bite.
Brendon huffs out a laugh. breathy. tired. real. his eyes crinkled at the corners. his hand rubbing over his face as he shakes his head to your response. finding something so small surprisingly funny. he was either really tired, or you were just that comedic.
you feel your shoulders loosen. the tension from the shift, lighter.
neither of you spoke for a few minutes. comfortable in each other's silence as you shared noodles.
"Dr. Park?"
It was unexpected. accidental. Hardly even a coincidence. possibly. but trinity santos found herself on the opposite side of the stairwell.
the resident stared. wide eyed and mouth agape. the exhaustion she suddenly felt, gone, as she stared— blinking.
once, twice, a third time.
both you and brendon looked up. two pairs of eyes waiting expectantly.
"Yes, Dr. Santos?" you asked with a raised brow. her eyes shifting between you, to Brendon, then to the almost empty instant cup. the resident opened her mouth. then closed it. settling on a facial shrug. her hands resting on her hips as she swayed back a step.
"I didn't expect you guys to be—"
"Human."
trinity seemed to wake up at your tone. it was a quick dismissal to her apparent incoming comment. no space left for her to feel the need to do so.
"you think you're so funny." Brendon bit a smile. uncharacteristically to the young woman in front of them.
"I am funny." you joke in dry seriousness. completely ignoring and not at all caring that one of ed staff members just interrupted your time together.
trinity felt her mouth drop further. because you weren't the same. neither was Brendon. she wasn't witnessing two attendings. or two intimidating physicians. but rather a married couple.
santos sputtered out a laugh in disbelief. "oh my god." your eyes catch hers. “you guys are—”
“be careful with what you say next, Dr. Santos.” you press. your face hard as you watch her. the residents expression falters. lips pressed tightly as she nods. “right.”
trinity was gonna say cute….she almost forgot who she was talking to.
“you should get going.” barely a suggestion. rather a demand. Brendon’s eyes leveled her. his head tipping forward. a hint to leave immediately.
santos nods again before turning around quickly. you and brendon already knowing her intentions.
summary ⸝⸝ Brendon Park has built an entire career on being the smartest person in the room. Then he meets you, who makes him forget what he was about to say.
warnings ⸝⸝ coffee shop meet-cute, grumpy x sunshine (?), fluff, pining, brendon yearns, he falls first and harder, jealous! park, park the goldfish bc he can’t keep his mouth shut with her near? (one of my tamest fics tbrh), abbot and shen cameo bc I love them. no use of y/n.
notes ⸝⸝ first official park fic yaay! I do realise I’m supposed to be on a break, but look at him! I genuinely don’t know why it took me so long to write for him, mainly because I've been told that if there's an ortho bro within a five-mile radius, I'll somehow manage to find him? It’s unfortunate that they’re truly horrible tho 💔
READ ON AO3
Brendon Park had not looked at anyone twice. Not in his surgical practice, definitely not at a fucking coffee shop of all places.
He'd had his thing in med school. Everyone did. Ill-advised entanglement with another type-A who wanted to win every argument and came close. It ended mutually around final year with shaken hands, which should tell you everything.
Ortho had a reputation and Brendon had leaned into it wholeheartedly. Fast, brutal, precise, and deeply uninterested in anything that didn't have to do with bone mechanics or operative planning.
Park the Shark. He'd heard the name passed between residents in the corridor like a warning, and he hadn't minded. Warnings kept the noise down.
He was, all told, completely fine.
And then he met you. At the hospital coffee counter on a Wednesday morning, over a cup of black americano, and everything went sideways.
The barista set his coffee down and he was on his way to get it. Pretty normal stuff. Stuff that happened everyday.
But before he could get there, there was you, his cup in your grasp, and then between your lips.
He'd opened his mouth to say something. Sharply, probably. The same voice that made interns forget how to speak. But then, you drank.
Your face did something spectacular. Nose scrunching up, eyes going slightly wide, mouth opened like a fish, as though you were offended, devastated, betrayed by a fucking beverage. You stared into the cup for a full second like you were waiting for it to apologize. "Okay," you said, to the cup, mostly. "That's — what is that?"
Brendon stared at you.
"What'd they put in this?" you continued, as if you were workshopping a complaint, a comical lilt to your voice.
In the fifteen seconds of you taking his drink and drinking it, it didn’t occur to you that you’d just consumed something belonging to someone else. The coffee — he didn’t think you’d agree for it to be called a coffee, to be really honest — had shaken you so much that it took you a minute to compose yourself.
When you did, you turned the cup in your hand, read the side and looked up, a sheepish smile on your lips.
As you found him just standing there, gaze locked on you, your eyes dropped between him and the cup. "Oh, it's got your name on it." You had the audacity to look adorable — what the fuck did he just think? "Is this yours?"
Brendon nodded. Fucking nodded.
Embarrassment should not have looked that good on anyone. How could someone look like that while questioning life decisions, evaluating choices that led to this moment?
"Right." You set it down on the counter between, like you were disarming a situation. "Sorry. I genuinely thought — mine's supposed to be a latte and I just grabbed it, I wasn't looking at the name. I'm really sorry."
Dark circles under your eyes, hair pulled back like it was done in thirty seconds without a mirror, lime green scrubs that had no reason looking good, no reason making you look good. Who even looked good in that colour? Who even chose that colour?
You were somewhere between mortified and trying to hold it together, which was fair, because you had just walked up to a stranger's drink and had at it. "Can I at least — I'll pay for a new one, here—"
You were reaching into your pocket and Brendon, who had been on the verge of saying something very reasonable like it's fine, not a problem— "No."
Accidentally spoke in the voice. He didn't always mean to use, it just comes out that way by default, making fourth-year residents straighten their spines. And he’d used it. To you.
You looked up at him with an expression he could only describe as a deer having second thoughts about the road.
He hadn't meant — he wasn't angry. He'd said no out of reflex. Most things he said were out of reflex, and now this person was staring at him like he'd personally threatened her. He had the strange and unfamiliar experience of wanting to walk it back. "I meant—" he started.
But you'd pulled yourself together, apparently deciding that whatever his problem was, it was his problem.
"Okay, no." You held your hands up, like you were placating a toddler. "Noted. For future reference though, why would you get it like that, it's — is this fun for you? Like do you enjoy it?"
He blinked, heat rising up to his cheeks. He could only hope you didn’t notice it.
What you did notice was that he looked clueless and you clarified, "the coffee," you pointed to his cup. "There's nothing in it. I took one sip and I think my tongue is still reeling from it."
"That's what coffee tastes like," Brendon said.
"That's a very sad thing to believe." You stated, completely without malice, which made it worse somehow. A genuine opinion. To make matters worse, you were already looking back toward the counter, scanning for your actual order.
Brendon stood there holding his americano while everyone else and everything else continued their life, including you.
The barista called your name. You went to get it, came back briefly into his sightline, and gave him a small, still-somewhat-mortified wave on your way out the door.
He watched you go and drank his coffee, the same one your lips touched. It tasted exactly like it always did, which was fine, he liked it fine.
Do you enjoy it?
He took another sip. It was objectively bitter.
Lime green. A colour he couldn't immediately place. It bothered him, sitting in the back of his head while he moved through his afternoon.
PTMC colour-coded by department. He knew this. He just didn't have them all memorized, a gap he'd never needed to fill before.
He decided to ask his ward nurse, Delgado, at the end of his post-ops. Casual as he could make it, which for him was still pretty clinical — "lime green. You know which department?"
Delgado looked up from her chart. "Lime green," she repeated, slowly, like she was checking the words for a hidden compartment.
“Yeah.”
“Are we talking about scrubs here, Dr Park?” She had her eyebrows crossed like she was trying to read him.
“Yes.”
“Neonatology,” she answered.
Four floors up, the opposite end of the building, behind two sets of badge-locked doors and a hand-washing protocol longer than some of his procedures. He'd been in there exactly twice in his career, both times for consults that took fifteen minutes and ended in a referral elsewhere.
It made sense. You looked like sunshine incarnate, all airy and beautiful, effortlessly skilful — not that he’d seen you work, but he had an idea.
"Right." He turned back toward the board.
"Dr. Park."
"Mm."
"Are you — Is there something involving neonatology that I should know about?"
A small, unwelcome lurch happened inside his chest. He kept his face the way he kept it in the OR — nothing on it, nothing to read — and he could tell, with horrible clarity, that it wasn't working.
“Something?”
“A case?”
Brendon could see that she’d worded it carefully. "No."
"Okay," Delgado said. "No reason then." She didn't believe a word of it and had decided not to push, which was worse because he could’ve handled an argument. An argument had an end.
Without looking at her, he said, “you can go.”
"I'm charting."
"You can chart elsewhere."
"This is the nurses' station, Dr. Park."
She was smiling. He knew that without even looking. He went back to his board and did not say anything else, hoping this was the end of it.
It was in no way shape or form, the end of anything. It only took him five minutes to look it up. Not you specifically, he wasn’t doing that. Yet, the back of his mind supplied.
He was just reading about fellowship timelines, the NICU admission criteria for some reason? He also learned it’s two or three more years of training, all of it happening four floors above his OR in a unit he had approximately zero clinical reason to enter.
The fact that he even went down this road is embarrassing. But he went a whole another mile.
Clavicular fractures were the most common birth-related bone injury. Unfortunately — now, he hated himself for even thinking the word — they were managed entirely conservatively. Swaddle the arm, follow up in two weeks. It wouldn't require an orthopedic surgeon, much less him, to stand in a NICU looking purposeful.
For about four seconds, he entertained inventing a reason. He got as far as picturing himself walking through those doors in his scrub cap with some flimsy excuse half-formed, and the picture was so stupid — so transparently, embarrassingly stupid — that he closed his laptop immediately.
The hospital was large and your departments were, in practical terms, on separate planets.
You’d been in the coffee shop on Wednesday, which meant you probably used it, which meant theoretically he'd encounter you again just by existing in the building. He told himself he wasn't going to engineer anything, he was just aware of the possibility. That was all.
Two days passed. He did four surgeries including a complicated tibial nail revision that took three hours and came out beautifully, and one very satisfying conversation with a referring physician who had misread an MRI and needed correcting. Normal week, right?
Next day, he got his coffee at six forty, same as every morning, and stood at the counter a beat longer than the transaction required, scanning the line behind him without meaning to. Nobody in lime green. He told himself that meant nothing, took his americano, and left.
Friday, same thing. He noticed himself doing it the second time, which didn't help — like catching his own reflection mid-expression and not recognizing the face looking back.
He didn't see you. Abnormal week.
ER consult. Friday, mid-afternoon. A fracture dislocation that the ER attending had flagged as needing operative planning. Brendon came down at two-thirty, and found Abbot by trauma three looking over a film.
Coming down to the ER wasn't his favorite part of the day. Not the work — the work was fine, usually obvious, usually somebody else's problem until it became his — but the way the place ran, all motion and noise hot under his skin. Abbot, somehow, thrived in it.
They'd gotten through about two minutes of the consult — Abbot walking him through the case, Brendon pulling up the images, the two of them doing back-and-forth of people who'd worked a building together long enough to skip the preamble. Uneventful.
But then the ER entrance on the left side of the bay opened and you walked through it.
Same lime green scrubs and a your Dunkin' cup in hand. Shen next to you, also holding a Dunkin' cup, saying something Brendon couldn't hear from this distance, and you were laughing. Brendon, to his disappointment, noticed it was not a poilte laugh. Your shoulder bumped into Shen’s with the force of it, a fully open-mouthed laugh, and you looked gorgeous.
The sight in front of him was only fogged by the fact that it was Shen who was at the receiving end of it.
The blush climbed before he could stop it, heat crawling up the back of his neck and into his ears. He thanked every god he didn't believe in, that Abbot was still looking at the film and not at him.
Brendon's jaw locked. Back teeth coming together, the muscle in his jaw pulling. He knew it’d give him a headache if he kept it up.
He didn’t really know Shen, not really. Having entirely met him through corridors and in consultations. But in that moment he decided, with an immediate, total conviction usually reserved for diagnoses, that he didn't like him.
Because he didn’t want to stare, he looked back at the X-ray on the tablet. "So the fracture pattern —" he spoke.
"You okay?" Abbot cut in.
Brendon looked at him. Abbot looked like he already knew the answer and was just asking to pull his leg, like most ER attendings.
"Fine," Brendon said. "The fracture is comminuted. Needs ORIF. I’ll book an OR, do it first case tomrorw morning."
Abbot nodded as he scribbled on the iPad. Didn't look fully satisfied with the fine but let it go. Brendon knew that about Abbot — the latter picked his moments.
Brendon looked back at the X-ray.
In his peripheral vision, you and Shen had stopped near the nurse’s station, still talking. You had the cup halfway to your mouth, nodding at whatever he was saying, and then you laughed again, smaller this time, shaking your head. Like whatever Shen had said was ridiculous and you were conceding it anyway.
His molars hurt from pressing down too hard. "ORIF tomorrow, first case," he said again, to the iPad at his hand, to no one.
"You already said that," Abbot noted.
He pulled up the next item on his consult list — a possible Montaggia fracture, a cakewalk for him, nightmare for others. "I'm confirming."
He was not confirming. He had no idea why he'd said it twice.
You'd moved further into the ER now, past his sightline, and he found himself looking at the entrance you'd come through for a second before he caught himself and looked back at Abbot. The latter was watching him like he was trying very, very hard not to smirk.
"Do you need something?" Brendon asked.
"I'm just standing here," Abbot said.
"You're doing something with your face."
"I'm a person, Park, my face does things." Abbot tucked his hands in his pockets. Nodding towards the general direction of where you might be standing, Abbot said, "I didn't know you knew anyone in neonatology."
"I don't," Brendon interjected soon. Too soon.
"Hm." Abbot’s head did a sweep of the ER, probably searching for you, and then looked back at Brendon. "Right."
Brendon put his iPad under his arm, said he'd have the operative plan by end of day and walked back toward the elevator, which took him directly past the nurse’s station, where you had apparently remigrated with Shen, talking to the desk coordinator about something.
He did not slow down.
But in the two seconds he passed within range, he did clock that you smelled like coffee and something warm underneath it, something sweet, vanilla maybe. You didn't notice him, but Shen did and nodded. Brendon nodded back and kept walking, very normal. Walk of a man who was fine.
The elevator took forty-five years to arrive.
He stood in front of it for all forty-five of those years, staring at the closed doors with his hands in his coat pockets, acutely, miserably aware that Park the Shark had just sped up his pace to get past a girl with a Dunkin' and was now standing at an elevator hoping it would hurry up.
Somewhere behind him, he was fairly sure, Abbot was still smiling.
It was a horrible week for the ortho residents. And it wasn’t even Tuesday.
It wasn’t because of the caseload. The caseload was what it always was, a rotating carousel of fractures and dislocations and the occasional spectacular screw-up from another department who'd missed a bone scan.
No, the residents had a terrible week because Brendon Park had decided, somewhere between Friday evening and Tuesday afternoon, that their technique was uniformly sloppy and their pre-op prep was an embarrassment to the profession, and he'd said so. Repeatedly. In front of each other.
It wasn't personal. He thought so and would tell you so, if anyone asked him. No one was brave enough.
His residents just kept standing in his eyeline when he was already irritated, and that was their problem, really.
Delgado, to her eternal credit, had not said a single word about it. She'd watched him tear into a second-year over a chart — like who enters the date wrong? — and kept her face entirely professional. The kid went pale, stuttering through his apology, and Brendon didn’t care.
He'd noticed it himself. The snapping. He was moving through the ward with even less patience than usual, which was saying something. He did a K wire banding, ate lunch at his desk, reviewed post-op films, and at six-fifteen found himself at the hospital coffee counter scanning the room before his order was called. It was mortifying enough on its own, and you weren't there, so it brought double the mortification.
He went back Tuesday. Sat down, which was something he genuinely had never done. He had always taken his coffee to go. There was no reason to sit, the hospital was across the street, he drank it walking.
But this time, he sat. Kept his phone out, drank his coffee and checked his messages. He absolutely did not look at the door every ninety seconds.
You weren't there Tuesday either. Which was fine. People had schedules. Neonatologists especially — the NICU didn't exactly run on a nine-to-five, he knew that much. He'd looked it up. For professional reasons, of course. For someone who’d prided himself for working 24/7, he was humbled real quick.
Wednesday, he sat again. He had a consultation at nine, no reason to rush. He could drink his coffee like a human being who used chairs. He pulled up his post-op notes on his phone, found Abbot's message about a fracture dislocation follow-up, which Abbot didn’t have to do but does it anyway. Abbot was like that sometimes.
When he looked up, his coffee was in front of him. And so were you.
Lime green scrubs, your own drink in your other hand, and you were sliding his cup toward him. The look on your face that said you'd been watching him not notice it for at least thirty seconds. He had been reading an MRI report. A fascinating one.
"I really should get you a coffee," you said.
Brendon laughed. It was him. That was his laugh. Coming out of his face, in a coffee shop, at seven in the morning.
It came out before he could stop it or do anything about it. Just a short, but real sound, surprising him enough that he almost looked around to check if someone else had made it.
You were watching him with that same expression from the first time, like you found him interesting the way you'd find an unusual rock formation interesting. Curious but not unkind. It was doing things to his blood pressure.
"You're still doing that to yourself, I see." You nodded at his cup.
"It's coffee."
"Doesn't taste like it, though." Your nose scrunched up, just like the first time, just as adorable. Did he just say adorable again?
He picked up the cup, took a sip purely out of spite, and looked back at you.
You sat down across from him. Which he had not expected and also had absolutely expected. Two things existing simultaneously, almost fucking him up.
"You're here a lot," you said.
"The hospital's down the street."
"Is it?" You glanced at him, stirring your drink. "Because I've only ever seen you take it to go, and now you're sitting." You took out the stirrer and placed it on a tissue. "Three days in a row."
The back of his neck went warm, mouth opening to say something. Deny it probably, which was stupid and a waste of time. But you interrupted him.
Brendon Park is not someone who’s interrupted. People let him talk, and only think about answering when they’re sure he’s finished.
You, on the other hand, did not care. "You're kinda hard to miss with all the brooding going on."
"I don't brood."
You took a sip of your drink, watching him over the lid, expression doing a tremendous amount of work without saying anything.
He held your gaze. You lowered the cup. "You totally brood. It's an ortho thing, right? Comes with it."
"You know I'm ortho?"
"Everyone knows you're ortho." You said it completely matter-of-factly. Like, yes Brendon, the sky is blue and you’ve got an Ortho bro vibe going on. "You have the whole —" You made a vague gesture in his direction, encompassing, apparently, all of him. "You've got the OR energy."
"Half the people here have OR energy. It's a hospital."
"No, see, ER people have this sort of —" you tilted your head, "— controlled chaos thing. They're always braced for something. But, you walk around like you’ve won everything already. It's very obvious, easy to pick out."
Pick out what? Him from a line-up?
He watched you say all of this with zero self-consciousness, just stating observations, a woman delivering a verdict. He realised his coffee was halfway to his mouth and he hadn't drunk it. You talked about him like he was a case study, and he was sitting there letting you, taking all of it.
"So where else do you brood," you asked, "besides here and the OR?"
"I don't brood."
"Besides here and the OR?" You prompted, dismissing his non-answer.
"The ER… sometimes," he heard himself say it. See, he did not think of saying it, but said it anyway. Crystal-clear experience of a man who had just walked directly into something. He'd had five years of attendings trying to catch him out on rounds. None of them had managed it. You'd done it in under ten minutes, twice, while drinking a latte.
You made a sound. Not quite a laugh, more like an intake of breath with amusement in it. "The ER."
"Consults."
"Right." You traced the rim of your cup with one finger. "Were you in the ER last Friday?"
And… there it was.
He could've said he didn't remember. He could've been very busy, very unbothered, a man who passed through ERs constantly and didn't register the days. He was a surgeon. He was in various hospital departments routinely. There was nothing notable about Friday.
"Yes," his mouth admitted.
You nodded slowly, like something had confirmed itself. "I thought I saw you. You walked really fast."
He put his coffee down. "I had somewhere to be."
"Okay." The word stretched, like you weren’t entirely convinced. He wouldn’t blame it, he wasn’t exactly convincing. An infant could catch him in a lie, and you apparently were their queen. You went quiet for a second and then looked back at him, debating whether to say it or not. Affirmative won apparently. "You saw me with Shen."
It wasn’t a question. And he wasn’t exactly thrilled to answer it. He'd spent five days being awful to residents over it. A little late to play it cool.
"I figured." The amusement on your face was warm rather than sharp, which made the ache in his chest somehow worse. Whoa, whoa, what ache? "We have a thing going, me and Shen. Whoever lost the bet had to do the coffee run. I'd just lost." You paused. "For the fourth time. I'm apparently terrible at predicting admission numbers."
"The fourth time," Brendon parotted.
"In a month. I know." You shook your head, shaking the thought, a soft sigh leaving your parted lips. "I don't know why I keep agreeing to it. Every time I'm like, this time I'll get it right, and then the board goes completely feral and I'm standing at Dunkin' at two in the afternoon getting Shen's ridiculous—" You stopped to look at him, and he had his utmost attention on you. "Anyway. That was just the loser tax."
Loser tax. He sat with this for a second. The whole week reshuffled. Him being a monster to those unsuspecting residents — it’s not like it's unwarranted, but still.
You and Shen, a bet. A coffee run. A losing streak that apparently had nothing to do with the bond between the two of you and everything to do with ER admission patterns, which, if he was being honest, were genuinely unpredictable, nobody could forecast those accurately, it wasn't —
"You walked so fast," you spoke again, this time interrupting his thoughts. He noticed you liked to do that, keep him on his toes. There was a laugh behind it now, delighted almost. "I didn't know an orthopedic surgeon could move like that without a reason."
"I had a reason."
"What was it?" You prodded.
I just couldn’t stand you bumping shoulders with Shen like you belonged together.
His eyes dropped to his coffee at his hand and found you again. You looked back at him. You had the same ‘interested in rock formation’ thing going on, except closer now and clearer somehow. He had the increasingly urgent sense that you knew exactly what you were doing.
"You were with someone.” He sighed.
A smile adorned your lips like you’d won, finally beat him.
Like your mind was displaying in neon, Sunshine neonatologist : 1. Big bad ortho guy : 0.
You let it sit there between you while you took another sip of your drink. "I was getting Shen's order," you said finally. "Because I lost a bet."
"I know that now."
"But you didn't walk fast because of Shen specifically. Did you?"
His molars found each other again. What is with you and asking him impossible questions? Was this like your hobby? Hit the ortho guy until he falls over? At what point in medical school had someone taught you to do this, and could he have a word with them?
Without giving him a moment to recover, you spoke again. "So," you set your cup down, straightened up a little in the chair, met his eyes with an expression so direct it nearly made him blink. "When are you buying me a coffee?"
He stared at you. Staring was not his thing. He assessed, evaluated, and arrived at conclusions. What he did not do was stare, sit with his mouth slightly open like a fucking goldfish.
"That's what you've been trying to do, right?" Your voice was mild, conversational, voice of a woman confirming a meeting time. "For three days. In a row. Sitting here."
The heat that climbed his face was complete, total and immediate, and there was absolutely nothing to be done about it. Park the Shark. Sitting in a coffee shop for three days like a golden retriever who'd learned to use a chair.
You laughed. It filled the air and came right back to him. And he thought, sitting there red-eared with his black coffee, that it was the best sound he'd heard all week.
Possibly longer.
He only remembered that you asked a question when you raised your eyebrows. Right. The question. Which he totally didn’t forget when he was staring at your lips and thinking about how they would feel pressed to his.
"I have a nine o'clock," he said. "Seven works."
"That's very early."
"You work in a NICU. You guys are up since five."
You looked at him for a moment and he had no idea what you were looking at. But he sat very still, which was insane on his part. He only hoped he passed whatever test you were conducting. Apparently having looked enough, you picked your cup up, along with the tissue paper and the stirrer you discarded, and stood. "Seven," you said. "Don't brood while you wait."
He watched you walk out. He looked down at his americano. He drank it.
It still tasted exactly like it always did, and he liked it fine, and he was aware, in a dim and reluctant and completely inescapable way, that this was probably not going to be the last time he sat in this coffee shop.
Not by a long shot.
MY MASTERLIST !
extras ⸝⸝ lime green scrubs bc I was forced to wear them during my NICU postings
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Where reader is there partner and she always pass out and doesn’t have a healthy eating habit? (Doesnt work at the pitt) pretty please?
Hiii, thank you for the request <33
Critical levels
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x artist!reader (ft. Dr Michael Robinavitch)
Warnings: angst, panic, emergencies, passing out, fainting, chronic anemia, self neglect, forgetting to eat due to hyperfixation, burnout.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
The smell of oil paint usually felt like home to Jack, but lately, it just tastes like anxiety.
He found you exactly where he feared: sitting in front of your painting, eyes closed, one hand clutching your head and the other on your stool, trying to keep your balance. As if you were trying not to fall. His eyes went straight to the untouched plate of food on the side table, and then to the terrifyingly familiar pallor of your skin.
"Hey, baby... Look at me," Jack muttered desesperatly.
You lifted your head and he caught you before you could slip to the floor. You felt terribly light. Jack lifted you and laid you on your back on the living room couch, quickly propping up your legs with a couple of cushions.
"Damn it, not again" he breathed, pressing two fingers to the side of your neck. Your pulse was thready and rapid, racing to compensate for a body running entirely on empty. You closed your eyes just a minute, trying to gain energy but you lost consciousness.
He knew your absolute refusal to stop painting when the spark hit you. You had spent the last fifteen hours painting, completely forgetting that your body actually required sustenance to function.
"Baby," Jack pleaded, gently tapping your cheek. "Open your eyes."
A groan escaped your lips. Your eyelids fluttered open as your brain scrambled to figure out which way was up.
"Jack... I don't feel well," you said, feeling disoriented.
"Yeah, I can see that. Stay still," he ordered softly, his hand resting on your forehead. "Don't try to sit up, okay? You're going to pass out again."
You tried to turn your head toward the canvas. "I... I just need to finish the shading..."
"Don't move, please," Jack's voice cracked with deep frustration. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to calm himself before looking at you again. "Your blood pressure is crazy right now because you probably forgot to eat all day."
"I just got caught up," you whispered, tears of exhaustion blurring your vision. "I'm sorry."
"I don't want your apology, I want you to take care of yourself," Jack loved your passion, but it was terrifying to love someone who consistently burned themselves out just to keep a creative spark alive. "I'm going to get you some water, and then we're going to go to ER, you probably need more than food on you," Jack said.. "No arguments. I can't keep finding you like this."
-
"What the fuck, Jack?"
Robby received the stretcher as it entered the ambulance bay, his eyes scanning back and forth between Jack and you. Seeing his partner instantly changed the atmosphere in the ER.
"Syncopal episode at home," Jack said. "History of chronic iron-deficiency anemia. Non-compliant with nutrition and supplements. I think she's tachycardic."
Robby didn't hesitate. "Alright, let's get her into Trauma 2. Jack, step back and let us work."
"Robby, I can—"
"Step back." Robby repeated, his tone firm but not unkind.
Nurses swarmed around you, hooking up an IV, slapping telemetry pads onto your chest, and drawing several vials of blood. Through the haze, you could see Jack standing just inside the doorway, looking helpless.
An hour later, Robby walked back into the curtained cubicle, holding a printout of your lab results. He looked at the paper, then up at you, and finally at Jack, who was sitting next to you.
Robby sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, the numbers, honestly, are horrible."
Jack leaned forward. "What’s the hemoglobin?"
"It’s at a six point two," Robby said bluntly, looking directly at you. "Your iron stores are completely depleted, and your electrolytes are a total mess. You're severely anemic. I’m surprised you managed to stand up long enough to paint anything at all today."
You shrank back into the hospital pillows, looking down at your hands. "I didn't mean to..."
"I know you didn't," Robby said, his voice softening. "But your body is starving. You can't just walk out of here with a prescription and a promise to eat better."
Jack closed his eyes. He knew it would be bad, but hearing the numbers gave him a reality check.
"I'm admitting you," Robby announced, rewriting something on his chart. "We're going to put you upstairs for a few days. You need a couple of units of red blood cells, continuous IV fluids, and a dietary consult. We need to monitor you."
"A few days?" you whispered, panic rising in your chest. "Robby, please, I have a deadline. The studio—"
"The studio will be there when you get out," Jack interrupted, his voice cracking as he finally looked up. "You're staying, baby. Robby's right. You need this."
Robby looked between the two of you, nodding gently. "I'll get the admission orders started and call up to the floor. Get some rest."
Robby caught Jack’s eye, tilting his head slightly toward the corridor. It was the universal shorthand for we need to talk, doctor to doctor.
Jack swallowed and gently let go of your hand. "I'll be right back."
He stepped into the hallway. He leaned back against the hospital wall, trying to hold himself together.
"Talk to me, man. What’s going on here?"
Jack rubbed his palms over his face.
"She just... she stops," Jack said. "When she's working, everything else just ceases to exist for her. It's not the first time I come home and I find her almost passing out. It’s like she doesn't care. I'm cooking meals that just sit there and go cold. I'm forcing iron pills down her throat since last month, hoping it does something. I'm terrified one day I’m gonna come home too late."
The raw panic in Jack's voice was palpable. Robby listened quietly, letting Jack vent the terror he’d been bottling up for months.
"Hey." Robby said firmly until Jack met his eyes. "You need to take off your scrubs for a minute. You are her partner. You are not her primary care doctor, and you are not her therapist."
"But I should be able to—"
"No, you shouldn't," Robby interrupted gently, cutting him off. "This isn't just about her forgetting a meal or two. This is a deep behavioral pattern, maybe some hyperfixation or burnout. You can't love her out of an eating habit like this, and you certainly can't bully her into it."
Jack looked down at the floor, his shoulders sinking. "I don't really know what to do with her when she's like this."
"We get her professional help," Robby said. "Once we get her blood counts up and stabilize her, I’m going to put in a referral. A professional can help her unpack why she shuts down her own bodily needs when she paints."
"She’s going to be okay, Jack," Robby promised, giving his shoulder a supportive squeeze. "We’re going to fix the numbers. And then we’re going to get her the tools to fix the rest. You don't have to carry this whole thing on your back. Let us help you."
Jack nodded slowly. "Thanks, man. Seriously."
Jack stood outside the curtain for a long moment before he stepped back into your cubicle. He sat down and gently took your hand.
You looked up at him, bracing yourself for a lecture. You knew your numbers were terrible, and you expected him to be angry.
Instead, he just looked at you softly.
"Hey," he murmured.
"Hi," you whispered back, shifting uncomfortably against the hospital sheets. "Is Robby mad at me?"
"No. Robby cares about you. And I care about you, too" Jack said. "I just talked to him. He...."
You swallowed hard. "He what?"
"Robby suggested something," Jack continued softly. "He wants to put in a referral for a specialist. A professional who works specifically with people who struggle with this kind of burnout. Someone who can help you find a way to keep you painting without starving yourself to do it."
You tensed slightly. "A therapist? Jack, I'm not... it's not like that. I don't have a problem with food, I just forget—"
"I know you just forget," Jack interrupted. "He, we, think it's a behavioral habit. But it’s a dangerous one, and doing this on our own isn't working anymore. I can’t keep finding you almost passing out, baby. There’s no shame in letting someone help us navigate this."
He leaned in closer. "Please. Do it for you. For us. Do it so I can come home from a shift and just love you, instead of checking your pulse."
The honesty in his plea broke through you.
You realized he was right.
You couldn't keep living like this.
"O- Okay," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Okay. I'll see someone."
A visible relief washed over Jack and he pressed a kiss against your forehead.
"Thank you, beautiful." he breathed against your skin, his hands wrapping securely around yours. "Thank you. We’re going to get through this. I promise."
being in a secret relationship with clark is ten times harder when you’re on a weekend trip in the woods with your friends
cw: mdni, unprotected sex, super hearing mention, doggy, throat holding (?), pet names, clark’s a cutie pie rushed ending oops
It had taken weeks of construction, but you all had finally managed to sync up your rare, shared days off for this cabin trip, determined to use the weekend to just drop your guards and actually relax.
After a long day of hiking, swimming in a lake, and a sad attempt at fishing, the wired energy finally fizzled out, and everyone had tucked away into their separate rooms one by one.
The absolute stillness of the house is what wakes you. So you decide that a glass of water and a small snack might help settle you.
As you slip out from under the covers and pad quietly down the hallway, small streaks of light spill out from the kitchen, cutting through the darkness.
Clark stands there, his large, broad frame practically taking up the entire opening of the fridge as he stands with the door held wide open. He’s only dressed in a plain white t-shirt and his boxers, and you can’t help but notice that one of his socks is slightly more scrunched down around his ankle than the other. Cute.
You lean against the doorframe, just watching him as he tilts his head back to slam a bottle of water.
“I know you’re there,” He speaks softly with his back still facing you. You push yourself off the doorframe and walk over, sliding your arms around his waist to hug him from behind. Your hands smooth over the front of his soft tummy, while your cheek presses right against the hard muscle of his back. The contrast makes you smile to yourself, your face burying into the cotton of his shirt as you breathe him in.
He sets the water bottle down on a shelf in the fridge and finally turns around in your embrace. His large hands rest on your hips and he looksdown at you with a soft, sleepy warmth in his eyes.
“Hi, pretty,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rumbling vibration.
You and Clark have been secretly together for a little while now, keeping the quietness of your relationship entirely to yourselves. Going on a group trip meant a lot of careful acting, lingering glances when no one was looking, and a shared tension that made finally being alone together in the dark kitchen feel like the first real breath you’ve taken all day.
You turn around in his arms, smiling up at him as you echo a soft ‘hi’ back before leaning up to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips.
“I missed you,” Clark murmurs against your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening.
“I missed you too.”
You lean in to kiss him again, but as your lips meet, he steps even closer, crowding you completely against the kitchen counter. You can feel the hard, heavy press of his boner straining right against your thigh.
Oh.
Giving each other one last, lingering look, he takes your hand in his and you quietly sneak out of the kitchen and down the hallway, and finally slipping safely into your bedroom.
Now, you’re both stripped completely bare, Clark has you on all fours on top of the soft comforter laid across your bed, your hands gripping the sheets for leverage. Clark settles his massive weight right behind you, one large, heavy hand clamping down on your shoulder to steady you, holding you exactly where he wants you.
He uses that firm grip on your shoulder to manually pull your hips back onto his cock, bottoming out inside you every time he thrusts forward.
“Needed you so bad baby, so so bad,” Clark groans as he keeps up the harsh pace. His free hand slides down to grip your hip, pinning you firmly in place.
He shifts his weight slightly, moving the hand that was anchoring your shoulder up to your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just keeps his large thumb pressed right against your racing pulse point.
The sudden change and pressure makes your head spin, causing you to let out a whimper that’s a little too loud for the quiet house.
Clark leans down further, his sticky chest pressing firm against your back as he guides your hips back onto him once more.
“Shhh, honey,” he murmurs, his warm breath brushing right against the shell of your ear. “Can’t be too loud.” Even with your eyes squeezed shut,you can practically hear the dimpled grin in his voice.
As he continues to jackhammer into you, his tip suddenly nudges your sweet spot a little too hard, and a loud, involuntary sob slips past your lips.
The sound is cut off almost instantly as Clark clamps his large hand firmly over your mouth. He leans fully over you now, his chest completely covering your back as the side of his cheek rests heavily against the side of your head. His thick arm wraps around your front, anchoring your torso and holding you up against his massive weight.
“Hey, hey,” He slows his thrusts down to an agonizing pace, keeping his hand tight over your lips as he murmurs into your hair. “I know it feels good, but we don’t need the whole house figuring us out, okay?”
You nod your head against his palm, your eyes watering from the intensity as you feel his thick length slowly glide all the way in and out of you.
“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” he presses a sweet, lingering kiss to the side of your head before firmly picking up the relentless pace all over again. “Wish I could hear you, you always sound so pretty,”
The last thing you see before forcing your eyes shut are the pillows you both had frantically stuffed between the wall and the headboard earlier. You thought that would be enough to muffle any movement, especially since there wasn't another bedroom on the other side of that wall.
But when the next morning comes and you and Clark finally wander down to the kitchen for breakfast, the smug, knowing looks the others give you over their coffee mugs let you know that the headboard hitting the wall was only one of your worries.
hi jade <3 i miss hotch too :( i saw a tiktok earlier of a prank/trend where a couple was cuddling in bed at the guys place and suddenly the girl told his man that she wants to go home, and she sounded like kinda sad and quiet, and her man got SO worried and serious SO quick, and it was so sweet how he was so gentle and reassuring with her :( it really made me think of hotch (and clark ngl)
—Aaron’s soft-handed reaction to a prank makes you emotional. fem, 1k
It is not Aaron’s fault that he doesn’t use the internet, but it makes pulling pranks on him so easy it’s practically impossible to stop yourself.
He’s resting his chin atop your head as you read with your e-reader resting on his bicep, face to collar, his smell in your nose. The romance novel you’re reading is good, but it isn’t half as romantic as the man that’s holding you. Nobody is as gentle as your Aaron. You’re honestly not sure anyone else ever could be, and it’s your dumb luck that landed you in his arms, in his bed, with his nose in your hair and not a care in the world between either of you.
He takes a long, deep breath that is so obviously his way of smelling you, and his sigh after like he took a drag of a cigarette makes you melt. The words on your e-reader go blurry as your eyes flutter, content. And then you get your evil little idea and lay the reader flat on his arm. His arm is bigger than the reader is wide, which almost stops you from opening your mouth at all.
If you ask nicely, he’ll squeeze you.
But you really wanna mess with him, so you make yourself small. Let your spine go rigid, and let your profiler get the message.
He peers down at you in concern. “What’s wrong, baby?” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.
“I want to go home,” you say, matching your tone to the very worst (which is to say, best) video, her voice sad and soft, like she was truly defeated. And it couldn’t break Aaron’s heart more to hear it, even if the scary FBI training means he doesn’t take your acting as entirely truthful.
“What?” he asks, shifting you in his arms, down his chest some so he can your face. He takes your face in his hand, his thumb rubbing up the line of your cheek. “You want to go home?”
“Yeah, I wanna go home.”
“Why, honey?” His voice is like gossamer, thin and silken. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter, hm?”
His eyebrows get that square pinch between them as he caresses your cheek. You falter in the face of his gentleness, which makes it all the more believable that there’s something wrong.
“Have I done something? Please don’t leave, I’d worry myself to death if you left me now.” His voice is familiar and warm, slow, forever mellifluous. You’ll never get sick of the way he talks—it’s one of the reasons you fell in love with him, how he could make anything at all sound like a love note. “What’s making you feel unsure? Tell me what’s going on in there.”
You know that Aaron’s gentle, but he’s gone so sweet so suddenly it has emotion brewing in you that you haven’t earned. You swallow a silly lump and try to smile. “It’s nothing,” you say.
Aaron slowly cards his hand behind your neck and encourages you into the curve of his neck, his second hand at the small of your back in a perfect fit. Warm and big, stretching over one of your most delicate parts.
“I don’t know what to think about it, honey. I don’t ever want you to feel like you’d rather be at home than with me. If you need space, you can have it. Of course you can have it, but I’m getting the feeling that that’s not what this is about. Do you trust that you can talk to me?”
You want to cuss, but your throat burns, and all you can force out is a reprimanding, “Aaron.”
“‘Cos I can fix anything.”
“I know that.”
“Yeah? So let me fix it for you, sweetheart.”
It is perhaps your greatest shame to be near tears in his arms as you plead with him to pretend you never said it. “I was just– I just wondered how you’d react, is all, there’s nothing wrong.” And Aaron doesn’t believe you, still soft as silk, so you tell him about the video you saw and he hums. You’re worried he’ll be rougher with you, then, because it’s not like you’ve earned his sympathy, but he rubs your back slowly and hums pensively, the smell of his skin under your nose.
“Something still doesn’t feel right, does it?” he asks in a murmur, unaware of the molten heat in your throat and stomach simultaneously. You couldn’t explain it to him if he did notice it. “Did you– was it a surprise, that I wanted you to stay and work things out with me? I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear, that I’d fix anything for you.”
It’s just—it borders being too much, too kind. It’s the ache of biting into something sweet with a bad tooth, how he’s gone this tender, how he hasn’t once pushed you off of his chest. It hits you how willing he is to spend endless minutes reassuring you over nothing, a scenario that you created, and how easily he reads your smallest emotions.
You’re downed by a video prank, and it’s all your fault.
Luckily, Aaron doesn’t seem to mind at all. He tips your head back with your ear against his shoulder, looking up at him from his chest all wide-eyed and in love as he leans down for a slow kiss. “Do you want to go home?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head, worried your voice will wobble and betray you if you speak, so Aaron leans down again to press another kiss to your mouth, this time very purposefully misaligned, so as to kiss right under your nose.
“What can I do to make you feel better?” he asks, like you haven’t just deregulated yourself by accident.
“I’m okay. Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry.” He gives your back a good rub, like he’s waving his hand into your spine. “How’s that? Is that helping?”
“Little more,” you tell him. You don’t mention going home again.
He brings the blankets over your and strokes shapes into the small of your back, eventually finding the humour in things when you're spent on his chest, murmuring a loving, “So sweet,” into your crown.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x female!reader
Warnings: domestic established relationship, breast massage for pain relief, comfort.
Summary: After a double shift, Jack helps soothe the ache of a long day.
Jack is about to say something about ordering takeout, but the words catch in his throat when he looks inside the bedroom.
You’ve already kicked off your sneakers and shed your jeans. Standing at the foot of the bed in just your sweatpants, you grab the hem of your t-shirt, and pull it over your head, letting it drop to the bed.
Next comes the real relief.
You reach back, unhooking your bra that’s been digging into your ribs for the last hours. With a groan of comfort, you toss it onto the nightstand. You cup your breasts, using your hands to gently massage the aching skin where the wires had been pressing and trapping heat all day, trying to get the blood flowing again.
Jack stands there for a moment, his gaze softening. The sheer domesticity of the scene makes something melt in him.
He steps fully into the room. "Everything okay, doll?" he asks.
You look up, letting out a smile. "Yeah. Just... bras are brutal after a double shift. It feels like they're trying to bruised my ribs by the end of the day."
Jack closes the distance between you.
"Bra problems require expert care," he teases softly, his hands coming to rest gently on your hips. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Let me take over? My hands are warm, and I happen to have an excellent bedside manner."
You smile, tilting your head. "Is that an official medical recommendation, Dr. Abbot?"
"Strictly therapeutic," he murmurs.
Jack turns you, his chest brushing against your bare back as he closes the distance. You instinctively lean into him, letting out a soft sigh as he supports you.
He wraps his arms around your waist for a brief second, pressing a warm kiss to the crook of your neck.
"Relax, doll," he whispers warmly against your skin.
He slides his hands upward, his palms completely warm against your skin as they replace your own. His hands cup you gently, immediately bringing a sense of relief to the ache.
Jack knows exactly how much pressure to apply, using his thumbs to trace the red indentations left behind by the underwire, smoothing over the irritated skin in slow circles.
You let your eyes close, completely melting against him. Your back is pressed flat against his chest, feeling the steady, calming thud of his heartbeat beneath his shirt.
"Better?" Jack asks softly, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as his hands continue their soothing, rhythmic motion.
"So much better," you murmur, closing your eyes and letting your head rest back against his shoulder. "You're hired permanently."
"Good, because I don't plan on quitting my job," Jack chuckles. He presses a tender kiss to the side of your neck, his thumbs smoothing over your skin, content to just hold you and soothe away the stress of the day for as long as you need.
summary: When you've been feeling sick for a few weeks, Jack expects to face the worst. But a trip to the emergency room reveals something he never expected. And you have to face the fact you're there for each other in sickness and health... and everything between.
warnings: pregnancy, mentions of abbot being a widower, lots of uncertainty and anxiety, age gap (but reader is implied to be a bit older), talks about infertility/ trouble getting pregnant. let me know if I need to add anything!
notes: had this idea a few days ago and like the devious baby fever pilled gal I am and managed to bang it out in two evenings. thank you jack abbot for being my current muse.
Jack’s work shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, his heavy footsteps echoing down the empty hospital hall. He’s running, a layer of sweat already beading at his temple. The glass ambulance bay door hits the wall with a teeth chattering thud. Jack is almost suprised it didn't shatter with his thrust.
He pants, eyes scanning the hospital’s back lot, trying to find the ambulance he knew was on his way.
“Mr. Abbot, we have your wife here- she fainted in the grocer’s parking lot…”
Jack knew he shouldn't have left you. He'd had a feeling. The looming dread that had been creeping up on him the past couple of weeks.
You'd been feeling out of it for a while now. A lethargic and nauseating achiness you couldn't quite shake, no matter how much tylenol or herbal teas you’d tried.
You had played it off as nothing. Just a headache that came and went. An upset stomach due to the day old chinese food you’d eaten.
“It's fine, Jack. I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m okay. I’m here. You don't have to worry.”
But Jack worried.
He was always worrying.
He knew that little things sometimes added up to a bigger, meaner somethings. That if you missed the signs, you might catch it too late.
What exactly? Jack wasn't sure. He didn’t particularly want to find out.
But he sure as hell wasn't gonna let you blow it off now.
His heart pounds as the ambulance finally pulls into the bay, the emergency lights blaring an ugly red and orange. Jack bary registers the EMT saying hello to him, his eyes focused on your splayed out form, laying on the gurney.
“Hey baby,” he says, voice cracking slightly.
“Jack,” you look up at him blearily, your eyes hazy, a bandage already taped to your forehead. Jack is quick to come by your side as the EMT lowers the gurney, his hand running over the back of your hair.
“One of the bystanders said she hit her head going down. It's not too bad. Just needs some cleaning. Same for her legs,” the EMT says to Jack as she watches him carefully lift the bandage.
Jack lets out a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and leading your gurney back into the Pitt.
“What the hell Jack. You just ran off-” Robby calls out, watching Jack come back in. He stops once he sees you, your scraped up knees and bandaged head, the confused expression on your face. “What happened?”
“She fainted. We’ll need to start her on an iv, get her fluids and run a couple of blood tests. Do you still feel dizzy?”
“I don’t… Jack, what’s going on?” You look up at Jack, confused, panic written across your face. Jack looks back at the EMT who shakes her head.
“She was having trouble remembering the fall. Only remembers her headache and feeling sick.”
Jack remembers how you had looked this morning. The purple bruises around your eyes and the wince you'd tried to hide when he said goodbye.
“I don't have to go in today. Shen can cover if Robby really needs him to.”
“Go Jack. They need you more than me.”
He should have known better.
Robby comes beside the railing of the gurney, helping to pull it into a trauma room. You look around, your chest beginning to rise and fall quicker as your eyes begin to clear of the confused fog.
“What’s going on?”
“Jack, stay with your wife.”
“I am with her,” he throws back at Robby, turning to grab the bag of fluids Princess was moving to hand him.
“No. Stay with her as Jack. Not Dr. Abbot,” Robby tosses back, gesturing to your wide and fearful eyes. Jack swallows thickly, torn.
Especially when you groan, turning towards Robby and vomiting off the side of the gurney railing.
Jack’s heart hurts, pounding heavily against his sternum. You were here. The one place he hated seeing you.
Jack knows he can help take care of you right now. Bandage you up and order labs. He can solve the mystery behind why you were suddenly so ill. Why you haven’t been feeling well lately.
He can handle that. Dr. Jack Abbot, night attending and army vet, can handle bad news.
But just Jack. Mr. Jack Abbot, loving husband and worried widower, cannot.
He can’t take another bad diagnosis.
Jack looks up at Robby who’s helping Princess clean up the vomit, and then back at you. And he makes a decision.
“Hey,” Jack says, pushing down the railing on his side of your gurney and sitting on the edge. “Hey, honey-” He takes your head in his hands, taking the damp cloth Robby hands him and helping to clean your face.
Jack sits with you, his scrub top abandoned, his hand clasped tightly over yours. He watches as the color slowly comes back into your face, helps you take a sip of juice when your hand trembles too much to hold the cup. He stays silent for it all, Robby cleaning and bandaging your scrapes, Perlah coming in to draw your blood, the hospital gown Princess helps you into. He watches it all with a wariness. An awful churning in his gut.
A fear gnawing away at him.
“Jack,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. He hums, glancing up at you from where he was sitting beside your gurney. “It’s going to be alright.”
“I know,” he whispers back. You hadn’t said much to each other. Mostly hushed whispers and clinging to each other's hand. Like raising your voices was too much for the already overstimulating hospital room.
Jack’s knee is bouncing up and down anxiously. He couldn’t help it, his mind turning over the many diagnoses, the myriad of things that could be wrong with you. You gently wrangle your hand out of his iron grip, reaching over to rest it on his jostling knee. Jack stills at the feeling of your warm palm over the fabric of his scrub pants, swallowing. You smile.
“Whatever it is… we’ll be okay.”
"I know," Jack repeats again. But it's hard to really believe it.
He's been here once before. A hospital room just like this. The woman he loves loved sitting by his side. Slowly wasting away. And he didn’t even know it.
He sees the symptoms, too familiar and painful. The exhaustion and fatigue that wore you down. The migraines and brain fog, lethargicness and nausea that plagued you. He sees it and he knows. Whatever labs Robby is currently looking at holds a future he’s not sure he’s ready for.
You sigh, your hand moving upwards to run through his salt and pepper curls. They had already been mussed and messed up from his own hand raking through them. Jack sighs at the feeling, closing his eyes and leaning his head against your side. You hum, holding him close.
“I didn’t even get to do any shopping. I just… passed out in the parking lot.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jack mumbles into your gown. “I’ll order some groceries for delivery later.”
“I really wanted to get that new cream cheese to try. The one with the jalapenos.” You sigh. “Gosh, I wish they could just inject that into my iv. Maybe I’d perk up faster.”
Jack can’t help but crack a smile. You hum happily, still petting his hair.
“There he is.” Jack looks up at you, his mouth open to say something. To apologize for worrying. For being so scared.
But he doesn’t get a chance.
The door to your room opens, Robby’s familiar silhouette shadowing behind the curtain.
“Jack?”
Jack clears his throat. “Yeah?”
Robby peeks his head through the fabric.
“I’ve got the test results back.” He comes in and sits down on the stool by the foot of your bed with a grunt. You give Jack a nervous look, your hand finding his again. He takes it, squeezing gently. Grounding. Robby clears his throat.
“Well, your blood panels came back fine. No signs of infection or disease.”
“So…what is it? What’s wrong with her?” Jack asks, swallowing thickly. Robby looks down at the lab work in his hands, peering over the frames of his glasses at the two of you.
“Nothing.”
The word hits harder than Jack could have expected. Of all the things he had anticipated-
You frown, looking confused.
“Nothing,” you repeat, the question no louder than a breath of air. Robby smiles and nods.
“Well, nothing that won’t go away in nine months. Congratulations kids. You're gonna have a baby."
Both of you go very still. Your mouth falls open, Jack’s eyes practically bug out of his head. Robby sits there smugly, folding the lab results over.
“A…” Jack starts, trailing off as he leans forward. Surely he’d heard Robby wrong.
“I- a baby?” You ask, dumbstruck.
“Hmm.” Robby nods. “From what I can tell you’re roughly six weeks along. Of course, you’d need an ultrasound and larger blood panel to be able to tell more accurately.”
“Pregnant,” Jack breathes. His eyes dart around the room, finally meeting Robby’s. “But how?”
Robby raises an eyebrow.
“It’s a simple process. I don’t think I have to explain the exact mechanics on conceiving to you Jack-”
"No, I know- I mean how... I can't even...
"We aren't exactly prime candidates for conceiving," you finish for Jack.
He can feel your fingers wrap tighter around his hand, your shoulder brushing against his.
Robby gives you a look, his features softening. “I know. I know, I don’t know why. It happens. Sometimes fertility problems resolve themselves. No on can pinpoint why exactly. Could be hormonal changes, medication changes, reduced stress-”
You and Jack finally glance over at each other. He looks at you, eyes raking over your face, the glimmer of hope you were trying to hide. And it hits him.
The sabbatical, he thinks. The long overdue vacation he'd finally gotten around to taking.
Three months without either of you worrying about work or patients. Three months of just the two of you; long walks in the park, lazy mornings spent in bed. Decadent yet nutritious dinners and way too many trips to the ice cream shop down the street.
Leaving behind the worries of your every day.
The sabbatical he’d finally come back from not even a few weeks ago. Just before you had begun to get sick-
You're the first to smile. A small curve upwards, more nervous than anything.
"I'm pregnant."
Jack breathes heavily in his chair.
“You are,” Robby smiles. You take a shaky breath, unsure of what to say. “There’s quite a few things we’ll have to go over. I’m sure Jack knows this speech like the back of his hand, but it’s still customary…”
Jack is half listening as Robby goes on about the usual procedure. The prenatal vitamins you’ll need, the appointments you’ll have to set up. The safety precautions and symptoms and internal changes. The risks considering Jack was older and you weren’t very young yourself.
Jack is so far zoned out he doesn’t even realize you’re calling his name.
“Jack. Honey," you shake his shoulder, frowning. “Are you okay?”
Jack opens his mouth, looking between you and Robby. He glances once at your stomach. Hidden behind the hospital gown. Looking exactly like it had yesterday.
But it was different. There wasn’t some disease growing inside you. Some foreign thing making you sick and slowly sucking the life out of you.
There was a baby growing there. You were sick because you were making another life.
Jack is hit by the realization that for the next nine months, you were going to be going through all kinds of changes. All kinds of hurdles and milestones.
A baby.
Jack suddenly feels sick.
“I have to go,” he blurts, shaking your hand off of his shoulder and beelining out of the hospital room.
“Jack!” You call out, your voice raising with surprise.
“I just need some air!”
Jack doesn’t turn back. He can’t. He can’t let you see the utter terror written on his face.
He marches down the hall, ignoring the looks the nurses give him, the confusion Trinity and Mel share as he storms out down the crowded hallway and to the stairwell.
You find Jack outside. Not on the roof like you’d panicked he’d be.
Robby had come back, shaking his head, trying to calm your racing heart.
No. After finally convincing Robby to let you help him look, You find Jack sitting on one of the benches in the park across the way from PTMC. He’s sitting there, elbows braced against his knees, staring off into the distance.
You approach him carefully, blades of grass crunching beneath the slip on clogs the hospital provided. Your clothes feel cold against you, comforting and familiar after the scratchy hospital gown. You glance back at Robby who stands at the edge of the park. He nods, encouraging you to keep going.
As you get closer, you realize Jack’s not just staring off at nothing. You catch sight of his eyes, focused and glistening beneath the late afternoon light. You follow his sight line, watching a little family on the other side of the park. A broad shouldered man tossing a foam ball to a toddler girl, her mother laughing as her girl toddles about.
You watch Jack for a moment, staying out of his sight line. You don't have to try very hard to guess what he's thinking about. The sheer amount of worry and confusion he's feeling.
You felt it yourself. The whiplash of expecting the worst outcome only to learn you were carrying something wonderful. There was still the nervousness of what the future would look like.
The schedules that would need rearranging, the house child proofed, your office room cleared out in space for another little person. Doctors appointments and ultrasound photos taped to the fridge, onesies and books and diapers tucked away in a closet.
In spite of the excitement you felt, the confused yet exhilarating feeling of knowing you were going to be a mother, you were scared.
There was a whole person you'd have to take care of. You'd have to grow and birth. You weren't exactly a spry chicken. Neither was Jack. And there were more risks and complications that came with that.
On top of all the things that came with pregnancy.
You might not be dying from some malady. But pregnancy was no small thing either.
You finally take a step forward, placing your hand gently on Jack’s shoulder. He snaps out of his stupor, back straightening, a panic written in his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be up-”
“I’m okay.” He frowns. You point to the space beside him on the bench. “Can I sit?”
Jack nods, scooting over a bit. You sit. Jack wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand; being closer now, you can see they’re red rimmed and glassy. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first.
But he’s the first to open his mouth again.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run out of there. That was a dick move."
You swallow against the thick lump in your throat, trying to keep the well of anger rising at bay. It wasn’t hard to. The fear and anxiety laid bare in Jack’s voice. The thoughts he tried so hard to hide from you unveiled.
You nod. “Yeah. It kinda was."
He takes a breath, reaching out to hold your hand. You take it, his thumb brushing along the ridge of your knuckles.
"I just... this whole time I was worried I was going to lose you. I kept thinking about all the ways I’d have to watch you die. All the treatments or surgeries…” he chuckles dryly. “I was so worried about you. And now all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to have a kid walking down the aisle in a cap and gown when I’m 70.”
You sigh, the breeze a gentle comfort as it blows against your cheeks.
“That's all you’re thinking about? College already?” You give his hand a small, loving squeeze. Teasing. A clearing amidst the stormy turmoil you both had been worrying over.
“Well,” he shrugs slowly. “You know, between wondering if the pregnancy will hold. Or birth. Or what elementary school drop offs will look like and dinners and the house and my crazy schedule-”
“I know. I know, it’s a lot.”
Jack nods. “It is… and I’m scared.”
You look at him. Your heart aches with the pure sincerity written on his face. Jack was never one to hide his feelings. But he rarely gave them away easily. Not like this.
Truth written in the glassy mist of his eyes, the worry carried in the tightness of his hand around yours.
“I know,” you nod. “I know it’s not going to be easy. Robby explained the risks.”
The long list of complications and genetic disorders and risky side effects run through your mind. You hadn’t known just how fragile pregnancy became the older you got. It was just never something that had crossed your mind. To think or worry about. But now…
You continue.
“I know this wasn’t what we had planned, Jack. Us. Having kids… and I know you may not want- may not think we can do this. But I don’t think this is such a bad thing.”
Jack’s eyes widen, his frown deepening.
“What, woah. No I don’t want you thinking that. I don’t- I don’t think that.”
“Really?” You take a deep breath, hopeful. Jack finally smiles. A small and gentle quirk of his mouth.
“Really. And I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I just… I didn’t think that I could have one.”
“A baby?” You clarify. He nods.
“I told you about what happened in the army. With my leg and, well, everything else. And you told me having kids wasn’t exactly going to be easy for you.” It’s your turn to nod.
Between Jack’s injury and age, your genetics and seemingly lackluster fertility, a baby had just never been a part of your plan. And you were fine with it. Life was crazy enough as it was.
“I know. But here we are.”
Jack nods, looking out into the park again. He’s watching the small family again, eyes glued to the man as he hoists his giggling daughter into his arms.
“Here we are,” he mumbles.
“We don’t have to figure everything out right now Jack. There’s still time.”
“Seven months and two weeks,” he huffs. You chuckle.
Robby makes Jack leave the hospital early with you.
Although Jack would use the term ‘make’ loosely, considering he had already decided he wasn’t staying the moment he saw you in the ambulance’s hull. You’re cleared to leave not long after Robby drags the both of you back into the ED, making sure to stop by the pharmacy to pick up your new prescriptions.
The prenatal vitamins and nausea medication sit among Jack’s own clutter of meds on the kitchen counter. Jack told you not to worry about groceries or the car still at the store. He’d take care of all of it in the morning.
For now, he just wanted to clean away the sterile smell of the hospital lingering on both of your clothes and get to bed.
He’s grateful, for once, that you're exhausted enough to fall asleep the minute your head hits the pillow. You’re breathing softly beneath the sheets before Jack can even pull his prosthetic off, your hand lain out on his side, like you still wanted him to hold it unconsciously.
But sleep doesn’t come for him. Jack lays awake for a long while.
The moonlight casts wispy shadows along the wall and he watches them, thinking. He plays with his wedding ring, twirling it between his fingers with mesmerizing ease.
Not the ring you'd slipped onto his left hand years ago, the dark amber band that still glistens on his ring finger. Jack plays with the wedding ring he wore a long time ago, still a young man figuring things out. From his first marriage. His first wife.
It wasn't often he pulled the ring out. Sometimes it hurt too much to even look at it; to think about and remember her. Jack fiddles with the ring now, holding it against his lips as if he could whisper all his worries into it.
The worries which still rested in the side of his ribs, changed but there all the same. Jack can’t help but think of all the things he never got to do with her. The future they’d planned cut short by an illness he couldn’t cure. Maybe it’s why he felt so scared now.
This unplanned thing laid out before him. Far out of his control.
Jack tosses and turns, his mind reeling with memories and thoughts about the future. He quietly gets up, setting the ring on his nightstand and fitting his prosthetic back on. He slips out of your bedroom, making sure you were still settled before wandering down the hall.
He’d always wanted to be a father. That wasn’t the problem. Hearing that you were pregnant had resurfaced those feelings like they’d never been buried. The idea of having a mini him, with matching curls and crooked smile. Or a mini you, with your bright eyes and pretty nose.
The problem was that desire had been locked away for a very long time. After he got injured in the army. After he became a widow. Even after he met you. Jack had begun to accept that being someone’s parent was just not in the cards he’d been dealt. But now…
Jack stands in the living room, staring around the dark room. He moves quietly, picking up a random glass and setting it in the kitchen, moving the tossed couch pillows back into their designated places. He can’t sit still when he tries. The air suffocating inside in spite of the cooling system blowing gently.
Jack ends up sitting outside on the back porch, his head in his hands.
What would she have thought? After all this time.
A baby.
Jack’s not even sure he should begin to want this. To let himself hope. There was so much uncertainty with a later in life pregnancy, of an older parent conceiving a child. The constant what ifs and complications. So much to worry about.
Jack sighs, running a hand through his mussed curls as he realizes how tired he is. Of feeling on edge. Of never feeling like he could settle. The worry of something bad happening again. Of being all alone-
A noise sounds from the bushes running along the fence.
Leaves rustle softly, twigs crunching beneath something weighty. Jack looks up, brows furrowing. He squints, standing and flipping on the porch light to illuminate the dark backyard. The rustling sounds again, and Jack inches closer.
He pauses. And then he lets out a disbelieving laugh, instantly quieting himself.
The rabbit which had ducked back into the foliage at the sound of his voice peeks it’s head out again in the new silence. Her nose twitching, beady black eyes staring straight into Jack. He lets out a breath, in awe of the rare sight. He knew there were plenty of rabbits that lived around the neighborhood. He often saw where they burrowed through your garden or ate certain plants. But actually seeing one was rarer.
Of all the nights…
He goes still when the rabbit moves. Inching slowly out of the bush. She turns back, snuffling softly and moving forward again. A baby in tow.
Now, Jack was not a very superstitious man. At least, not by nature. He laughed when Ellis chastised him for saying the “q” word in the ED, rolled his eyes when Joy and Nazely talked about karma.
But if life had taught Jack anything, it was to never ignore the signs.
He watches the pair of rabbits hop through the backyard, eyes following their path until they squeeze through the cracked boards of the fence, disappearing into the night. Jack lets out a slow and much needed exhale, the cool air of the night finally feeling fresh.
New.
Second chances that don't always happen every day.
Baby rabbit.
Baby Abbot.
He liked the sound of that. And maybe, this time, there wouldn’t be so much to worry about. Not with you by his side.
"Jaack!" You call out from the kicthen, where you're putting the first few bags of groceries away.
"Yeah?" Jack's voice echoes down the hall, the sound of more paper bags rustling.
"Did you get- never mind!" You grin as you find the tub of cream cheese you'd been dying to get your hands on, practically tearing the package open and digging in. You let out a satisfied hum as you eat a spoonful of the spicy spread, nodding in satisfaction.
Jack enters the kitchen, arms full of groceries, an amused look on his face.
"As good as you'd hoped it'd be?" You hum again.
"Better. I think your child already has great taste in cuisine."
Jack stills for a fraction of a second, then smiles. He sets down the bags and moves over by your side, pressing a kiss to your forehead, carefully around the tender cut still hidden by a bandage.
"Yeah they do."
You both put away the food and various household items you'd needed to stock up on. Trash bags and pasta, that lavender creamer you loved and Jack's protein bars he always carried in his scrub pockets.
You munch on a bagel- properly toasted and spread with your cream cheese because Jack insisted on at least being civilized about your cravings- going through the last bag. The bag crinkles as you feel around inside; you frown as your hand comes into contact with something soft. Fluffy. You peer inside.
A little stuffed bunny peers back at you. You stare at it for a moment, and then you laugh.
"Jack?"
"What?" He asks, folding the towel he'd just used to wash his hands. You smile, holding up the bunny. His ears go pink and he gives you a bashful grin.
"I just thought... well I thought it might be cute for the baby. You know, rabbits are thought to be good luck charms or something."
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hey, i don't know if you do request, but what about brendon Park x wife!medical malpractice attorney? and they have a kid together who needs urgent medical attention for a sprained ankle, aaaand she is just as intimidating as park. u can feel the pressure and tension in that room for both having the shark and a well recognized medical malpractice attorney
okay I did peds reader bc they’re almost the same??? lol
brendon park x peds wife!reader
SHALLOW WATERS
"what've we got?" robby asked as the paramedics wheeled in.
"11 year old male, bp 119/73, HR 111, RR 20. apparently he took a fall; reporting pain to the left ankle." the EMT leaned in closer. talking in his ear. "neighbors called it in."
the attendings eyebrows drew in. “parents?" the medic tipped his head toward the kid discreetly. "he said his parents were at work— didn't say where. but he was adamant about coming here.”
robby glanced at the boy then back to the EMT. almost as if needing clarification. “we were closer to Presby.”
it wasn’t new to have patients rerouted. but it wasn’t something they’d ask for. especially by someone this kid's age. if his condition was worse, they would’ve taken him to Presby. no hesitation.
“his name?”
“Henry— didn’t get the last. we were trying to get his heart rate down, his adrenaline was high.“ the medic explained. “besides his request to come here, he didn’t talk much after that. I assumed he was still in shock from the pain.”
“and the neighbors didn’t say anything else? where his parents are or where they work?” robby needed something. the medic shook his head. “not to me.” his head turning over to his partner. “Pzsonyi— did the couple tell you anything about the parents?”
“said they were doctors.”
and he was adamant about coming here.
“that should narrow it down. not like we have a hospital full of those—” robby said sarcastically. “we got it from here.”
robby turned and walked towards where the nurses were. the blonde already fixed on him as he approached.
“you good?” dana asked as she watched over the rim of her glasses.
Robby’s hands went behind his neck as he blew out a breath. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
he then looked over his shoulder where the boy was across the floor of the department. “the 11 year old patient that just came in” his head gestured back. Dana’s eyes following. “would you be able to work your magic and get his emergency contacts? came in without anyone. according to the EMT, his parents work here.”
the charge nurse's eyes pinched a bit.
"they work here?"
Robby shrugged. “I’m not for sure,” Dana gave him a look, rolling her eyes.
“one of the medics said his parents were doctors and the other told me the boy was insistent on coming here. It’s a long shot but I could only assume.” robby scratched his beard. Dana gave him a nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”
His hands clapped together, grasping one another as he gave her a tight lipped smile. A silent thank you before he turned to leave. heading over to where Henry was.
Jesse was with him. A smile on the boy's face despite his damp cheeks.
“Henry, right?” robby started as he grabbed some gloves. blue eyes stared back at him, then a nod. a quiet ‘yes sir’ given.
it was a small movement. the corner of Robby’s mouth lifted up.
Respectful.
his attention turned to Jesse. “500 mg of acetaminophen, 350mg of ibuprofen. and let’s get him in for xrays.” Jesse nodded as he gets the meds ready.
“We’re gonna get a hold of your mom and dad, Henry– let them know you’re here.” robby circled back to the patient. The attending watching. The boy’s lips parting before licking the bottom. almost as if it was on the tip of his tongue and he decided against it. “Okay.”
“I hear they’re doctors here, any chance I might–”
“Robinavitch.” Dana peeked in. Robby glanced up. The charge nurse's head tipped the other way. “a word.”
Robby gave Henry’s shoulder squeeze. “I’ll be right back, in the mean time, Jesse here,” hand motioning to the tall male nurse, “aaaand” Robby’s head swiveled. eyes catching two of his students.
Student and first year resident.
“Whitaker. Ogilvie.”
the two turned when they heard their names. Robby signaling them over.
“Dr. Whitaker and Dr. Ogilvie,”
“Student Doctor.” James interrupted with a finger up. Robby paused and nodded. “Right– are going to assist.”
“Dr. Robby, we don’t–” whitaker’s words fell short as the older man delivered a shoulder pat. “You got this.” gloves snapped off as he sailed out. The blonde was standing in the hall with pressed lips, tablet held to her chest, and an amused glint in her eyes.
“Did you work your magic?”
A smile stretched across Dana’s face. “I feel like you’re gonna regret asking me.” she laughed. “I did— and you’re never gonna guess who mom and dad are.”
Robby eyed her. “Who?”
Dana flickered her sight a few feet away to where the boys were. her finger pointing to the younger one who sat on the hospital bed.
“you’ve got a baby shark in there.”
Robby blinked. then let out a laugh.
not a nervous one and not an amused one. It was one someone gave when they were just given information they couldn't fathom. Or really, didn’t like. Almost like not wanting to hear what they were just told even if they asked for it and now they were suffering the consequences.
that kind of laugh.
“of course they are.” hands rubbing his eyes as he fell back onto the heels of his feet. “Are we sure?” he squinted as he crossed his arms over his chest.
Dana grinned. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“Did you already let them know?” robby asked.
“And what? risk the chance of there being blood in the water because I waited to tell them that their son was down here. What are you fucking kidding me? Of course I told them.” the charge nurse gave him a wide look as if not believing he really just asked a stupid question.
He was a man afterall.
Robby blew out a breath. “Fuck– okay. When are they–” his question answered when you guys approach.
“Park.”
It was rare to see you both down here at the same time. Not that it never happened, it was just unexpected. The interns said it felt wrong. like seeing a shark itself in the shallow waters.
You hadn’t even acknowledged robby; passing right by. Brendon barely sparing a nod.
“Better not have anyone incompetent with my son.”
Henry looked up when he heard his dad. A wide smile stretching when he saw his mom.
Your persona was washed off. Not at all caring that you were completely exposed. Out in the open. Your hand caressing his cheek, his smaller one on top.
“Are you okay?” a quiet ask. eyes watching him as he nods. “I’m okay.”
A satisfied smile before you press a kiss to his forehead. Squeezing his cheeks in your grasp.
Whitaker and Ogilvie just stared. One not wanting to interrupt and probably too scared to do so, while the other stood with wide eyes. His mouth parted like a fish out of water.
Brendon pressed another kiss to the other side of his head. before his eyes lift to his boy's foot. an ice pack resting on his ankle.
“is he on meds?” Brendon asked as he leaned up. his hand brushing against his son’s hair before pulling gloves out of his scrub pocket. snapping them on.
“500 mg of acetaminophen– 350mg of ibuprofen.” Robby clarified. arms crossed as he nodded.
“iced the area to—” “I’m not blind.”
Whitaker closed his mouth.
“dad.” brendons eyes caught his sons. the boy giving him an unimpressed look that you knew he inherited from the man in front of him. “don’t interrupt.”
your suppress a smile. his words sounded familiar.
brendon cleared his throat. “finish.” gaze on the r1 for a split second before he diverts it.
Whitaker looks to robby, then looks to you then the young boy. he knows now how Ogilvie felt. only this time it was a little more reassuring knowing the kid had his back. he didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.
“We uh— just iced to reduce the swelling, elevation above heart level. bp now, 105/61, HR 89, 99 on room….” his eyes finding Henry’s. the youngest park giving him a thumbs up.
“xray?” you asked from the side. "dr. robby already had them in order.” whitaker verbalised.
“we’re still waiting to get him in.” the attending intervened quietly. you slowly peeled yourself away from your son. "I'll be back— make sure dad doesn't kill anyone." you joke drily as you leave.
it earns a giggle from the kid.
Ogilvie, who had been surprisingly quiet, turns to where you just left. eyes wide as his head spins. “was she being serious—”
"It was just one time." Henry shrugs.
"One?” Whitaker and Ogilvie echo. Robby’s lips pursing as he watches in amusement. head shaking at how easy it was to reel them in.
Summary: There are some fears even Superman can't outrun.
Word count: 4.2k+
Warnings: heavy angst
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Clark had forgotten how long he had been standing there.
The rain had long since soaked through his clothes, turning the black fabric of his dress shirt heavy against his skin, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Water streamed down his face and dripped from his jaw. At some point he had stopped distinguishing between the rain and the tears. Neither seemed interested in stopping.
The cemetery had emptied hours ago. The mourners had gone home, the flowers left behind had begun to wilt beneath the downpour, and even the groundskeepers had disappeared. Only Clark remained, standing motionless before the grave as though if he stared at it long enough reality might finally lose its nerve and take everything back.
Your name was carved neatly into polished granite, and somehow that was the thing he hated most. Not the rain. Not the silence. Not even the crushing emptiness sitting in his chest. It was the fact that an entire life could be reduced to something so small. A name. Two dates. A line of text. Clark's eyes traced the letters over and over until they blurred together, and still he couldn't look away. The stone didn't tell people who you were.
It didn't tell them about the way you laughed when something genuinely surprised you, throwing your head back without caring who was watching. It didn't tell them about the way you stole food from his plate and then acted offended when he caught you. It didn't tell them about the way you always reached for him in your sleep, your hand searching for his even when you weren't awake enough to realize it. It didn't tell them about the future you'd spent years building together. The children whose names you'd argued about. The places you still wanted to visit. The tiny apartment you'd once shared before moving somewhere bigger. The old age you were supposed to reach. The wrinkles you were supposed to earn. None of it existed here. Everything that had made you you had been reduced to carved stone and cold earth.
A strangled breath escaped him. "You were supposed to grow old."
The words vanished into the rain almost immediately, but Clark kept staring at the headstone anyway. His own voice had sounded unfamiliar. Thin. Fragile. Like it belonged to somebody else.
"You were supposed to keep making fun of my cooking." A weak smile appeared despite himself, because you always complained about his cooking. Even when you liked it. Especially when you liked it. He could practically hear your voice now, teasing him about burning breakfast again, insisting that Ma was still the superior cook. The memory arrived with such clarity that it physically hurt.
That was the part nobody warned you about. People talked about grief as though it was sadness. As though it was crying and funerals and learning how to move on. Nobody talked about the violence of remembering. Nobody talked about how a perfectly ordinary memory could suddenly drive the air from your lungs. One second, you were standing still. The next you were remembering the exact sound of someone's laugh and wondering how it was possible for the world to continue turning when that laugh no longer existed inside it.
God, he missed you.
He missed you in ordinary moments. He missed turning around and expecting to find you there. He missed hearing his phone vibrate and hoping it was you. He missed having someone to tell about his day. He missed your toothbrush beside his. Your shoes near the door. The way you stole the blankets every night and denied it every morning.
Most of all, he missed being known. That was what nobody understood. People loved Superman. They loved symbols and legends and larger-than-life heroes. But you had never loved Superman. You had loved Clark. The awkward farm boy from Kansas who still called his mother when life became overwhelming. The man who burned pancakes because he got distracted. The man who worried too much, cared too much, and carried every failure like a stone in his chest.
You had known every imperfect part of him and somehow loved him anyway. And now the only person who had ever looked at all of him and chosen to stay was gone.
Clark squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment he could almost hear your voice. It was so vivid that his heart lurched painfully against his ribs. Some foolish part of him wanted to turn around, wanted to believe you'd be standing there behind him with that familiar smile, telling him he was being dramatic and that standing in the rain wasn't going to solve anything.
But reality returned quickly. It always did. Cruel and silent and completely indifferent to his grief. The worst part wasn't even that you were gone. The worst part was discovering that the world didn't care. Cars still drove down busy streets. Children still laughed in playgrounds. People still argued about meaningless things. Tomorrow the sun would rise exactly as it always had. The Earth would continue spinning. The city would wake up and move forward. The universe had lost the best thing Clark Kent had ever known, and somehow it kept going.
A hand settled gently on his shoulder.
Clark didn't have to turn around; he recognized Lois immediately.
She stood beside him beneath an umbrella, her eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. For several moments, she said nothing. She simply looked at the grave alongside him, and Clark found himself grateful for the silence. There was nothing either of them could say that would make this easier. Lois missed you, too.
Everyone did.
That had always been the problem with you. Loving you had been effortless. You had moved through people's lives, leaving pieces of yourself behind without even realizing it. Clark had watched strangers warm to you within minutes, watched friends seek you out whenever they needed comfort, watched entire rooms brighten whenever you walked into them. You made people feel seen. Important. Loved. And now every one of those people had to learn how to exist without you.
"Clark."
He didn't answer. His eyes remained fixed on the stone, on your name, on the unbearable proof that none of this was a nightmare.
"You need to stop doing this to yourself."
Still, he said nothing.
The rain continued to fall around them, drumming softly against Lois's umbrella while soaking through his clothes. He barely felt it anymore. The cold wasn't a problem for Superman. It should have bothered Clark Kent. It didn't. Nothing seemed capable of reaching him through the numbness that had settled over everything since the day he'd lost you.
Eventually Lois sighed. "You couldn't have saved her."
A bitter laugh escaped him before he could stop it. The sound was ugly. Broken.
"I save people every day."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"I hear them, Lois. I hear people screaming from the other side of the world. I hear heartbeats through concrete. I hear accidents before they happen."
His gaze dropped to his hands. The same hands people trusted. The same hands that had pulled survivors from burning buildings and caught falling planes from the sky.
"So explain to me why I couldn't save the one heartbeat that mattered most."
Lois looked away immediately, and Clark hated himself for the relief that brought him. If she couldn't look at him, it meant she didn't have an answer. If she didn't have an answer, then maybe there simply wasn't one. Maybe there wasn't some mistake he'd missed. Maybe there wasn't a moment he could replay differently. Maybe there wasn't a version of events where he got to keep you.
The thought should have comforted him. Instead it made everything worse. Because if there was no answer, then there was nothing left to fix, nothing left to fight, nothing left but grief.
"I would've traded all of it," he said quietly. "The powers. The cape. The symbol. Every bit of it."
Rain dripped from his hair as he stared at your name carved into stone.
"I would've given it all away if it meant she stayed."
And he meant it. Every word. The world worshipped Superman. Entire cities slept easier because they believed he was out there watching over them. Children wore his symbol on their shirts. People looked at him and saw hope. Clark would've surrendered all of it without hesitation. Every ounce of strength. Every impossible ability. Every gift Krypton had given him. None of it had ever mattered as much as you.
The silence that followed stretched painfully between them.
Finally Lois spoke. "She wouldn't want you blaming yourself."
Clark shut his eyes.
"Don't."
"Clark..."
"Don't tell me what she would've wanted."
The words came out harsher than he intended. The instant they left his mouth, regret followed. Lois didn't deserve that. She was grieving too. He knew that.
But the truth was that nobody knew what you would've wanted anymore.
You weren't here to tell them.
That was the part he couldn't survive.
Not the funeral.
Not the grave.
The finality.
The realization that every conversation between the two of you had already happened. Every joke had already been told. Every argument had already ended. Every kiss, every embrace, every quiet evening spent together had come and gone without either of you realizing they were finite things. There would never be another one. Everything left between you would remain unfinished forever.
"She's not here anymore."
His voice broke completely.
For the first time since the funeral began, Clark looked exactly what he was. Not Superman. Not the strongest man in the world. Just a grieving man standing in the rain, staring at the grave of the woman he loved and realizing that all the strength in the universe couldn't change what was written on the stone in front of him.
Lois stood beside him for another moment, the steady rhythm of rain striking her umbrella filling the silence between them. Clark knew she wanted to say something else. He could hear it in the way she shifted her weight, in the hesitant breath she drew before letting it go again. She was searching for the right words, searching for something that might ease the grief carved into him. But there was nothing left to say. No combination of words could undo what had happened. No reassurance could make tomorrow easier. Tomorrow would still arrive without you in it, and the thought alone made his stomach twist.
After a while, Lois squeezed his shoulder gently. "You should go home."
Clark let out a quiet laugh that sounded more like a wounded exhale.
Home.
The word felt cruel now.
Home wasn't home anymore. It was your blanket draped over the couch because you were always cold. It was the mug with the tiny crack in the handle that he'd been trying to convince you to throw away for months. It was the half-finished novel still sitting on your nightstand with a bookmark tucked between pages you would never reach. Your jacket still hung by the front door. Your shampoo still sat in the shower. Little notes written in your handwriting still clung to the refrigerator. Every room contained evidence that you had existed, and every room reminded him that you didn't anymore.
He hadn't been able to sleep there since you died. The house felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. As though it were waiting for you to walk through the front door at any moment. Sometimes he caught himself listening for your footsteps. Sometimes he found himself looking up whenever he heard a sound, expecting to see you rounding the corner with that familiar smile. Every single time reality returned, and every single time it hurt just as much.
"You need rest," Lois said softly.
Clark stared at the headstone.
At your name.
At the dates beneath it.
An entire life reduced to a few carved numbers.
How could he rest?
Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in the hospital. Back in that room. Back in that awful stretch of time where every second felt like an hour. He remembered the doctors' faces before they even spoke. Remembered the way the silence changed. Hope had disappeared before a single word was said, and some part of him had known it. There had been a version of Clark Kent that existed before that moment, a version that still believed everything would somehow be okay. That version was gone now. Buried alongside you.
When he didn't answer, Lois sighed quietly. "Okay."
Her voice cracked around the word.
"Call me if you need me."
Clark nodded once, not because he intended to, but because he couldn't bear to make her worry any more than she already did. Lois lingered for a few seconds longer before finally turning away. He listened to her footsteps grow fainter and fainter until they disappeared completely. Eventually even the sound of the umbrella vanished, leaving only the rain and the unbearable silence that followed.
Clark remained standing long after she was gone. Then, with a weariness that seemed to reach into his bones, he slowly lowered himself to the ground. The mud soaked through his clothes immediately. He didn't care. The earth was cold beneath him, damp and unforgiving, but none of it mattered. What was a little discomfort compared to this?
He shifted closer to the grave until he was lying beside it, resting his head against the wet grass. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend. Just for a second. Just long enough to imagine that you weren't really gone. His hand reached toward the headstone, fingertips brushing across the engraved letters of your name. He traced them slowly, carefully, memorizing the shape of every letter despite already knowing them by heart.
The ache inside him had become constant now. Not sharp enough to make him cry anymore. Not sudden enough to catch him by surprise. It was simply there, lodged somewhere deep inside his chest, woven so thoroughly into him that he no longer remembered what it felt like to exist without it. Grief wasn't something visiting him anymore. It wasn't a storm that arrived and passed. It lived here now. It woke up with him every morning and followed him to sleep every night. It sat beside him when he ate, when he worked, when he tried and failed to imagine a future that didn't hurt.
"I can't sleep without you."
The confession escaped before he could stop it.
A sad smile tugged weakly at his lips as he stared at your name carved into the stone.
"Of course you already know that."
You always fell asleep first. Usually halfway through a conversation. Your words would grow slower and softer until eventually they disappeared altogether, leaving him to smile at whatever unfinished thought you'd been trying to share. Yet even then, you always reached for him. Sometimes without waking up. Your hand would search blindly across the mattress until it found his, and the moment it did, your entire body relaxed. Like some small part of you needed that reassurance before you could truly rest.
Clark squeezed his eyes shut.
God, he missed that.
Not the grand moments people always talked about after someone died. Not the anniversaries or holidays or photographs. He missed the ordinary things. Holding your hand while watching television. Feeling your weight settle against his side when you were tired. Listening to your sleepy rambling at two in the morning when neither of you could fall asleep. The tiny, forgettable moments that had once seemed so insignificant now felt priceless. They had become the things he missed most because they were the things he could never get back.
"I never told you this," he whispered. "But sometimes I'd stay awake after you fell asleep."
A tear slipped from beneath his lashes.
"I'd just watch you."
His throat tightened painfully.
"Because I couldn't believe you were real."
The admission hurt more than he expected.
Clark had spent most of his life feeling separate from everyone around him. Different. Isolated. Like he was standing just outside a world he could see but never fully belong to. He had spent years pretending the loneliness didn't bother him. Then you had walked into his life and somehow made everything feel simple. Easy. Like belonging wasn't something he had to earn anymore. For the first time in his life, he had a place where he didn't have to be Superman. He didn't have to be a symbol. He didn't have to be anything except himself.
"You made everything quiet."
A broken laugh escaped him.
Not the world.
The world was never quiet for Clark. He heard everything. Every siren. Every cry for help. Every heartbeat. Every accident unfolding somewhere beyond the horizon. The noise never stopped. It never had.
But you had quieted something inside him.
The loneliness that had followed him since childhood.
The fear of never truly belonging.
The endless pressure of carrying the world on his shoulders.
You made it bearable.
You made him feel human.
His hand pressed harder against the wet earth, as though somehow being closer to you might lessen the ache. It didn't. Nothing ever did.
And now you were gone.
The realization struck with the same brutal force every single time. It didn't matter how often he thought it. It never became easier. It never became smaller. It remained enormous and impossible and world-ending.
"I don't know how to do this."
His voice cracked completely.
"I don't know how to wake up tomorrow. I don't know how to walk back into our house. I don't know how to keep being Clark without you."
Silence answered him.
The rain continued to fall.
The world continued to turn.
And you remained heartbreakingly absent from both.
For the first time in his life, Clark felt truly powerless. Not because he couldn't stop an asteroid or lift a collapsing building or save a city. Those things had never frightened him. This did. Because there wasn't an enemy to fight. There wasn't a disaster to prevent. There wasn't a problem to solve.
There was only loss.
And for all his strength, for all the impossible things he could do, there wasn't a force in the universe powerful enough to bring back the person he loved.
Clark curled slightly against the grave, as close to you as he could possibly get, and closed his eyes. For just a moment, he allowed himself to want something impossible. Not world peace. Not an end to suffering. Not another miracle to save humanity.
Just you.
Only you.
Clark woke with a gasp so violent it felt like his lungs had forgotten how to work.
For several terrifying seconds, he couldn't breathe. His heart pounded wildly against his ribs, each beat painful and frantic, and the dream clung to him with such horrifying clarity that he couldn't immediately tell where it ended and reality began. He could still feel the rain soaking through his clothes. Still see your name carved into polished granite. Still remember the awful helplessness of lying beside your grave, knowing there was nothing left to save, nothing left to fight for, nothing left except learning how to survive without you.
The grief had felt real.
Not the strange, distant kind of sadness dreams usually carried. It had felt real enough to break him.
Clark sat frozen for a moment, staring into the darkness as panic climbed his throat. Then his eyes focused on the room around him. White walls. Dim overhead lights. Medical equipment humming softly in the background. The familiar shape of a hospital room slowly emerged from the haze of sleep, and relief hit him so suddenly it almost made him dizzy.
His head snapped toward the bed.
There you were.
Exactly where you'd been before he fell asleep.
Surrounded by machines and monitors, an oxygen tube resting beneath your nose, your body almost swallowed by white blankets, but there. Not buried. Not gone. Not reduced to a name on a stone.
There.
Clark felt something inside him crack.
A breath escaped him, shaky and uneven, and before he fully realized what he was doing, he was already on his feet. The chair scraped softly against the floor as he crossed the room in a matter of seconds. His hands were trembling when he reached for yours.
Warm.
Your hand was warm.
Such a simple thing. Such an ordinary thing. Yet after the nightmare he'd just had, it felt miraculous.
Clark wrapped both of his hands around yours and lowered his head. A strangled sound escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sob, and suddenly he was fighting tears all over again.
"Oh God."
His forehead rested against your knuckles.
"Oh God, you scared me."
The words sounded pathetic the moment they left his mouth. Selfish, too. You were the one lying unconscious in a hospital bed. You were the one fighting through whatever darkness had taken you away from him. Yet he couldn't stop the tears from coming.
Because for a few horrible moments, he'd believed he had already lost you.
He had stood at your grave. He had spoken to a stone bearing your name and imagined a future stretched out endlessly before him, a future where every morning began without you and every night ended in an empty bed. But the part that still made his chest ache wasn't the grief itself. It was the realization that life would continue afterward. The city would still wake up every morning. People would still go to work. Children would still laugh in parks. Somewhere, someone would still need Superman. The world wouldn't stop simply because yours had ended, and somehow Clark would be expected to keep moving through it as though surviving such a loss was possible.
Another tear slipped down his cheek.
"I don't want to know what my life looks like without you."
The confession lingered in the quiet hospital room. The only response came from the monitor beside your bed, its steady rhythm filling the silence between them. It should have been an ordinary sound, the kind people stopped noticing after a while, but Clark found himself listening to every single beep. Each one felt precious. Reassuring. Proof that you were still here. Still fighting. Still holding on.
His thumb brushed softly across your hand before he carefully tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so familiar it made his throat tighten. He'd done it hundreds of times before while you were reading on the couch, while you laughed at something he didn't understand, while you dozed off during movie nights with your head resting against his shoulder. For a moment he simply looked at you, really looked at you, trying to memorize every detail as though he hadn't already done so a thousand times before. The curve of your face. The slow rise and fall of your breathing. The warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips. Some frightened part of him worried that if he looked away for too long, the nightmare would return and steal all of it from him.
"I dreamed about you."
His voice was barely audible.
"I can't even tell you what happened."
He swallowed hard and looked away briefly.
"Because if I say it out loud, it feels like I'm daring the universe to make it real."
A humorless smile flickered across his face before disappearing just as quickly. Clark leaned forward and pressed a kiss against your cheek, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. When he finally pulled back, his hand remained cupping the side of your face.
He thought about everything he had survived in his life. The battles. The invasions. The disasters. Every impossible thing the world had ever thrown at him. None of them had frightened him like this. Not because they threatened him, but because none of them had ever threatened you.
"Out of all the dreams I've ever had about you," he whispered, his voice trembling despite his best efforts, "I hope this one never comes true."
The room fell quiet again.
He pulled his chair closer and intertwined his fingers with yours before settling beside the bed. He never let go. Not once.
For the rest of the night, Clark remained awake, watching over you. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the grave again. The rain. Your name carved into stone. A future without you.
And that was what terrified him most.
Not that he could imagine losing you.
That he could imagine surviving it.
The dream had shown him exactly what that future looked like: waking up every morning with grief sitting permanently in his chest and carrying it for the rest of his life. As Clark sat beside your hospital bed with your hand held tightly in his own, he found himself praying for the first time in a long while, asking for only one thing.
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On on particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagine it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow slip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he'd never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
You're stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what does it hurt if he just opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush that's spilled magenta pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your sheets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberated through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket of your jeans, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An…understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him the following weekend.
do u wanna like…go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is one single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better than you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he'd loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
Or: Clark returns after a seemingly never-ending mission with the Justice League
Warnings: Not really, a little angsty at the beginning but only because you miss / are worried about Clark. Pure fluff after. — NOT PROOFREADING DONE
Morph's thoughts: Hadn't done one of these for Clark yet so here it is, I'm thinking weather i should do masterlist by charters now that i have one of each recurring character or wait a bit until there's a bigger collection — Also, I'm preparing a little series of fics that i hope to get out before June ends, if i don't please pretend i did. Thank you.
It had been an exhausting two weeks. You'd been woken up by Clark in the middle of the night, now fifteen days ago, brain still too sluggish to fully comprehend all the information he was throwing at you while getting his Superman suit on. Still, you had caught enough of it, something about a Justice League emergency, some intergalactic things going on that required his help. All you'd managed was to nod along to his words, getting out a quick request for him to be safe and make it home to you before he'd pressed a soft kiss to your lips before disappearing though the bedroom's window.
When your alarm had woken you up the next morning, eyes opening to find his empty pillow instead of his usual sleepy smile, it had dawned on you. It hadn't been a weird dream, Clark had really left for a mission that you had no idea how long could last.
Still, you'd avoided dwelling on it for too long, taking a shower and getting ready for the day, mentally reassuring yourself that it would go by quickly. After all he hadn't gone on his own.
That strategy had worked for about three days, where you'd been busy enough with work and meeting friends and family to not think about it too hard. But when the weekend had arrived —and just your luck, it being one of the very sparse rainy weekends in Metropolis— you'd found yourself spending most of your time in a too-quiet apartment.
This is what you hated the most about this kind of mission, how lonely it felt without Clark around. If he was somewhere on Earth, even if he was gone for days at a time, he'd always sneak in a call or a message, something quick to check in. However, the moment he had to go into space all forms of communication got cut, even the coms system Oracle had given you that one time your phone had been compromised by Luthor.
From then on the days had dragged on by, the hours at work feeling long, but those spent alone in your apartment feeling longer. By the week and a half mark you'd started to space out your meetings with friends, clearly none of your non-super friends knew about your boyfriends identity so your worry over his "work trip" had started to rise questions about the well-being of your relationship. And your mutual friends that knew of Superman, well, they were preoccupied with the same intergalactic-level threat as Clark.
The best way you'd found to distract yourself was to have something playing on pretty much all hours of day. Like right now. It was bit sad, spending a Friday night cooped in while eating takeout from the Chinese restaurant down the street —one you'd have to avoid for a bit after Clark got back, given that they had greeted you by name as soon as they'd picked up your call— in an old pair of your boyfriend's pyjamas while watching some kid's movie that was playing on TV.
It's not that the plan itself was a bad thing; however the fact that your usual Friday night would entail either date night with Clark or a couple of drinks with Lois and Jimmy added to how frequent the take out and random movie combo had been just in the last week, did make you feel a little extra bad tonight.
Pitying yourself a little too much, you'd set down the chow mein container, getting up from the couch and shuffling your way into the kitchen for a much needed glass of wine.
The task of finding the bottle opener and managing to take the cork out had been arduous enough after the last two weeks that you hadn't heard the balcony door squeak open. What you had undoubtedly recognised though was the sound of Clark's voice calling out your name from the living room.
In an instant the half-filled glass of wine had been completely forgotten as you run back into the room, jumping into your boyfriend's awaiting arms. Not caring about the dust and grime clinging to his face and suit, you hold onto him like a koala, pressing kisses all over his face.
He laughs as his arms wrap around you, tight, and gods how you've missed that sound. It makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, like you've laid down in a sunny spot after a long day at the beach. You only stop your rain of kisses when one of his hands moves to cup your cheek —the other arm easily holding you up— guiding your lips to his.
"I'm back," he murmurs softly, lips brushing against yours with every words. "In one piece, just like i promised." He steals your breath with another kiss, and then another. Your forehead rests against his while the two of you focus on catching your breath. Your eyes lost in his blue ones when he steals one more little peck. "I'm home, baby."
i saw a video where the wife texts her husband that she’s leaving while he’s busy and he immediately gets up and searches for her to stop her, do you think you could pls write that with clark? thank you!
Ty for requesting! fem, 0.7k
Clark gets a wrinkle between his brows when he’s reading. It’s an expression completely paradoxical to his own enjoyment; he looks like he could throw his tablet across the room and never read again, but he’ll tell you how great it was later, over dinner or laying against you in bed.
You are, admittedly, attention-seeking as you write him your text. But can you be blamed? You figure anyone with a boyfriend like yours would seek his attention, and often, especially when you’ve been home from work for three hours waiting for him to finish his book so you can make dinner together. He insisted.
You created a new recipe for work that got the third page in the Daily Planet’s spread a few days, and though Clark had the privilege of trying it many many times while you were developing it, he insisted you make the finished product together to celebrate your ‘genius’ and to ‘appease’ his stomach, which loves your cooking.
Im leaving, you type, pondering how best to get him to come and love on you. text me when ur done with ur book <3
You add the heart because you don’t want him stricken by the text, and you certainly don’t want to start an argument. You’d just like him to dote on you and also some dinner. Usually you’d simply tap him on a hard shoulder and say, Hey angel, did you forget the time?
The text pings. Clark reads a few more lines of his book before he puts down his tablet and takes his phone in hand, tapping in his password, and opening your texts. He reads the newest one with a pinched brow, then his head snaps up as he gives a small, fearful gasp.
“Hey, where are you going?” he asks, scrambling up off of the sofa toward you where you’re half hiding in the kitchen. “Don’t leave.”
“I’m just gonna do some errands and stuff while you’re reading. Oof–”
The air puffs out of you from the force of his grabbing. He takes you into his arms and folds you into an embrace that smells like woody pear blossom and almond oil, your face forced into the curve of his neck. “Why didn’t you say something, bubby?” he asks, sounding truly, sincerely heartbroken. He pulls his arm up your back and makes another small gasp. “Jeez, look at the time. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was getting this late! Gosh, I bet you’re starving to death, poor girl, I’ve completely neglected you.”
You wrap an arm behind him, feeling the solid planes and shapes of his muscles beneath your warm hand. “A little,” you say, too soft, too silken. It’s nearly silly how small your voice sounds.
Clark just sighs. “Don’t go get errands without me, sweetheart, you need something to eat first. You can’t skip dinner, you’ll give yourself a headache. I’ll give you a headache,” he says, sounding rather self-loathing. “Sorry. I’ve ignored you.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s usually how reading goes.”
“I thought there wasn’t a ton left–” He tips your head back. It’s not forceful, and yet, at the same time, you feel moved, like you don’t have much choice in things as he handles you into whatever position he’d like you to be. He smiles when he meets your eyes, presses a short, sweet kiss to your cheek. “So sorry. I’m a jerk.”
“Clark, it’s okay–” He pecks you and starts cutting off your words, “I’m not mad– I didn’t want to waste– my evening– sat at the bar scrolling– on my– oh my god– on my phone.” You giggle, kissed into tingling lips and warmed by his big hands running up and down your back. “Can I have another one?”
Clark leans down slowly to give you another kiss.
“We will make dinner right now,” he says into your mouth, “so please don’t leave. How’m I supposed to cook with my heart missing?” It’s so insanely corny, you wrap yourself around him like an octopus. He shifts backward to take all your weight. “Is this a yes to staying?” he asks into your cheek.
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★ summary: michael robinavitch’s willpower was a force to be reckoned with. god only knows where your former lover went beneath all that restraint and self destruction. It’s a good thing jack abbot’s willpower was never quite that strong
★ pairing: michael robinavitch x reader, & jack abbot x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, cheating, p in v, face sitting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, oral f receiving, cream pie, public sex, dirty talk, size kink, praise kink, jack abbot talks you through it, aftercare
★ word count: 7.7k
★ notes: hello did you guys miss me 😈
Your relationship with Michael Robinavitch was the worst-kept secret in PTMC’s history, right next to Princess and her affinity for rigging the betting boards. Now it wasn’t just because Dr. Robby loved a hot, young resident; it was just how obvious he was about it, at least in the beginning.
He was clingy, always over your shoulder on cases. His gloved hand grabbing yours to instruct you through a procedure, even when it was entirely uncalled for. He doted on you, and god forbid anyone else look at you for two long. Dana compared him to a rabid dog, claiming his territory whenever a patient got handsy or an intern asked about you.
If you weren’t working together you were on the phone, at his house, on dates. He'd take you out, show you off. A hot, young thing on his arm was just what his ego needed. You were attached at the hip, for the first year anyways.
You weren’t sure when it started to go downhill, it was gradual, like an avalanche starting with the smallest snowball.
You used to start your days rolling around together in his sheets, snoozing the alarm both of you just begging for a few more minutes in his arms.
Now?
He was gone before you woke up, and wasn’t home until you had already gone to bed. You were two ships, barely passing in the night. At work, he only talked to you when it was necessary, gone were the days of teasing each other over the nurses' station or hidden kisses in the break room.
Now you were lucky that he called you anything other than Dr. Y/l/n.
The sex had started off hot and heavy. It was sex in on-call rooms and being bent over whatever surface he could find. Now, you couldn’t remember the last time you had sex, but when you did it was missionary that lasted less than 10 minutes. He’d grunt, kiss your forehead, and roll over. Long gone were the days he’d spend in between your thighs, making sure you came before he did.
Date ideas were shot down, he’d take extra shifts or have ‘meetings’ into late hours of the night. You weren’t dumb, you weren’t oblivious to the signs that were right there, but you were blindly in love. You thought he loved you, thought he still held the same admiration and respect for you as he once did.
When you’d voice your complaints he’d apologize, buy some cheap flowers, and take you out on the way over to your apartment, but lately he hasn’t even done that.
No one really knew, not really. Everyone knew something was up with Robby, but no one was able to get the truth out of him, so why bother?
It felt like you were dating a ghost of the man he used to be, so full of life and passion for his job.
You hadn’t seen him outside of this ED in almost two weeks, he was snappy and dismissive, always droning on and on about this sabbatical he was going to be taking. You couldn’t give less of a shit, it was just another excuse to run away from his problems, and more importantly you.
Which is why when McKay came over, talking about how she needed to get laid, you interrupted.
“Me too, sister.” You sighed, chewing on the straw of your slightly watered-down latte. “It’s been like…..months.”
They all looked at you like you had grown a third head, even Samira’s eyebrows were furrowed.
“Really?” McKay asked, her voice quieting in concern.
You just nodded, “Yup.”
“You and Robby are still?” She trailed off, not wanting to overstep.
“Yup.” You repeated, taking a noiseless sip of your watered-down coffee.
She made a noise, confusion still written all over your face. “I’m sorry to pry, but… why?”
“Yeah, you’re young and hot. Plus you guys used to be all over each other.” Samira joined in.
Another shrug, “Wish I fucking knew. I’ve been trying for weeks. I barely see him anymore, he says he still loves me but he won’t even look at me,” You breathe out, “And he doesn’t touch me. I mean I went out and bought an overpriced slutty little pajama set, practically threw myself at him and you know what he said? That I should probably start sleeping at my apartment again, because he’s gonna have Whittaker house sit for him while he’s gone.”
Charts were long neglected, Samira all but threw her pager down on the desk as they crowded closer.
“Oh, oh no honey.” McKay frowned, “That’s not good.”
“You’re telling me.” Your hands are thrown up, ignoring others' eavesdropping on the conversation. Dana had heard it all before, and you were certain Abbot was too busy trying to figure out how to handle this ED without the man you were all gossiping about.
“I mean, if he’s not getting it from you I mean he’s getting it from somewhere right?” She says, as empathetically as possible.
Samira slaps her arm gently, but she has that knowing empathetic crease in her brow.
“What she means to say,” Samira smiles, “He does seem to be going through something, but I don’t think he’d do anything like that do we?”
You met McKay’s eyes, both of you sharing a knowing look.
“No, he probably would.” You admitted, sounding more deflated than you wanted to.
It had crossed your mind, there was no way it hadn’t. He was just a man at the end of the day. The whispers of the nurse slash case manager slash pain in your ass had found herself in this ED almost every day, attached to the hip of none other than your boyfriend.
“Or, he’s just going through something and he’s too ashamed to confide in you about it? I mean he is about to leave on some spiritual journey.” She offers, with much more optimism than you’ve had in months.
“Yeah, okay,” You laughed, “He’s on his big midlife crisis journey to find a little zest of life, a new sense of purpose. Whatever bullshit he’s convinced himself of, but why?”
Your voice cracked a bit on the last syllable.
“I’m right here, but it’s like I'm invisible. Not since Noelle has been prancing around the ER like a bloodhound.”
The drink in your hand is slammed on the counter, the condensation making it slide over a little as you continue.
“Maybe bankrupting people on the worst day of their lives is a new turn on for him.” You grumbled, watching the man slip out of one of the rooms, avoiding even looking over in your direction. “I mean, he won’t even look at me. It’s like he’s a stranger.”
“I don’t like her, and I don’t like him for treating you like that. He’s a grown man, he needs to at least communicate his feelings to you.” Samira sighed, picking her tablet up again, “I have a patient in south, but call me tonight if you don’t wanna be alone!”
“Thank you.” You frowned, squeezing her arm as she ran off.
You settled back next to McKay, arms brushing.
“Do you think he’s cheating on me?” You ask as soon as Samira is out of earshot.
A noise between a scoff and a cough leaves her mouth, “Fuck, I hope not. Maybe try to just ask him before he leaves tonight. The last thing you need is to waste 3 months waiting for him to come back if he’s already halfway out the door.”
“He’s not even halfway,” You laughed, “There’s one pinkie toe left on the door frame.”
”See, you still have your humor. You’re gonna get through this, promise. Especially if you think it’s worth fighting for, but if not? Fuck him.” She smiled
Every part of you wanted to believe her, but optimism had felt embarrassing lately. Your failing relationship was put on display at work and at home. Sometimes it felt like you were the last person to know that it was over. Maybe you were clinging to the past, to the good parts that were no longer there.
There you stood in silence, trying so desperately to absorb her words. Was it worth fighting for? You couldn’t remember the last time he kissed you slowly. The last time he reached for you first. The last time he looked at you without something heavy sitting behind his eyes.
Dana was yelling about traumas incoming before the silence between you and McKay could grow any heavier.
“There goes our break.” McKay sighed, and your shoulders slumped.
You laughed quietly and tossed your cup into the trash harder than necessary before following her out.
By the time you reached the trauma bay, Robby was already there.
He stood at the foot of the bed pulling gloves onto long fingers, posture rigid with that familiar calm intensity that once made your stomach flutter whenever you watched him work. Even exhausted, even emotionally hollowed out by whatever private war he refused to talk about, the entire room still bent around him effortlessly. Residents straightened when he spoke. Nurses moved faster. Everybody trusted him instinctively. You remember when you used to trust him like that too. You remember envisioning him as a god in this ED.
“What do we got?” You asked, slipping your gloves on.
The kid could not have been older than twenty-six. Blood soaked through the front of his shirt and his skin already carried that terrible gray shade that always made your stomach tighten. What was even harder to miss was the large piece of rebar protruding from his chest.
“High speed rollover MVC into an industrial plant,” the paramedic started rapidly. “Restrained driver. Hypotensive en route. Rebar through the left shoulder and upper chest. Heart rate sustained one-forty. BP eighty over forty and dropping.”
The patient screamed the second they shifted him onto the trauma bed, blood soaking through the towels wrapped around his shoulder. A rusted length of rebar protruded grotesquely through the upper part of his chest near the clavicle, disappearing somewhere behind his shoulder blade. Every movement made fresh blood well up around the metal. The room exploded into movement around him instantly. Trauma shears cut through clothing while the nurses prepped IVs.
”Jesus Christ,” McKay muttered, doing the FAST exam while you tried to get breath sounds.
“Get vascular surgery on standby,” You shouted, pulling your stethoscope down, “Diminished breath sounds on the left, to be expected.”
The patient’s breathing was becoming shallower by the second, panic making his eyes glassy as he looked around the room.
“I can’t breathe,” he gasped.
“Stay with us,” you said quickly, pressing a hand against his good shoulder while assessing the wound. The bleeding had picked up noticeably since transfer and blood was now running steadily down the patient’s side onto the sheets below him.
“Pressure’s dropping,” Princess warned from the monitor. “Seventy-two systolic.”
Robby’s expression hardened immediately. “He’s gonna need an OR now, page surgery, again.”
Ogilvie, the new intern, who was just supposed to be calling surgery again proceeded to spin around too fast bumping the rebar just enough to make the patient scream.
Fresh blood poured out around the wound, spilling on the floor with such quickness it felt like a horror movie.
“Oh my God,” Ogilvie gasped, “Surgery is on the way, O-oh my god.”
And before anybody could stop you, your hands moved.
You grabbed the exposed section of rebar firmly with one hand and shoved your other gloved hand directly into the wound around it, bracing the metal in place while applying pressure internally where the bleeding was coming from.
The patient cried out so loudly that the entire room froze while blood immediately soaked down your wrist. You could feel it dripping onto your legs, but you couldn’t do anything about it.
“What the hell are you doing?” Robby snapped, spinning back toward you.
“He’s bleeding around the entry point,” you shot back through gritted teeth, keeping the rebar stabilized manually while your hand compressed whatever vessel had started hemorrhaging deeper inside. “If this shifts again he’s dead.”
“You do not put your hand inside a penetrating chest wound blindly-“
“He’s fucking crashing!” You nearly yelled, frustration pouring off of you in waves. “I know how to do my fucking job Dr. Robinavitch. Do you?”
As if to prove your point, the monitor alarm changed pitch while the patient’s pressure plummeted again.
“Sixty systolic,” McKay called sharply.
”Do you?” He laughed dryly, “Because he’s still bleeding out while you’re having a fit.”
You adjusted your hand deeper despite the patient’s scream and suddenly felt it, hot blood pulsing hard against your palm before slowing significantly beneath your pressure.
The room went silent around the two of you except for the screaming monitor beside the patient. For one horrible second doubt crept into your chest. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe exhaustion and resentment and weeks of emotional whiplash had clouded your judgment. But, then the bleeding lessened almost immediately.
”There,” You breathed out, finally looking up to see his hardened gaze still on you. “Fuck you.”
If looks could kill, you’d be dead on the floor in this patient's blood.
You ignored the gasps around the room, the heavy slam of his palm against the door after he stormed out. You were only focused on the patient, controlling the bleed while the others worked around you.
Transport unlocked the gurney while blood products were rushed in behind you. Surgery came in not long after that, letting you ride up to the OR with your hand against the artery. As soon as he was stabilized, you were dismissed. Adrenaline crashed through your system all at once afterward, your hands trembling faintly as you stripped bloody gloves from your fingers, shedding off your ruined scrubs.
You barely made it into the hallway of the ED before Robby caught your wrist hard enough to stop you. Like he had been waiting to hear you come down the stairs.
“What the hell was that?” he hissed.
You stared down at his hand around your arm before slowly looking back up at him. “Excuse me?”
“You do not disrespect me in front of residents,” He spat, “Here I am your superior, do you understand that?”
The disbelief that hit you almost outweighed the adrenaline still buzzing through your bloodstream.
“That’s what you’re upset about right now?” You could have laughed in his face.
“You could have torn the subclavian completely,” he hissed. “You could have killed that guy.”
“If I didn’t do something he was going to bleed out before surgery even got down here.” You snapped, “I’m a good fucking doctor Robby, and you know it, yet you seem insistent on making me feel like an idiot.”
His eyes finally locked onto yours then, dark and burning with something that looked dangerously close to humiliation. The station had gone completely silent around you both now. Even the residents nearby were pretending not to stare.
Robby stepped closer suddenly, crowding into your space just enough to make the air around you tense.
“Just because we’re fucking,” he said lowly, bending down toward you, “doesn’t mean you get special treatment.”
The silence afterward was catastrophic. Your face went blank for a second before an incredulous laugh escaped you.
“Oh really?” you asked loudly enough for everybody nearby to hear. “That’s interesting considering we aren’t.”
His jaw flexed hard, and you could see the anger brewing in his eyes. The same ones that used to bring you comfort were now glaring down at you.
You took another step closer anyway, eyes glassy now, and lowered your voice.
“You haven’t touched me in fucking weeks, months even.” You said, your voice steady. “So what is it? Are you fucking her?”
Robby looked genuinely caught off guard for the first time all day.
“What?” he snapped, after wiping the guilty look all over his face.
“Don’t act fucking stupid.” You spat, pointing through the doors to where Noelle was standing around the hub.
He laughed, actually laughing and shaking his head like he was dismissing something unbelievable. “That’s insane, Noelle works here.”
Your expression shifted immediately, “Yeah? So do I.” You laughed humorlessly.
“Nothing is going on.” He said quickly, grabbing your arm to pull you away from the nurses as they hovered around the hub.
“You hesitated when I asked.” You barked back.
“I did not hesitate.”
“You absolutely fucking hesitated.”
”You know,” His voice now boomed, everyone undeniably watching the interaction between you two. “Not everything is all about you. Maybe if you actually did your job instead of gossiping about things you know nothing about-“
“Brother,” Abbott’s voice suddenly cut in as he appeared beside Robby, grabbing his shoulder before the situation could combust any further. “Take a beat.”
You were both so lost in the heat of the argument that neither of you noticed him slipping into the hall.
Robby yanked his arm back immediately. “I’m fine.”
“No,” Abbott replied evenly. “You’re not.”
For a moment you thought Robby might actually explode. His whole body looked wound tight enough to split apart, anger and guilt and exhaustion all fighting for dominance across his face. But then Abbott pulled him back another step, positioning himself between the two of you.
Robby just nodded, Abbot tapped his chest once before the two attendings stepped aside. You shared a look with Abbot for just a brief moment, before they disappeared down the hall. You slumped against the wall, the adrenaline escaping you so fast you felt lightheaded.
Your chest hurt, there was this ugly aching pressure sitting right beneath your ribs, heavy and humiliating and impossible to ignore. The cruelty of his words opened your eyes.
Just because we’re fucking.
Like you were some nurse he fooled around with after conferences. Like the last year of your life together had been reduced to something cheap and transactional the second he got angry enough.
You laughed bitterly under your breath, scrubbing a hand down your face hard enough to hurt.
You pushed off the wall before you could start crying in the middle of the hallway and headed back toward the nurses' station on autopilot. Dana sat behind the desk flipping through charts, reading glasses low on her nose while complete chaos unfolded around her as usual.
She looked up immediately when you approached.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” you said, voice oddly flat even to your own ears. “What did Noelle want?”
Dana hummed distractedly. “Yeah, something about some charts. I got a question for ya.”
You swallowed once, nodding for her to continue.
“Does Robby sleep with his TV on?”
You frowned automatically, caught off guard by the question. “Yeah,” you answered slowly. “Drives me fucking insane, I’ve barely seen him lately. Been glad to sleep in the dark.”
Dana’s face fell immediately. clicking her jaw tight.
Your stomach dropped so violently that it almost hurt.
There was a horrible pause before Dana looked away from you briefly, lips pressing together like she was debating whether or not to continue.
Then quietly, carefully, she said, “Noelle said something weird about him sleeping with his TV on. Asked her how she knew that and she just shrugged, said she had some papers to file.”
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt physical. You stared at Dana blankly, your brain refusing to catch up to what your body already understood. Dana’s expression softened instantly the second she saw your face change.
“Oh honey,” she breathed.
“If he’s not getting it from you, he’s getting it from somewhere. McKay’s words came crashing back so hard that it made your chest cave inward.
Suddenly every little thing replayed itself with brutal clarity. The veil is finally being pulled from your eyes.
“How fucking stupid am I?” you laughed softly, though it came out sounding dangerously close to breaking.
Dana leaned forward immediately. “You are not stupid-‘
You cut her off with a shake of your head, humiliation already swallowing you whole.
“C-can you get someone to cover-“
“Course, course.” She rushes out, and that’s all you need before your feet are moving you to the on-call room. The door is slammed with such violence that the sound makes your ears ring.
You barely made it two steps before your knees weakened and you sank onto the edge of the narrow cot, both hands pressed hard against your mouth while you fought to steady your breathing.
The room smelled faintly like old detergent and stale coffee. Somebody had left a sweatshirt hanging over the back of a chair. The television mounted in the corner sat muted on some daytime court show.
Even now, sitting there piecing together the possibility that he had been sleeping with another woman while coming home to you every night, some horrible part of you still wanted him to walk through the door and explain it all away. You wanted there to be another answer. Another explanation. Anything besides this.
There was a soft knock on the on-call room door, making your heart race. When you took too long to respond, it cracked open just enough for you to see Abbot’s head popping in the doorframe.
You deflated, of course it wouldn’t be Robby coming to look for you. He didn’t care, and he probably hadn’t in a long time.
“You decent in here?” His timber voice asked, making you rub your eyes gently.
“As decent as I can be.” You answered, watching him take a timid step inside.
He shut the door quietly behind himself before leaning back against it with crossed arms.
“You scared the hell outta Dana,” he said gently. “She said you looked about two seconds from passing out.”
You looked down at your hands instead of answering.
Abbot sighed softly after a moment. “Listen,” he started carefully, “Robby’s… not doing well right now. I’ve seen it, I know you’ve seen it. He’s said some stuff to Dana today that’s really concerning.”
A bitter laugh escaped you instantly.
“No kidding.” You whistled, eyes focused on a crack in the tiled floor.
”I also know he’s been using you as his emotional punching bag while he falls apart, instead of getting actual help.”
“You seem to have it all figured out, huh?” You laughed bitterly, pressing your palms against your eyes so hard spots filled your vision. “Did you also know he’s been fucking the new case manager?”
You hear his posture shift as he pushes himself off the wall, “What the fuck?”
A humorless laugh broke out of you again before you could stop it, fraying at the edges as it built into something worse.
“I think I’m probably the last person to know,” You laughed, “S’been going on for months. I just didn’t wanna see it.”
“He cheated on you? Oh, sweetheart-“
You don’t give him any time to start the empathy, the anger boiling up inside of you threatening to tip over.
“Listen, I’m a feminist, but what does that bitch have that I don’t? I’m y-younger, I’m prettier, hell of a lot smarter, I don’t spend my time preying on men with girlfriends.” You cackled, “I’ve done everything for him. I’ve put up with his mood swings, I took care of his house, I attended all of his family bullshit, I put up with him putting work before me, I did everything. For what?”
Abbot was silent, his eyes darkening as he watched you lose your composure.
“I mean,” A crazed laugh sputters out of your mouth, “he never even really took care of me. So I wasted all of that time for what? It was always all about him. Him, him, him-“
“I’d take care of you.”
The words hit the room like something dropped too suddenly into still water.
Your eyes go wide, an anxious laugh escaping your lips. “Is that a joke?” You ask, but your throat is tight and suddenly your hands are damp underneath his attention.
It’s then you realize during your rambling he’s taken purchase in one of the chairs across from the cot you were sitting on. Your feet nearly touching.
“Nah,” His voice was rougher than before, and it made chills run down your spine, “I heard you earlier you know? Talking to McKay. He has a sexy young, incredibly talented doctor in his bed, practically half naked and he’s not taking care of you? That’s a fucking shame darling.”
The room went silent after that except for the distant muffled noise of the ER beyond the door and the sound of your own heartbeat pounding so hard you swore he had to hear it too. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t do anything but stare into his hardened eyes.
“So I’ll say it again, I’d take good care of you. God, if you were mine….you’d never have to worry about anything. I’d practically worship you.” He whispered, shifting his body closer to yours.
“Is this a trick?” You asked, your voice shaky. So was your breath when his face drifted closer without you even noticing him move. He was close enough now that your words brushed against his lips when you spoke. Close enough to count every faint freckle scattered across his nose, every tired line at the corners of his eyes.
“Not a trick,” He assured.
“Aren’t you two friends?”
“Best,” he whispers, and his lips just barely brush against yours.
“Then why..” Your breath trembles.
”I’ve watched him have everything I’ve ever wanted and he still treats you like you’re disposable,” he said quietly, the words tight with something like anger he’d been holding onto for too long. “And I’ve had to stand there and say nothing about it because he’s my friend. I’ve stood there and defended him, because you said you loved him.”
His gaze flicked to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberate.
When did he get so close?
“That stops being easy after a while.” He said, his eyes back on yours.
You’re practically panting into his open mouth before words manage to form, “How would you take care of me?”
His honey brown eyes glisten, “I could tell you…Or I could show you?”
You should have stood up and walked out. You should have told him this was a mistake and you were emotional and hurt and angry and that this wasn’t how you wanted this to go.
Instead, your body betrayed you completely.
Because for the first time in months, somebody was looking at you like they wanted you. Somebody who always saw you. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire. You haven’t felt this alive in a long time.
Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself. He noticed immediately, letting his hand slowly reach up to cup your cheek. His callused hands held your face in his hands like you were porcelain.
“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.
The words barely registered through the rush of heat and heartbreak and loneliness colliding inside your chest. Your lips parted, but no words came out. You didn’t want him to stop, the tingle in your fingertips and the heat growing in your stomach wanted the exact opposite.
Abbot exhaled shakily at that, forehead nearly brushing yours now. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered softly, eyes closing for half a second like he hated how much he wanted this too.
Then you kissed him.
It happened all at once and painfully slow somehow, your hand gripping the front of his shirt while your mouth crashed clumsily into his. Abbott made a rough sound low in his throat immediately, one hand holding your jaw while the other reached for your hips.
The cheap cot squealed loudly beneath both your weight when you tugged him down with you, the sound almost drowned out by the chaos still carrying on outside the on-call room.
Every kiss felt like you two were devouring each other. Your fingers pushed into his hair while his mouth moved hot and deep against yours, each breath stolen back only to lose it again seconds later. The tension wound through him was obvious now in the way he held himself over you, like he was trying so hard not to crush you beneath the weight of everything he’d apparently wanted for far too long.
His body was hot and heavy against yours, where you’d settled between his legs. His rough hands moving from your hips to cup your tits through your scrub top. He squeezed harshly, making a pathetic mewl escape your lips.
You pulled back just enough to breathe and that was somehow worse, because his eyes were dark and blown wide with lust his mouth swollen slightly beneath fluorescent lighting.
”Darling,” he breathed warningly, one last final chance to leave this room pretending as if nothing had happened.
All you could do was smirk up at him, “Lock the door.”
In all of his years, Abbot doesn’t think he’s ever moved as fast as he did. He was sprinting to the door, locking it, and pulling the privacy shade down. It wasn’t uncommon for it to be occupied during busy shifts. Dana was covering for you and Abbot wasn’t even supposed to be working today.
By the time he hobbled back, you had slipped your scrub pants off, throwing your shirt to the side. You weren’t wearing any fancy elaborate underwear, a simple sports bra, and cotton panty for work efficiency, but to Abbot, you would have thought you were on the cover of a magazine.
“So fucking gorgeous.” He said, holding his pointer finger up in a little spin, “Let me see you.”
You entertained him, spinning around playfully.
He let out a wolf whistle and lay himself down on the cot.
“Do you need help taking these off?” You asked, your hands reaching to tug at the strings on his pants.
He simply shook his head, patting his chest in a ‘come here’ motion. “You’re gonna pull those little panties to the side and sit on my face,” He said slowly, as if you should have known exactly what he meant when he lay down on the cot.
“W-what?” You laughed shyly, “I’m too heavy for that-“
“That's what that bastard told you?” He scoffed in disgust, “I served years in the military, I can handle it. Come here.”
A shiver ran up your spine as you got on your hands and knees, crawling over to him. His arms gripped your thighs, moving you into position as if you weighed nothing.
You hesitated for a moment, feeling his warm breath hit against the embarrassingly wet spot against your underwear.
“None of that hovering shit,” He whispered against you, “Want you to fuck yourself on my face. And I’m not stopping until you beg me. Gonna make up for every time that bastard mistreated you.”
A gasp tore out of your chest when he helped you pull your underwear aside, his mouth attaching itself to your warm cunt. With the first swipe of his tongue, he was moaning against you, his cock twitching at the taste of you.
Jack Abbot ate pussy like he was a starved man, which in a way he was.
He’d spent the last year pining over you from afar, fisting his cock in the shower after a long shift thinking of you. Now? He was cherishing this as if it was his last meal, because hell it might be.
You stayed still on top of him, too focused on the sensation crawling up your body to realize you weren’t moving.
A small smack echoed through the room, his hand tapping your ass making you cry out.
“I said, fuck my face.”
He could feel you hesitating, could feel the way our hips urged to grind against him on a particular lick.
“F-fuck,” You cried, “I can’t-“
He pulled away again, his eyes pleading with you. “Baby, I only got one good knee but I’ll get down on it and beg if I have to.”
A huff left your mouth as you pressed further into him, letting your cunt drag messily against his mouth. The sensation had you crying out his name. Between the soft stubble of his jaw, the wet heat of his tongue, and his nose nudging against your entrance with each lazy drag you were falling apart against him in no time. He talked you through it, his hands forcing you to keep grinding against him. Urging you to keep going.
“I c-can’t,” You cried out, and in response, all he did was laugh into your heat. The vibration causing your toes to curl.
“M’ you can.” He spoke in between sloppy strokes of his tongue.
It was like he knew your body like the back of his hand, already as he slid his tongue inside of you using his nose to rub against your swollen clit.
You were coming again almost instantly, your hands coming down to run through his short curls. As you came you yanked against the roots, pushing him even further into your heat. All your fears of hurting or suffocating him were out the window, and Jack? Was living his absolute dream.
“Oh, oh god.”
You tried to pull off of him, only to be stopped by his heavy arms curling around your thighs once again. He just chased you, keeping his mouth attached to you.
“F-fuck, I want you to fuck me so bad.” You were nearly sobbing, your legs trembling in his hold as your cunt practically leaked all over his face. He didn’t care, his tongue was still flicking expertly against you. “Baby, let me fuck you.”
“One more time,” His voice was muffled, his eyes glazed over. Drunk on the taste of you and the sounds that were leaving your lips. “Let me taste you one more time and I’ll fuck you real good baby.”
He was addicted, completely addicted to the feeling of you coming apart against him.
“God,” The word ripped from your mouth, your hips betraying you by grinding down on his face yet again. The tip of his nose rubbing messily against your clit with each swipe.
His fingers were digging so deeply into your thighs that you hoped it left bruises. He’s holding you down on him so hard you have no choice but to let him move you, his tongue hits even deeper inside of you.
Then your eyes are rolling back in your head, your fingers tugging at his short locks as you cum around his tongue again. Each wave is more sensitive than the last as he coaxes it out of you.
There are spots in your vision as you come down, watching him kitten lick your throbbing clit by the time you come back to earth. You’re panting against him, and he’s looking up at you like you’re an angel.
“How was that?” He had the nerve to ask, sweat beading on his forehead while your release coated his face and neck.
You swung your shaky legs off of him, plopping down on the couch with a groan. “You promised you’d fuck me.”
At your pathetic little pleas, he smirked, bringing you in for a sweet kiss on the lips. You indulged him, ignoring that you could taste the hot, sweet taste of yourself on his lips. He’s content on kissing you until you’re all but pulling him on top of you.
You’re so desperate for him when he finally stands up, you crawl over to the edge of the bed mouthing over his clothed cock. It sits heavy in his scrub pants, twitching at the slightest pleasure.
“Oh you little minx,” He groans, reaching down to cup the back of your neck. “You wanna take it out?”
You nod, slipping your thumbs into his waistband to pull the fabric down his legs.
You nearly gasp at the sight of his cock springing out of his underwear, the tip slapping against your face. He’s fucking huge, heavy in your hands as it falls to his mid thigh. Your mouth goes dry, eyes wide as you can feel your cunt clenching around nothing just at the sight.
“Fucking knew you’d be bigger than him,” You can’t help but say, your hand unable to wrap around his shaft.
“Yeah? You thought about it?”
You nod, your embarrassment long out the window. “I see the way you walk around here, knew it was heavy.”
A throaty laugh escapes him as you pump him a few times, he lets out a soft hiss when you swipe at the pre-cum leaking from his tip.
“Come on,” He hums, “Hands and knees baby, let me see that ass.”
A schoolgirl giggle escapes you as you comply, getting into the position that’s the easiest for him with his leg.
His hand comes down and slaps your ass gently, just enough to make you cry out as he positions himself at your entrance.
“Look at her,” he whistles, dragging his tip through your soaked folds, “She’s trying to suckle me in, you want this bad don’t you baby?”
Your hands are gripping the sheets so hard already you know they’re going to ache. “P-please.” Your voice is agonized with need.
“You deserve it,” He cooed, slowly pushing inside of you. “I got you, baby. M’always gonna take care of you.”
Tears escape your eyes in relief as he fills you up, each inch he pushes helps relieve the ache. The stretch is painful, but delicious as your cunt molds to accept every inch of him greedily. Your face somehow falls into one of the pillows, muffling your sobs of pleasure.
“T-there you go,” He praises, “Let it out. Taking me so well, almost there baby.”
You feel like you’re being split apart, in the best way possible as his hips finally meet yours.
“Knew you could take it,” he breaths out, his eyes closing for a moment in pleasure as your wet heat clenches around him, “Tightest pussy I’ve ever felt.”
You let out a jumbled moan of incoherent words, begging, but you didn’t even know what for. He’s buried to the hilt, so deep inside of you it takes you a solid minute for your vision to come back to you.
“It’s so- oh- Jack- fuck, yes.”
“That’s my girl.” His hands are rubbing your lower back soothingly, waiting for the perfect moment to begin to move.
His hips snap into yours in deep calculated thrusts, making you drool all over the pillow you’re clutching like a lifeline.
The pace becomes relentless, his hips slapping so harshly into your ass that if it wasn’t for the loud sounds of the ER it would be echoing throughout the whole hospital.
Just a few feet away outside of the on-call room door, Robby’s hands were interlocked behind his head, sweat threatening to slip from his brow.
“Where the hell are Abbot and Y/l/n?” He asked amongst the other doctors all running to their destinations, “We’re drowning here and my senior resident and attending are AWOL.”
He had no idea your hands were twisted in the cheap hospital sheets, your back arched as Abbot was splitting you apart expertly on his cock.
You were so sensitive and fucked out, it was no surprise your fourth orgasm of the night was creeping up.
“I’m gonna-“
Abbot cuts you off, “I know,” His hand reaches around, desperately palming your clit, “You gonna cum for me? Gonna let me take you home and show me those slutty little pajamas?”
You nod wordlessly, feeling that familiar pleasure rushing through your body.
“M’ gonna kiss every inch of your perfect fucking body, then I’m gonna fuck you to sleep and wake you up with my mouth on you. That something you want, baby?”
“J-jack,” You cried out,
“Breathe,” He demanded, his head falling on your shoulder to coo softly in your ear. “Breathe through it baby, s’just feel it. Uh, there you go. Good girl, good fucking girl.”
You came with a shout, one so loud that he had to place his palm over your opened mouth. You bit down on his palm, drool falling messily through his fingers as he never once let up his pace.
“Oh my god,” Your muffled cries only spurred him on, his balls tightening as your body became pliant in his hold.
“Fuck,” He grunted, “S’good right? Just hold on a little bit, baby. You want me to come inside you?”
Nodding limply against him, your eyes fluttered shut. You felt like you were floating, letting him use you to chase his own high.
“M’gonna fill you up, give you everything you fucking want.” His hips stuttered, before he came with a shattered moan.
“Such a good girl.” He whispered, his body heavy against yours. He pressed a sweet kiss to the crook of your neck, slowly laying you down and slipping out of you.
The newfound emptiness made you whine softly despite yourself, the sound catching weakly in your throat as Abbott pulled away just enough to help clean you up. Your eyes stayed closed most of the time, your body heavy and loose against the thin mattress while the adrenaline and emotion finally began draining out of you all at once.
Every nerve ending still buzzed pleasantly beneath your skin, your thoughts drifting in and out like you were barely tethered to the room anymore.
“You alright, sweetheart?” Abbott asked quietly. His voice sounded different now, much different from the voice that was just whispering filth into your ear.
You smiled lazily, “M’so good.”
He grinned at you, helping you slip your clothes back on with such gentleness it made your heart ache.
Then he stood, holding a hand out toward you.
“C’mon.”
You looked up at him tiredly. “Where are we going?”
“You’re coming home with me after shift.”
Your eyebrows lifted, “I am?”
Abbott just shrugged like it was already decided. “I’m gonna take you to your place first so you can grab clothes and whatever else you need,” he said casually while helping pull you gently to your feet. “Then I’m making you dinner.”
You blinked at him. “Dinner?”
“Whatever you want.” His hands settled automatically at your waist once you were standing, steadying you when your knees wobbled slightly. “Pasta. Steak. Pancakes at midnight. I don’t care. You’re not going home alone tonight.”
”But-“
”No buts,” He cut you off, “We can deal with everything else another day. Tonight let me keep taking care of you.”
You nod softly, your heart aching at the care dripping out of his pores. It had been so long since you felt so held by someone.
“I’ll meet you in the parking garage?” You asked, bringing his lips to yours for one more kiss before grabbing the doorknob.
”I’ll be counting down the seconds, sweetheart.”
When you slipped out of the door, it was impossible to hide the flush burning across your cheeks or the awkward unevenness of your steps. Your hair was a mess from Abbot’s hands in it and your scrub top sat crooked on one shoulder no matter how quickly you tried fixing it.
The hallway air felt freezing against your overheated skin. For one brief second, you thought maybe you’d gotten lucky. The corridor outside the on-call rooms sat mostly empty, only the muffled chaos of the ER carrying faintly through the double doors farther down the hall. Your shift was almost up, so you assumed they’d be stuck on handoff.
Then you looked up and saw Robby standing there. You deflated, turning on your feet in an attempt to escape. He had clearly just rounded the corner, chart still loose in one hand, exhaustion etched deep into the lines of his face. But the second his eyes landed on you stepping out of the on-call room alone, something in him visibly stalled.
His brows pulled together slightly while his gaze moved over you automatically, like he was trying to place why something looked wrong before his brain caught up to it. Your flushed face. The way you wouldn’t fully meet his eyes. Your hair slightly disheveled despite your obvious attempt to fix it.
”Hey,” he said finally, voice rough from exhaustion. “You okay?”
The concern in it nearly made you laugh. Where had a fraction of that care been the past year?
Every part of you wanted to yell at him, to scream and punch his chest for making such a fool out of you. But you could still taste his best friend on your lips, so instead you just nodded too quickly and stepped around him before your face betrayed you further. Your shoulder brushed him lightly as you passed, and the second it did you felt him tense.
“Y/n,” he called after you, more confused now, “I wanna talk to you before I leave-“
His words died in his throat when the on-call door, the one you just escaped out of, opened from down the hall.
Abbot had stepped out into the hallway infuriatingly calm, casually shutting the door behind him while his hands were tying his scrub pants together. His hair looked slightly disheveled, and worst of all there was a smug satisfaction written plainly across his face that made your chest tighten in immediate panic.
You kept walking, planning on grabbing your bag and meeting Abbot in the parking garage anyway.
Robby just stared at him.
The confusion on his face had vanished entirely now, replaced slowly by disbelief so stark it almost looked physical. His eyes flicked once toward the closed on-call room door, then down the hallway in the direction you had disappeared, before finally settling back onto Abbot again.
”What the fuck?” Robby whispered, a cruel laugh threatening to slip out.
This only made Abbot’s smile grow wider, as he sauntered down the hall to meet his friend in the middle.
“Listen, man,” Abbott said casually as he strolled closer, clapping Robby once on the shoulder like they were discussing something harmless over beers instead of detonating twenty years of friendship in the middle of a hospital hallway. “Your willpower’s stronger than mine.”
Robby hardly reacted, he couldn’t. His brain wasn't allowing the pieces to slot together.
He just stood there staring ahead while the meaning settled heavier and heavier into his chest by the second. His jaw flexed hard enough to visibly tick beneath his skin, eyes darkening with something that looked dangerously close to panic underneath the anger beginning to rise.
Then Abbot stopped a few feet past him as he had almost forgotten something.
“Oh,” he added lightly over his shoulder, still wearing that same shit-eating grin. “Tell Noelle we said hi.”
Shy!reader get sick and she visit the pitt at night
okay so this is set before they are a couple!!
thank you anon! i hope u enjoy <3
—
the waiting room was packed and sticky from the humidity.
almost every single chair was occupied as the television mounted on the wall played quietly over the constant murmur of conversations, ringing phones, and coughs.
she had been sitting there for nearly three hours.
at first she'd thought someone would call her back quickly.
and when an hour had passed, she decided to open her kindle app.
and when another hour passed she just couldn’t focus anymore. her book long forgotten.
because every time a nurse appeared through the doors, her head lifted hopefully before sinking again.
the fever hadn't broken and if anything… it felt worse.
her body ached. her throat burned from the constant coughing, and the room was too bright and too loud.
twice she'd considered walking up to the desk and asking how much longer it would be.
twice she'd lost her nerve.
everyone else looked like they needed help more than she did anyway.
so she waited… and waited… and waited.
by the time someone finally called her name, she nearly missed it.
"miss?"
her head snapped up.
a nurse smiled.
"we've got a room for you."
relief hit her so hard she almost cried.
the exam room wasn't much quieter than the waiting room. voices carried through the hallway. monitors beeped somewhere nearby, and stretchers rolled past every few minutes.
she sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, trying not to feel overwhelmed.
was she sitting weird?
what should she say when the doctor arrives?
she sighed, closing her eyes to calm her nerves before the door opened.
a young nurse stepped inside.
"hey, i'm mateo." he offered a friendly smile while pulling up her chart and read her name aloud.
his brows furrowed, recognizing her name but he pushed it to the side as she coughed into her elbow.
“sorry.” she sniffled.
some of her tension started to ease though, because mateo was easy to talk to. he was kind and he was nice to look at.
"so..” he gave her a smile. “what brings you in tonight?"
she explained her symptoms softly.
the fever that just won’t break.
the cough.
the exhaustion.
and the fact that she had barely eaten all day— her stomach would churn and turn whenever she tried to take a bite of anything.
mateo's expression became more serious as he listened.
"how long has the fever been running?"
"um.. about three days, i’d say.”
his head lifted from the notes he took. "hmm, three days?"
she nodded, coughing in the process making her gasp for air.
“sorry.”
"have you seen anyone before tonight?" he wanted to know.
"uh no."
mateo stared. "you waited three days?"
she looked down immediately, clutching her hands tighter together.
“i thought it'd go away." she let out a nervous chuckle.
a cough following suit. she apologized again, mateo smiled, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.
but before he could say anything else, movement outside the room caught his eye.
someone was passing by.
dark scrubs.
broad shoulders.
a coffee in one hand and a chart in the other.
jack abbot. his attending.
mateo looked up.
jack looked in and halted.
for a second, neither man moved.
mateo frowned in confusion.
"what?" he said to jack.
jack didn't answer.
his eyes were fixed entirely on the patient sitting on the bed. a knowing and surprised look plastered onto his tired features.
she was deathly pale.
flushed with the fever.
and suddenly mateo understood.
"oh."
the single word carried far more meaning than it should have.
because mateo knew.
he pulled it out of jack one night, after he came in for a shift with one of those schoolboy smiles— and jack never did that.
jack abbot wasn't dating her.
but mateo kept telling jack that he could if he grew some balls.
jack stepped into the room, opening the door slowly.
"what are you doing here?" his question wasn't harsh.
it was concerned.. deeply concerned.
she blinked up at him.
clearly startled to see him.
"oh! uh.. hi."
mateo physically had to stop himself from smiling.
“he’s my neighbor.” she said to explain.
mateo nodded. he already knew but he’d never tell her that.
jack crossed his arms.
"you're sick."
she looked down at her hands.
"yeah?"
"how’s the fever?"
she hesitated and gaped at mateo.
mateo answered for her.
"well, she’s had it for three days."
jack's jaw tightened.
"three days?"
she shrank visibly beneath the attention.
"i thought it would get better!”
neither of the men in front of her looked impressed.
jack rubbed a hand over his face.
for a moment he looked less like a trauma attending and more like a man trying very hard not to be worried about someone.
yet unfortunately for him, he was failing miserably.
like, really badly.
"have you eaten?"
a pause between her and mateo. jack winced.
"n-no.” she finally let out.
jack closed his eyes.
mateo immediately looked away towards the ceiling, fiddling his thumbs awkwardly because now he was witnessing something deeply personal.
when jack opened his eyes again, he looked directly at him.
"did we order labs?"
"already done."
"fluids?"
"i was about to hang them before you came in." he pointed.
jack nodded at that.
then he looked back at her.
his expression softened immediately.
"so you're gonna sit here," he said calmly, walking towards her bed.
he stoped so close that he felt her knees against his thigh and spoke again, “and you're gonna let us take care of you. and your going to stop apologizing for coughing."
her cheeks turned pink despite the fever.
because she had been apologizing.
constantly.
and of course jack had noticed.
his voice lowered.
"you understand?"
she gave him small nod.
"good."
and for the first time all night, she felt herself relax.
