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Ever since Andrew found out about the pregnancy, his sleep has worsened. He had an emergency bag in the wardrobe, just in case, and practiced many times the fastest way to get to the hospital by car.
He also watched videos of women giving birth in the pool or in the car, you can never predict these things, nor the traffic in Oceanside.
He wanted to be prepared.
Andrew had always loved watching you sleep, and you did not mind. Now it felt different, he would always keep a hand on your belly, who was slowly starting to show, as if he wanted to remember the size of it.
"The baby is not going to grow overnight" you always reassured him, but he did not care.
His baby was growing, and he did not want to miss an inch.
According to the many books he had read, and they were many, the baby was supposed to start moving by now and Andrew was starting to get impatient.
Just when he was about to lose hope and finally try to sleep, a small bump hit his big hand. He took him a second little fist to realise it was his baby. His little boxer giving the first kicks.
Eyes filled with tears, it all suddenly felt so real. He looked up at your sleeping figure, and decided against waking you up and savoured the moment along by himself.
The following morning while he was making breakfast, you woke up running into the kitchen yelling that you felt the baby kicking for the first time.
Andrew thought the moment lived yesterday with his baby was the most precious experience in his life. Only second to the smile you gave him as you placed his hand on your belly to make him feel your child moving inside of you.
andrew’s sitting on the toilet seat lid, breathing harshly through his nose as you kneel in between his legs. gazing up at him and swiping the blood off of his cheek with a lil cotton swab, your little pink first aid kit clacking against the floor. you silently work, one hand resting on his knee while the other works on his face gently. his breath keeps getting heavier, the black toe of his vans tapping quicker & quicker against the linoleum.
he’s antsy & anxious, chest heaving more & more like he was actively facing an internal battle. putting both hands on his knees, you look up at him with loving eyes, “you okay honey?” gritting his teeth, a nasty pout on his face, he loses his resolve. andrew drags you up by your arms, never quite knowing how to balance his own strength with his intense need for you. hisbig hands clenched over your biceps as he hauls you into his lap.
chest to chest, he squeezes you to him. your legs dangle over his thighs as you straddle him, his breath slowly evening out now that he has you close to him. you bring your hand to card through his hair, cradling his injured cheek in your palm as you kiss at his nose and eyelids.
slowly his leg stops bouncing and he starts chasing your kisses back. you peck his chin & then his move to his cheekbone and he’s kissing your chin & cheekbone. a gorgeous game of tag, as he squeezes your waist tight to keep you from going away from him :(((
hatosy absolutely knows the girlies love his older ass because those selfies are 100% the pics i would be getting back in the day (especially his snapchat era)
i am glad he understands his own power.
*i’ll be back on that bs if me and my man ever split
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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summary — your daughter is scared of needles, but needs a routine vaccination. jack, your husband and the stepfather of your daughter, steps in to comfort her through the process. (based on this request) (3k)
featured — dr. jack abbot / fem!pediatrician!reader
content — no spoilers for s1 or 2, straight fluff, medical descriptions of vaccines and immunity, my little pony references (because i don't know what kids watch these days), jack being a good step father, tw. needles/shots
(cross-posted on ao3) (the pitt masterlist)
It feels a tad strange coming into work on a day off, but when one works at a hospital, work life can sometimes become melded with personal.
You know that better than anyone. You had, for a moment, become a running joke for how many times you arrived back at work after scheduled leave. It’s a bit like a toxic relationship at this point. You hate being at work, but you also can’t fully remove yourself from the environment that keeps you coming back time and time again.
The joke also caught its biggest flame when you started dating—and even more so when you married—emergency medicine doctor Jack Abbot. Then, you had even more reasons to stop by on your days off. Unexpected dropped off lunches and appearances to pick him up for dates at the end of his shifts garnered lots of laughter from your other pediatric doctors, and some of the emergency floor. (Dr. Shen and Dr. Ellis started their own betting pool, for a minute, based on when you would show up throughout the week).
For once, though, the reason you’re coming into the hospital isn’t about you, and it isn’t even about Jack. It’s about your daughter.
At eight years old, she has lots of opinions. It had started that morning when she woke up and decided she did not want to brush her teeth (which you of course had to convince her to do), she’d been upset to find that Jack was working and could not ride bikes with her (as they liked to do on Saturday mornings he had off work), and then suddenly decided that she absolutely would not be getting her Flu vaccine you had already scheduled her for at your local pharmacy today.
It isn’t often you give in to your daughter's outlandish whims, but you also know that aversions to needles is something that can become worse the older a person gets. You dealt with parents fainting over their child getting a small shot in the arm enough to know that you did not want your daughter to one day fear needles that much. So that’s why you made her a deal.
Get your vaccine from mom at work and maybe you can see Jack.
She’d been all for it, of course. From the day you’d introduced her and Jack seven years ago, she and him had been attached at the hip. It’s why you know that bribing her with the thought of his attention is a sure fire way to get her on board.
“Can we go see Jack now?” she asks the minute you step on the chaotic emergency floor. Even though she didn’t see her biological father often, and had known Jack since she was a baby, she still liked calling him Jack. You and Jack never correct her because you know that kids can have a hard time relinquishing titles like that.
“Have to get your shot first,” you tell her, weaving through doctors and nurses striding by in a frenzied hurry. You’re mostly trying to get off this floor before she sees something traumatizing.
You pass a young woman screaming at the top of her lungs in the psych hold area and you cringe, angling your daughter’s curious gaze away.
Entering through this floor had not been your first idea. Pedes was a few floors up, and not nearly as chaotic as the emergency floor. It also tended to not have nearly as much blood or gore. It had just about the same level of loudness, though—especially when babies are concerned.
“Is that my favorite pedes doctor coming in on her day off again?”
You flinch and turn your head just as you and your daughter have just about made it to the elevators. Since Jack’s been working more day shifts recently (to get better aligned with you and your daughter’s schedules, bless him), a whole new cast of characters has been taking up residence in his stories.
This one you recognize immediately, though.
“Dana,” you say with a short laugh, reaching out to give her a quick sidearm hug, the other still holding your daughter’s hand captive in your own.
She returns it softly, grinning at you with that warm, toothy smile.
“Hey hon.” She releases you after a quick pat on the back, eyes glittering. She looks down at your daughter and bends on her knees. “And here’s the one we’ve all heard so much about from Jack.”
You adjust your hand to rest between your daughter’s shoulder blades, gently nudging her forward. She’s dressed in a bedazzled rainbow dash t-shirt (the best My Little Pony, in her opinion) and a tulle skirt, and several butterfly clips in her hair. She’s been picking out her own outfits recently, but luckily they were still pretty cute.
She looks back at you nervously, but offers Dana a smile when she turns her head back. She gives the older woman a small wave.
“We didn’t want to have to spend the day at work,” you say to her, “but someone is a little hesitant to get her flu shot, so I thought I’d just bring her in and do it here.”
Dana shoots you a knowing look. “Well, let me know if I can help you guys at all.”—she turns to your daughter then, a smile on her painted lips—“Maybe if it all goes well, you can come see me for some stickers afterward?”
Your daughter grins, looking back at you. “Can we go do it now?”
You laugh at her sudden enthusiasm, turning to Dana. “You should come join us on the pediatric floor.”
“No thank you,” she says, shaking her head, “if I had to hear babies crying all day I’d lose my mind. Those days are over for me.”
“You have the touch!” you tell her over your shoulder as you weave into the elevator with your daughter in tow.
“I have bribes.” Dana’s laugh follows you as the doors begin to slide shut. “Not the same thing.”
You continue to smile even as the doors slide shut and the familiar weightless feeling takes hold as the elevator moves. Your daughter slides her hand from yours and you quickly check your phone for any notifications. The last text you received was at 7am this morning—Jack sneaking out but not without telling you he loves you over text and that he’d made breakfast.
You bite your lip as you relive the butterflies that erupted in your stomach from the simple phrase.
That is what is so rare, so special about Jack. He loves you unconditionally. Your last boyfriend, your daughter’s father, had practically skipped town when he found out you were pregnant. As far as you were concerned, he was just a sperm donor.
Luckily, you had met Jack about six months into your pregnancy. Somehow in that brief period when you spoke infrequently in between night shift consultations, you being single had come up in conversation and he made his move.
Two years later, he was the one doing puzzles with your daughter and drawing with crayons at the kitchen table. Later, he was the one teaching her how to ride a bicycle and tie her shoes. When you and Jack got married four years ago, your daughter had beamed ear-to-ear during the entire reception—and had run up to give her new step-dad a huge hug that resulted in many resounding “awws” in the audience.
Your daughter knew no other male parental figure except Jack, not really. Your ex visited on holidays, often with some kind of lazy $20 Target gift card and a Hallmark card. There’s some kind of the mysticism that comes when you’re a kid that’s visited by an absent parent once in a blue moon that keeps them haunting the back of your mind like an apparition, always.
She doesn’t know him like you do, and she only sees him twice a year, so she doesn’t have a fully-realized image of what he is or what kind of person he could be. She gives him graces that she wouldn’t afford anyone else in her life that are constants because of that mysticism and childhood naïveté. You don’t blame her—can’t. You do blame your ex, but there’s really not anything you can do about that either—except demand child support and remind him with texts of her birthday coming up every year.
You reach over to squeeze her shoulder affectionately and she looks up at you, giving a small smile.
“It will be over in no time, I promise.” You let go of her shoulder just as the elevator dings and the doors slide open to the, thankfully, much quieter pediatrics floor.
In the distance, you hear a baby crying that is quickly soothed by their mother’s voice. You glance down at your daughter as she steps into the floor behind you and your heart pangs.
Her eyes are wide, taking in every person that walks by with scrutiny, and she tries to hide the slight tremble to her hands.
You bend your knee, putting on your trained pediatrics smile. Her eyes dart to yours, a plea on her lips. “It will be over so quickly. I promise. And then we will see Mrs. Dana and she will give us stickers and we can go see Jack and give him a hug.”
She doesn’t seem entirely comfortable, still, but she nods and follows you as you lead her to the circle of desks near the center of the room. It’s a very similar setup to the emergency floor, except the rooms are less windowed for privacy and the walls are painted in a soothing nature scene for the kids to enjoy.
You find one of the pediatrics nurses, a friend of yours, and you ask him for some assistance. You set your daughter down in one of the stools at the front.
“Okay, this is mom’s friend Henry, and he’s going to help us with your flu shot. Is that okay?”
Your daughter looks over at the mid-twenty year old man standing across from her, hands clenched into little fists in her lap. She nods, then starts pulling at one of the strings in her rainbow skirt.
You look over at Henry, who begins prepping the shot. Your daughter stares at you with a tremulous chin, eyes beading with tears.
As Henry begins to wipe her upper arm with a sterile pad, she flinches and turns away, hiding her upper body from sight.
“I want Jack,” she says softly, “can Jack do it? I promise I will if he comes.”
You sigh and turn to Henry, who shrugs. You look down at your phone and raise a brow when it vibrates in your hand, as if beckoned.
Jack<3: how did little one’s shot go today? i’m on lunch
“Stay here with Henry for a minute, okay, honey? I'm going to go make a phone call.” Your daughter nods, but gives Henry a skeptical side eye as he continues to stand in front of her.
You back far enough away that your daughter can’t hear and press on Jack’s contact info to call him.
It only has to ring once before you hear his voice on the other side.
“You okay? Need me to head out?”
Your stomach flutters at the concern in his voice, even though you think it might be a little sadistic to feel that. Maybe it’s just that every day, in little moments, you’re reminded how much you and your daughter mean to him.
“If I were to tell you I’m in pediatrics right now, with little Miss-Afraid-of-Needles near-hyperventilating at just the thought of getting her flu shot, what would you do?”
“I thought you guys had an appointment for that?” You can hear shuffling on the other end and the sound of someone asking him a question, which he replies in a muffled voice you can’t make out.
“Well, I made a mistake,” you tell him, “I let her decide where we go to get the shot. I also promised she would see you after and that Dana would give her stickers. And she’s still upset about it all.”
“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, you know that?”
You snort a laugh through your nose. “Like you’re any better? Don’t think I didn’t see the smiley face you made her out of chocolate chips on her pancakes this morning.”
“It’s our Saturday tradition, honey. You know that.”
“I know, I know,” you laugh again, “just don’t try to lecture me about being too soft on her when I can literally hear you running to catch the elevator right now.”
He chuckles, then quietens.
“—I think the elevator’s about to arrive. I’ll see you in a minute?”
You nod, then you realize he can’t see you. “I love you. Thank you for making the time.”
You can hear the smile in his voice as he replies. “For you? Always.”
The call cuts just as you hear the elevator doors ding on the other side of the call. You turn around to look at your daughter, only to find her putting stickers all over poor Nurse Henry’s arm. You grin at her enthusiasm, striding over.
“You getting Nurse Henry looking pretty over here?”
Your daughter clams up as if she’s expecting you to be angry at her sudden 180 in emotion. You know kids, though, and you know that her fear was real and that just because she’s been distracted doesn’t mean she was faking it before. You squat down to her level, gently stroking her hair.
“Jack’s coming up now to give you your shot.”
Your daughter beams, but after a moment shrivels in on herself, her lip trembling.
You give her a kiss on the cheek. You pull back, forcing her to look at your eyes with a hand on her chin. “It will be okay. I promise.”
As if on cue, the elevator doors open and Jack comes striding in. He looks around for just a few seconds before his eyes land on where you stand across the room. He beams and quickly strides over.
Henry steps back as Jack takes his spot.
“Hey, bug,” he says to her. He pokes her arm and she lets out a soft laugh, turning away. “I hear you’re a little scared of your shot?”
She wrinkles her nose. “It hurts. And I can’t sleep on my arm at night when I get them.”
“Well,” Jack says, snapping on a pair of gloves from nearby, “sometimes life is about doing things that might make us hurt for a day or two so we don’t get really hurt later.”
“But I’ve never had the flu before,” she says, furrowing her brows.
“Do you remember what I told you about our bodies? That we have fighters inside of us that are usually really good at keeping viruses like the flu from making us sick?” She nods, so he continues. “Well, this shot”—he picks up the needle to show her—“has a code in it that those little fighters can learn, so that when you do get the flu, you might not get sick at all, because now they know what they’re fighting.”
Your daughter nods very seriously. “So my fighters are like Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash learning more about Nightmare Moon so they can stop her from taking over the world next time she shows up?”
You notice from the corner of your eye Henry biting his lip to smother his laughter. Meanwhile, you’re actually pretty impressed by her comparison to her favorite show. You also think in the same train of thought that maybe she needed less screen time.
“Yep, exactly,” Jack agrees enthusiastically. “And this shot is like the Elements of Harmony coming to change Nightmare Moon back into Princess Luna.”
Now you’re the one holding back your laughter. You look over at Jack, impressed by his knowledge. He shoots you a sly wink as if to say ‘I know more than I’m letting on.’
Your daughter squares her shoulders and nods. “Okay,” she says, “do it. I’m ready.”
Jack smiles and grabs the sterile swab to rewipe her upper arm. She flinches at the cold liquid and you walk over to stand in front of her.
“Just look at me,” you tell her softly, “it will be over before you know it.”
She follows your direction obediently as Jack lines up the shot with her arm. As the needle enters, your daughter winces and tenses, but keeps her eyes on you all the while. Jack pushes the liquid in then removes the needle. He puts on a colorful bandaid to the wound.
“All done,” you say with a grin, “you did so good.”
She bashfully drops her eyes. “It barely even hurt.”
Jack stands, removing the gloves with a small, affectionate smile pulling at his lips.
She stands up from her stool. You think she’s going to move toward you when she surprises you by turning to hug Jack around his waist. Jack tilts his head toward her, surprised.
“Thanks, dad,” she says into his back. “You’re the best.”
She continues to bury her head into his scrubs, and Jack pats her head as he meets your shocked gaze. You think your mouth must be hanging open, but you can’t help it.
She pulls away and looks up at him. She frowns. “Why are you crying, dad?”
Jack wraps her in a gentle side hug, wiping away the small tears that had leaked out. “Nothing, bug. Just happy.”
Your daughter lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. She begins to move away from the two of you quickly. “Okay, well stop crying and come pick out stickers with me.”
You snort at her drill-sergeant order and look over at Jack, who continues to grin and shake his head. You reach over to loop an arm around his waist, planting a kiss to his cheek.
“You earned it,” you whisper, “only a dad knows that many My Little Pony references.”
Jack lets out a laugh, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a full kiss.
The moment is broken when your daughter lets out a loud groan from across the room. “Come onnnn, gosh you guys are so gross!”
You laugh and pull away. You sweep your hand toward your daughter with a sarcastic grin. “C'mon, Jack. Fatherhood awaits.”
synopsis you and Jack have always been two pees in a pod, working the ER together, on the field together, no wonder you started to search for those dark eyes and damning smirk. and you thought for a second, just for a second, he might be searching for you too, until you hear the man you're crushing on airing out everything he hates about you
warningstypical medical drama stuff, in-accurate medical terms. miscommunication. angst. insecure reader. language, jack says things he doesn't mean about reader. angry love confession in the rain. this is not proof-read
authornotei really really really loved this idea and tried so hard to do it justice, I hope you like anon. I tried to stay close to the SWAT idea but I'll be honest I know nothing about American army stuff (i'm british) so I sort of set it as much in the Pitt as I could. I also couldn't find ANYTHING for Jack's military background so I made up some SWAT guys
pitt masterlist. another Jack fic!
Just when you thought the rest of your day was going to be boring, Jack Abbot and his crew of SWAT pushed through the ambulance bay doors, yelling off stats, applying pressure where needed and clearing the way around them.
Which was a welcome change from trying to sell Robby your hypothetical first born child in exchange for a lunch break.
“Intubated neck wound, stats are going down. Got a room?” said Jack.
You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”
“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”
“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”
Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.
You were what could be called, a floater.
By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.
“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”
You helped lift him over to the bed.
“Did you intubate him?” you asked,
“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.
You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”
“Shot at.”
“You need to be looked at?”
“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.
“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.
There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.
Jack had.
Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.
“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”
Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.
“You should get that looked at,” you told him.
“I'm fine.”
“No, you're not.”
There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.
“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”
You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.
So, he wasn't in the joking mood.
“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”
You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.
“Demanding,” said Robby.
“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.
Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.
You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”
The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.
“Geez- woah!”
“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.
The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.
“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”
“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”
“I know that but-”
“- this is a transected trachea now-”
There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.
There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.
You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.
It was one of the reasons he always called you in.
“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.
Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”
Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”
“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.
You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.
But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.
Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.
He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.
Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.
“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.
“Don't want the paperwork?”
“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.
“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.
There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.
You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.
And, why.
Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.
He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.
Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.
And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.
Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.
“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.
Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”
She hummed. “Funny.”
“Thank you.”
He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.
They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.
He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.
Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.
“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.
Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”
“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.
Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”
Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.
“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”
“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”
Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.
Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.
“Are you avoiding her, now?”
Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”
“Did she do something?”
“No.”
“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.
Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”
Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”
Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.
“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.
“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.
Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”
“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”
“Jack, c’mon-”
Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.
“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.
Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.
Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.
Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”
Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.
“She’s not it, Robby.”
“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.
“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”
He pressed down against the metal band branding him.
“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.
Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”
Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”
“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.
“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.
But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”
“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”
“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.
Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.
“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”
“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.
In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.
Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.
Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.
You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.
That’s why you felt it plummet.
She’s not it for me.
There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.
But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.
She's brutal.
It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.
You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.
You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.
She's not it for me.
“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”
“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.
Robby gave a nod and left you to it.
Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?
Besides from not being his wife.
The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.
It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.
You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.
You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.
Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.
The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.
You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.
A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.
“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.
When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.
“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)
Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.
And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.
But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.
You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.
“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”
You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”
Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”
“Well, no-”
“Then get your ass over here.”
“Robby-”
“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”
Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.
Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.
You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.
“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.
At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.
“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”
“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.
“Room in trauma one!”
Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.
“You're here,” was all he said.
You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.
Jack didn't like that person.
“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.
“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”
“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.
“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”
“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.
You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.
“What have you got?” he asked.
It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.
“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.
You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”
“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”
“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.
“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.
You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”
“Okay, start an-”
“- start an internal massage-”
You and Jack said at the same time.
Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.
“Pulse?”
“Barely.”
Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”
“I need suction!”
“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.
“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.
Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”
“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.
Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”
Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.
“Clamped,” said Princess.
“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.
There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.
“He's going into V-fib!”
You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”
They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.
“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.
“Charge to thirty! Clear!”
Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.
“There! He's stable!” said Princess.
“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.
“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.
You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.
Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.
When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.
The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.
You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.
“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.
“Thank you.”
He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”
“Yeah.”
“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”
You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”
“What, from the guys?”
You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.
“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”
Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?
“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.
“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”
She's brutal, you know.
You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.
“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.
Heading back in seemed the safer option.
Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”
“- I've been busy-”
“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”
“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”
“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”
“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.
Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”
You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.
“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.
You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.
“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.
“Nothing, nothing.”
Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”
He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?
Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”
“Huh?”
You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”
For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.
But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.
Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”
“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”
He gulped. “I didn't mean-”
“-what, for me to hear it?”
“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.
“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.
“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”
You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”
“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”
You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”
“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.
“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.
Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”
“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”
“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.
You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”
“- I know, I know you do-”
“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.
“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”
“You know what the worst part is?”
Jack shook his head, waiting.
“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”
Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.
It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.
Jack had fucked up.
There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.
He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.
He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.
He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.
“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”
“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”
They'd refused, with good reason.
He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.
It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.
Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.
“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.
He said he was looking for you.
“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”
“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.
Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.
There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.
“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.
Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”
Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.
You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.
“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”
“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.
“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”
You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”
Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”
You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.
He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.
“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.
Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.
“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”
“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.
Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.
“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.
What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.
He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.
“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.
“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.
“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”
There was a glimpse of a smile.
Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”
An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.
“Sorry,” he uttered.
You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.
It was enough for now.
Your name was called down the corridor.
“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.
“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”
Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.
Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.
“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.
Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”
“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”
Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”
“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”
“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.
Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”
“-Robby-”
“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”
Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.
Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”
A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.
“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.
Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.
Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.
Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.
They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.
They told you not to change.
It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.
Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.
You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.
Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.
“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”
Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.
Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.
It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.
“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.
“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.
The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”
You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”
You put in the orders for stitches.
“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.
“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”
The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.
You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.
Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.
You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”
You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.
“Here, I can-”
His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.
Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.
The tin fell into your hand.
Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”
“Thanks.”
It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.
It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.
“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”
Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”
“It's in the garage.”
“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.
The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.
“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”
“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”
You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.
“You don't have to, Jack.”
“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”
Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.
Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.
“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.
“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.
“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.
Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”
The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.
“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”
The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.
“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”
“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”
“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”
“-so why try?”
“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”
“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”
“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”
To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.
He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.
“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”
“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.
“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”
“Excuse me?”
Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”
You chuckled.
“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”
You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”
He waited, catching his breath, for more.
You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”
Jack nodded, looking down.
The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.
“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”
His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.
“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“And looking to settle down.”
Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”
“Therapy is good,” you said.
Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”
As sorry's went... as love confessions went.
“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.
“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”
You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”
He smirked a little. “No.”
Your heart dropped.
Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”
His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.
You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.
You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.
Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.
You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.
“Will you let me?” you asked.
“Always,” he promised.
thank you to anon for requesting, and thank you to @oldbaddies and @mafercita101 who wanted to be tagged :)
pairing: pope cody x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: you find pope with a burned hand, take care of him and end up reminding him he's worth more than his brother's cruelty.
content warnings: pope's self harm in season 2, burn on his palm, lots of baz slander my bad, reader is mentioned to have long soft hair
a/n: haiiii my first pope cody fic everrr. i am scared to post this !!!!! gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3
wc: 3.7k
You just wanted to check up on Lena.
That was the truth, or at least most of it. You'd been thinking about her all day. She'd been far too lonely lately. Every time you saw her, she seemed a little more withdrawn and you figured she needed a friend.
You'd spent way too long in the store standing in the stuffed animal aisle holding up a bunny in one hand and an octopus in the other. You couldn't decide which one was more her thing. So you did what any sensible person would do and grabbed both. Better to have options, right? And if she didn't like one, she could always give it back, and you'd just keep it for yourself. Not that you'd mind having a cute octopus around.
Now you were walking up the stairs to Lena's house. The sky had gone completely dark and the neighborhood was quiet. You could hear a dog barking somewhere in the distance, and the sound of dishes clinking together.
Usually you'd knock, because that's what normal people do when they visit someone's home, but it was far too dark outside, and you didn't feel like waiting outside alone
Besides, you only ever came over when Pope was babysitting Lena. You'd never once come over when Baz was taking care of his kid. You didn't like him. You didn't like the way he treated Lena. You'd seen the way he dismissed her and the way he'd brush her off when she tried to talk to him. It made your blood boil just thinking about it.
But more than that, you had a crush on Pope. You were pretty sure he knew what you were doing when you always came over, but he never called you out on it.
You slowly slid the terrace door open, careful not to make too much noise, and you slipped inside. You could already spot Pope, standing at the kitchen counter with his back to you. You bit your lip when you saw his choice of dark button up. You always did like his button ups.
You were about to announce yourself, let him know you were there, when you saw him stare at his palm. He hadn't even noticed you from his peripheral vision, which was saying something because Pope was usually so aware of everything around him.
You stepped closer, about to say something, when you noticed that his hand was scorching red. Red, like he'd just touched the pan next to him while it was still hot and burned his entire palm, red.
"Andrew?" you said carefully, despite your raging worry, you tried to remain calm because he seemed completely out of it. The burn looked really bad.
His head snapped up toward you, and for a second, his eyes looked blank, but then he blinked, and his gaze focused on you.
He quickly turned his back to you, reaching for a cloth and wrapping it around his hand. "Lena's in her room. Pretending to sleep," he said, his tone flat, as he lowered the temperature under the pan.
You dropped the plushies onto the table and walked toward him before you could stop yourself. He was already wiping down the counter, obsessively cleaning and trying to keep himself busy.
He turned just as you finally approached him, and for a moment, you both just stood there staring at each other, neither of you saying anything. And then you looked down at his palm, reaching for it.
You saw him flinch back for a second, but then he stopped, and he let you touch his arm. Your fingers wrapped around his elbow and you raised his arm toward you, bringing his hand closer so you could see it better. Your other hand came up to carefully unwrap the cloth he had put around it.
You bit your tongue when you saw the burn. It was worse than you'd expected. The burn covered his entire palm, spreading up his fingers and down toward his wrist. You could tell it hurt just by looking at it. And you knew, deep down in your gut, that he'd done it on purpose.
You looked up and met his hazel eyes, which were already staring down at you with that intense gaze he always had. You knew exactly what he was doing by staring at you like this. Testing you. He knew what he'd done and he knew you knew, and he was waiting to see if you'd call him out on it.
You decided against saying anything. It wouldn't help anyway.
"I'll help you take care of this," you mumbled quietly.
Pope didn't say anything. He just let you do it, his hand compliant in yours as you gently set the cloth away.
You reached for the sink, turning on the cold water and waiting for it to get properly cool. The sound of the water filled the quiet kitchen. "You'll have to stay like this for at least ten minutes," you said quietly. "Running cold water over it for ten to fifteen minutes helps reduce the swelling and keeps the burn from getting worse."
You paused, tilting your head slightly to catch his eye, waiting to see if he was ready for you to put his hand under the water. He just looked at you for a moment and then he did it wordlessly.
You kept your fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Don't use ice, by the way," you said, your voice casual, like you were just making conversation. "Ice is bad for burns. It restricts the blood vessels and can actually make the damage worse." You kept talking, explaining why water was important, why ice was bad and all the while, Pope just stared at you.
It was late, and he'd been hoping for you to finally show up. He'd been telling himself you weren't going to come, that you had better things to do than spend your evenings with him and that maybe you'd finally gotten tired of him.
He'd missed you a lot, more than he could ever say out loud. You tried to show up at least three times a week at night, and you were the highlight of his day. You were the reason he got through his days, the reason he managed to drag himself out of bed in the morning, knowing that at the end of the day, he'd see you, was what kept him going.
And you looked as pretty as ever as you softly turned his hand under the water. You had your hair free, no braids or anything, just falling around your shoulders. It was cold today, which was why he was rather concerned about your outfit. You didn't have a jacket on you, just some thin shirt that couldn't possibly be keeping you warm. He could see the goosebumps on your arms and the way you shivered slightly every now and then.
"Where's your jacket?" he spoke over the sound of the water.
You brushed a finger gently over his fingertips, checking the temperature of his skin. "Home," you mumbled distracted, squinting at his fingers. It was still red, but the water was helping. "Does it hurt?" you asked, your eyes still fixed on his palm, but you didn't get an answer right away. You glanced up and were met with Pope's naked stare, so you turned away again.
He didn't like that worried look on you. It made him feel guilty, made him wish he could take back whatever he had done that had put that expression on your face. So he forced himself to speak.
"Doesn't hurt."
It had hurt earlier, when he'd forced himself to keep pressing his hand on the hot pot. He'd needed it to hurt.
You glanced at his hand before glancing at the clock on the oven. "I'll be right back," you said quietly. "Keep it under water." You glanced at him, and he could see the worry still lingering in your eyes. You seemed reluctant to leave him alone, but you let go of his hand anyway, and Pope dropped his eyes back to the water, watching the water flow over his damaged skin.
You quickly grabbed the plushies from the table, and Pope couldn't help but notice how you'd put a bow around them, clearly made by you. You'd clearly put in the effort to make it look like a fun present for Lena.
In the process, you started taking off your shoes, hopping on one foot awkwardly as you balanced the plushies against your chest. At that, you shot him an apologetic look. You knew he hated dirt and you'd been, so caught up in the sight of his burn that you'd just walked in with your shoes on. But he didn't say anything, he just followed you with his eyes silently until you disappeared into Lena's room.
He didn't hear you say anything, so he figured Lena had finally fallen asleep. She'd insisted she wasn't tired for hours, that she wanted to stay up and watch cartoons. He was glad to know that she was finally resting.
He stayed the way you wanted him to. He stared at his red hand, watching the water cascade over his damaged skin. It was getting better.
He wasn't sure he liked the pain of his palm getting milder. That was the whole point, wasn't it? He'd done it for the pain and now he had nothing? The emptiness was already starting to creep back in and he could feel himself slipping.
When you came back, you had aloe vera gel and some small bandages with you. "Don't know why Baz has this, but it'll help," you said quietly as you finally turned off the water. The sudden silence was relieving and Pope felt his shoulders fall down finally now that the noise was gone.
You seemed relieved he'd listened to you, a soft exhale escaping your lips as you turned to face him fully. You tilted his hand gently with a concentrated look on your face.
Meanwhile, Pope stared at you again. You looked really pretty.
He hated how there wasn't a smile on your face, usually there always was. Every time you hung out with Lena, you'd help him clean up the kitchen afterward, and he'd listen to you chatter on about your day. He'd occasionally say something, but now there was nothing. It felt wrong and Pope felt uncomfortable in his skin.
But at least you were touching him. Your fingers were still wrapped around his wrist, and he could feel the warmth and softness of your skin against his.
"Let's sit on the couch," you mumbled. You grabbed his other hand and pulled him with you, and he let you lead him there.
He settled down and you sat down there right beside him. The proximity was almost too much. Your thigh pressed against his and your shoulder brushed his. He wanted to stay like this forever.
You grabbed his injured hand and put it on your thigh and he had to look away for a moment to compose himself.
You stared at his palm for a long moment before looking at him, a slightly embarrassed expression on your face. "Any idea how much of this gel I'm supposed to use?" you smiled softly. There it was.
He glanced down at his red palm. "Should be just one thin layer," he said quietly. He noticed how much you were leaning in to see his palm your face so close to his that he could practically see his reflection in your eyes. "Just enough to cover the burn. Any more and it won't absorb properly."
"Okay," you mumbled, and then you grabbed the gel and applied it gently to your fingertip. Pope tilted his head, wondering how on earth you were able to see with your hair in the way. It kept falling forward and you kept having to push it back behind your ear only for it to fall forward again.
So he just reached for your hair. His fingers brushed against the soft strands and you lifted your head immediately, staring at him in confusion. But he didn't say anything, he just grabbed it gently, managing to gather it all with one hand and hold it away from your face.
"So you can see," he said, staring back at you as his fingers brushed against the nape of your neck.
You opened your mouth to say something before closing it again. "Right. Thank you," you mumbled, looking away flustered.
He then watched you as you applied a thin layer over his palm. The gel was cool and you were right. It felt so much better and with your hair in his hand and your shoulder touching his, better didn't feel so bad right now.
If feeling better included you, he might not fear it so much anymore.
Once you were done, you set the bottle aside on the coffee table. Pope dropped his hand, watching as your hair fell all over your shoulders again. His fingers tingled slightly from where he'd been holding it, and he flexed them, already missing the feel of those soft strands between his fingers.
You grabbed tissues and cleaned your fingertip, wiping away the excess gel before tossing the tissue onto the table, missing Pope's slight frown. Then you glanced at his hand again.
"Good?" you asked softly and he nodded in response.
You then grabbed the bandage you had already gotten earlier and quickly wrapped it around his hand. You did it oh so perfectly, it was the same way he'd done it to his brothers so many times over the years.
"Tight?" you asked, your eyes still fixed on his hand, and he shook his head.
You set everything away and leaned back on the couch, staring at nothing in front of you. Pope took back his palm to his lap, resting it on his thigh. He glanced outside, at the dark sky through the window, and then back at you.
"It's late. You shouldn't drive back," he said quietly.
You brushed a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palm. "Yeah. Long work day."
Pope's eyebrows furrowed. He hated when you talked about work, and you knew he hated it. He hated the way you'd come home with tired eyes and the way you'd talk about bosses who didn't appreciate you.
"You don't have to work. I can give you the money for everything you need." He'd said this before, more times than he could count. It was a conversation you've had almost every single day. He had more money than he knew what to do with and the thought of you slaving away at some job that didn't appreciate you made him want to burn the whole place down.
"Andrew," you said quietly, and that single word was enough. He pressed his lips tight together as he leaned back too, his eyes fixed on the way you pressed your knees tight together. It wasn't like the usual times, where you'd watch something on TV together and you'd softly clink your knee against his.
"Baz won't be here the entire week," he wasn't sure why he was telling you this, but he wanted you to know that you could come over without worrying about running into him.
You glanced at him, leaning your head against the couch behind you as you turned your head toward him. "Good," you said, and Pope felt his mouth twitch at that.
You were such a sweet girl, but you never quite hid your dislike for his brother. He found it entertaining. He knew why, and he knew it stemmed from a good and caring place, so he never felt the need to defend his brother to you. You weren't mean to Baz either, just a tad hostile, and Pope secretly appreciated that you had the guts to stand your ground.
Pope looked down at his bandage, closing his hand and opening it again. It hurt, and he knew it wasn't a good idea, but he did it anyway. There had to be some purpose to why he'd burned his hand. He couldn't just have it stop. But obviously you didn't let that happen.
Wordlessly, you put your hand into his. You lifted it gently from his lap and placed it in yours. He stopped moving it immediately, letting it rest there as you brushed a fingertip over the bandage.
He watched you, not bothering to hide his stare whatsoever. One of the small lights was shining on you and he could see how spaced out you were. It reminded him of himself and of all the times he'd stared at nothing. And he didn't like that. He hated hated hated it.
So he spoke the words that had been desperate to escape all night. "No one will ever have a kid with me," he said, his voice emotionless, like he was talking about the weather.
Your head snapped up at that, your eyes widening as they darted across his face. "What?" you said sounding genuinely confused. But there was also genuine terror in your voice because what a horrible thing to say about yourself and believe.
"Baz said it," was all he said, his voice still flat as he stared at you to know what you actually thought. He didn't want empty platitudes or meaningless reassurances. He wanted the truth and he would only get that by looking at your face.
You opened your mouth and closed it again, your brain scrambling for the right words. Your hand tightened on his palm, almost giving him the pain he'd been craving earlier but then you realized what you were doing and you loosened your grip.
"Your brother might be the biggest jerk I've ever known in my life," you finally said, and Pope couldn't help the small smile that formed on his face. You'd never been this direct about your hatred towards Baz. "He sucks," you added and the bluntness of it made the small smile on his face twitch wider. "He's a terrible person and he says terrible things, and none of them are true."
And then you met his eyes properly. "And he's a liar. Every word that comes out of his mouth is a lie, and you know it. You know he just says things to tear them down and to make himself feel better."
Pope stared at you, his hazel eyes studying yours, trying to find the lie he believed was there. He didn't let much emotion show on his face, but you didn't look away. It was Pope who finally looked away first, which didn't happen very often.
You stared at his side profile and then tapped his bandaged hand lightly, drawing his attention back to you. "Hey, i'm here with you, aren't I?"
He met your eyes again, not saying anything.
"You're here taking care of Lena. Not Baz. You're here making her food. Not Baz. You're the one who picked her up from school. Not Baz," you said quietly as you held his stare. "You're the one who stays up with her when she has nightmares. You're the one who plays with her and makes her laugh and reads her bedtime stories. Not Baz."
You paused, swallowing hard, your hand still resting gently over his bandaged one. "You're a better dad to Lena than Baz will ever be," your voice cracking slightly.
As he kept looking at you, you pushed yourself to hold eye contact. "You start taking Lena to the park more regularly and the moms will start throwing themselves at you when they see how good you are to her," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. "They'll be lining up to get your attention. You'll have to fight them off with Lena."
His lips twitched at that and it made your heart flutter.
"Don't listen to him," you said, and there was so much contempt for his brother, that he found it endearing. "Don't listen to a single word that comes out of his mouth. You're too good for that."
Pope stayed quiet as his eyes drifted to the coffee table. He stared at your tissue for a while before looking back at you. "You think someone would want me?" he would never dream of asking a vulnerable question like this to anyone else, but you.
You didn't even hesitate. "I know someone would want you."
You watched him as he fixed himself again against the back of the couch. His eyes wandered far away and you could see him trying to decide if he believed any of it. You brushed a finger over his hand, as you waited for any reaction whatsoever.
"Thank you," he finally said quietly.
You looked at him and smiled softly. "You don't have to thank me for pointing out the obvious," you said softly, leaning back so your shoulder pressed hard against his. You knocked your knees against his. "Any kid would be lucky to have you as their dad, and any woman would be lucky to have you as the father of her kids."
You said that part quietly and then you looked away. You could feel your cheeks warming and you focused on the bandage on his hand. Pope watched you for a long moment, drinking in the sight of you, and then his fingers lightly reached upward until he tapped the back of your hand.
You looked up, your eyes meeting his and he didn't say anything. He just stared at you and you stared back, and you knew what he wanted to see. His nose twitched at what he saw. He was great at reading facial expressions, too good sometimes.
You let him see that you'd be one of those people who would consider themselves lucky to have him as the father to her kids. You watched the realization flash across his face and you dropped your eyes immediately.
When you dropped your head to his shoulder, you felt his sigh of relief and you smiled to yourself.
Eventually, you felt his arm shift, and then his hand came up to rest on your shoulder, his fingers curling gently around the curve of it. You leaned into it, letting him know it was okay, and his fingers tightened slightly, pulling you just a little bit closer.
"You should get some sleep," he murmured. "I'll get you some blankets."
"In a minute," you mumbled against his shoulder. "Just… stay here."
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after a creep makes a gross comment to you outside your apartment, pope is forced to explain what a pearl necklace really means. spoiler: it's not jewelry
PAIRING pope cody x bunny!reader
WARNINGS 18+ MDNI suggestive material (not explicit smut), age gap, innocence kink, corruption kink, protective pope cody, obsessive pope cody, stalker-like tendencies, unhealthy attachment, sexual innuendos, explicit sexual language and visuals, sheltered reader, naive/ditzy reader, creepy male attention, objectification, harassment / catcalling, predatory behavior (not from pope), threats of violence, implied violence (no graphic scenes)
WC 3.3k
Pope is here because Smurf told him the property needs checking on. At least that’s the story he’s feeding himself.
And it makes sense. There’s water damage in one of the downstairs units and some dipshit’s been stripping cooper out of the laundry room again. If it’s not one thing going wrong, it’s another.
This building’s always two steps away from falling apart. Someone has to stop it from going to hell completely.
Plenty of good, rational reasons to be here.
None of which do a thing to explain why he does not move from being propped on the hood of his truck just yet.
He stays at the curb as he watches the building’s familiar pulse of seedy activity.
It’s not even the worst spot owned by the Codys, not by far, but that doesn’t make it good. It’s definitely not good enough for you, not by a long shot. Run-down. Full of people who loiter outside longer than they should and pay too much attention to things that aren’t theirs.
A woman argues fervently on the stoop, body tense enough he can see the harsh jut of her collarbone from here. Two boys pretend to clean their bikes by the courtyard, their hands moving in repetitive, meaningless circles, rags never actually removing any grime.
And then there’s the smoker, with a long beard and crooked nose, leaning near the stairs, smoke rising around him.
Pope watches his sleepy gaze harden suddenly, tracking something straight ahead.
Pope’s neck cranes as his vision tunnels into pinpoint clarity, finding what the man found first: you.
Walking up the sidewalk with two grocery bags hooked over your wrists, pink flats picking their way carefully over the buckled concrete, skirt the same shade catching around your knees every time the breeze shifts. White cardigan buttoned all the way up over your chest despite the heat.
You don’t hurry. That bothers him.
You move through the courtyard with no care in the world. Unaware of the eyes that linger on your body, the curiosity you unwittingly ignite.
God he hates this place most when you’re in it. Without you, it’s just brick and mortar. But with you here, everything is suddenly hostile. A million scenarios blooming in his head. Someone following you from your car, someone hiding just around the corner waiting for you to pass by, a neighbor deciding your door lock doesn’t look so hard to force open.
He has tried to get you to stay at Smurf’s countless times now, using different tactics each time. Gentle coaxing, stubborn demands, pushing you into the kind of corner where the only real choice was already decided for you.
And those all work most nights.
Still, every now and then, for reasons unbeknownst to him, you insist on sleeping here.
So every now and then, he comes and sits off to the side, his truck parked discreetly out of view. Always staying within striking distance should anyone dare to try anything stupid.
Thankfully he hasn’t had to act yet, people know better, whispers exchanged in doorways and hallways: that pretty little thing tucked away in apartment 2B is Cody territory. Off limits.
It takes him four long strides to reach you.
He comes up behind you without saying anything, partly because he doesn’t want to startle you and partly because he wants to see how long it takes before you notice a man his size coming up behind you. Too long, apparently.
You don’t notice him when his shadow cuts across the pavement beside yours, not when his boots hit the concrete close enough you should hear him, not even when he’s right behind you, inhaling the faint sweet drift of your perfume over the dirty air of the courtyard.
You just keep walking, grocery bags bumping into your legs every second step, head angled down as you watch your feet over the cracked walkway.
Then you stop so suddenly he nearly runs into you, boots scuffing against the ground in the process.
Nearly turns into definitely when you move again, bending at the waist to grab a little carton that had tumbled out of your bag and rolled near your shoe.
He can’t dodge you fast enough before he’s crashing against you, the ample of your backside pressed flush against him, your skirt skimming his denim-clad thighs.
He grits his teeth, swallowing down the groan lodged somewhere in his throat, and his hands shoot out to grip at your waist. Half to steady you, half to hold himself back.
You jump, a sharp little gasp tearing out of you as you twist in his hold, eyes wide, lips parted.
But the fear vanishes when you realize it’s him. Dissolves so quickly into relief, then blossoming into that lovely smile of yours Pope spends half his days obsessing over. Lip gloss glistens like honey under the afternoon sun, squinting at him through the harsh glare.
“Pope,” you breathe, like he’s something good that happened to you rather than the man who decided to follow you through a parking lot to prove a point.
His fingers flex once before he makes them let go.
“You don’t pay attention,” he tells you plainly.
You smile pinches at the edges a little, like you’re trying to decide whether he’s teasing you or scolding you. You seem to assume the later. A good assumption.
“I do pay attention,” you insist, the words coming out with the stubborn certainty of someone who has already decided they're right. Then you glance down at the sidewalk as though it might testify on your behalf. One of the grocery bags slips lower on your wrist, plastic stretching, and you hitch it back up with a small huff of effort. “I was paying attention to the ground. Because last week I almost twisted my ankle right there.”
Pope follows the line of your finger.
Without a word, he reaches for the bags. His hand closes around the handles and lifts them clean off your arm before you can object. You make a small noise of surprise, letting him take them.
“What if it wasn’t me coming up behind you?”
Your brows pull together. “But it was you.”
“Yeah, but what if it wasn’t?”
You hesitate visibly, your fingers weaving together, rocking onto the tips of your shoes. You look almost apologetic when you speak. “I dunno.”
Exactly, he thinks.
He breathes out very slowly through his nose to keep the worst of his frustration from showing. It still sits heavy on his face, he’s sure. In the hard line of his mouth, in the way his hands tighten around the plastic bags until the handles stretch thin.
“You gotta be more aware,” he says, dipping his face towards yours, almost pleading. His gaze flickers anxiously over your face, desperate for more reassurance. “Can you do that for me? Check around when you get out of the car, look before you walk up the stairs, take a second before you open your door.”
You open your mouth to speak, something potentially defensive at the tip of your tongue, before you reconsider, shoulders sinking just a fraction.
“For me,” Pope urges again. No room for misunderstanding.
And because you are you, you give a gentle, almost reluctant nod in surrender. You have a hard time fighting him on anything.
He returns the gesture with his own stiff nod. He knows you don’t fully understand the fuss, not completely, but you’re trying, and that has to be enough for now. He’ll shoulder the rest.
He moves towards the staircase, leaving you to catch up. You hurry to follow behind him.
“Why’re you here anyway?” you voice after him. “Did I miss rent or something?”
Pope doesn’t turn around; doesn’t trust himself to look at you without giving too much away.
“No,” he replies, casual, like it’s not something he thinks about every single month.
You would never be late. You are a meticulously precise creature. Keeping track of everything, neat little numbers, due dates, confirmations, all of it lined up exactly the way you like, and then you get that pleased look on your face when you send the payment, like you’ve done something worth being proud of.
Which you have. He lets you have that. But he can’t stand taking your money.
So every month he waits until that little deposit appears, waits another day or two to avoid suspicion, then finds a way to get it back to you.
Sometimes it’s hidden in elaborate Cody business expenses; other times Craig’s buddy does some invisible computer shit to push numbers back into your account, nothing ever traced to pope.
And occasionally, he just leaves cash in places he knows you’ll find it. In your purse, between pages of a book you’ve left out, tucked behind a coffee mug.
He loves hearing you puzzle over it. You always chalk it up to luck, or fate, or some karmic gift from the universe. Never once suspecting Pope’s fingerprints on every cent.
It all sounds more complicated than it actually is.
Really, it’s just logical. You need the money. Pope has the money. Problem solved.
At the steps, Pope pauses, gently nudging you ahead of him.
It’s a selfish move. He’s got a bad feeling you don’t have shorts under that skirt, and he’s not in the mood to have that confirmed by anyone standing behind you. Better him at your back than anyone else. Better him blocking the view.
As if to confirm his fears, someone over his shoulder lets out a short laugh. “Man, a girl that pretty oughta let me buy her dinner. Hell, maybe I’d even send her home wearing a pearl necklace.”
Pope looks back and finds the bearded cigarette smoker slouched against the vending machine, filter hanging loose between two fingers, eyes still fixed on you with that same open, filthy interest. He’s got a buddy with him now, some wiry little shit standing half a step to the side, not looking too sure of himself now that Pope’s facing him.
Pope thinks about how easy it would be. Pin the guy up against the machine, forearm to windpipe, watching the smartass shine drain out of his eyes. Pictures crushing the cigarette into the soft part of his cheek. But he can’t do that without scaring you off.
So he crouches just enough to place the bags on the stairs without jostling them, eggs and bread and whatever else cushioned upright where it won’t tip.
When he rises, he goes back the way he came, jerking his head in your direction. “You talkin’ about her?”
“Just complimenting her.”
“No,” Pope says. “You weren’t.”
The wiry friend shifts back half a step. Smart.
The bearded man tries to recover, but it’s too late, Pope can already see the little glint of fear sputtering in his eyes, igniting as he sizes him up.
He lifts the cigarette to his mouth. “Ain’t that serious, man.”
Pope reaches out and plucks the cigarette from his fingers before it gets there. Drops it to the concrete. Crushes it under his boot.
“Look at her again, talk about her again, I’ll make sure the next thing I crush under my boot is your throat.”
The bearded man opens his mouth.
“Don’t. I’m tryin’ real hard not to scare her,” Pope growls. “Don’t make that difficult for me.”
The man’s eyes flick once past Pope, towards the stairs, toward you, then snap back fast like even that was a mistake.
“Alright,” he mutters finally, hands lifting a little. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
A lie. A terrible one, at that. But Pope doesn’t spare the man another look. Just turns, grabs the grocery bags, and comes back up the steps to where you’re perched on the landing, watching him with that dazed little expression of yours.
“I don’t even like pearls,” you whisper to him the second he gets close enough. “They’re kinda old-ladyish.”
Pope shuts his eyes for half a beat.
“Yeah,” he finally sputters, tips of his ears burning a little. He ushers you towards 2B. “C’mon. Inside.”
The inside of your apartment is cute. Small as it looks from the outside and from what he can see through your window at night, but it’s cute, all pinks and whites and soft little girlish details scattered across every surface.
There’s a coffee table crowded with tiny trinkets he can’t make heads or tails of, glossy little objects with no obvious purpose except that you liked them enough to bring them home.
And it’s clean. He likes that it’s clean. Clean means he won’t spend the time here distracted by dust in the corners and fingerprints on glass, trying not to imagine bleaching every inch of it.
He carries the bags into the kitchen and sets them on the counter one by one. Behind him, you wobble a little taking off your shoes and catch yourself on his shoulder.
It leaves a searing brand behind when you pull away.
“What was that out there?” you ask.
Pope shrugs. “Nothin’. Guy’s just a dick.”
He winces inwardly as soon as he says it. Dick feels too crude aimed anywhere near you, and he has to resist the urge to take it back and replace it with something nicer.
“It’s not like he said anything really bad or anything,” you say, shrugging in a way that suggests you’re used to it.
Used to being stared at, cat called, talked about. And maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, given who you are.
He’s seen it before, at Smurf’s parties, men practically stumbling over themselves to offer you a drink, eyes tracking every movement you make. Drivers nearly wrapping their cars around telephone poles because their heads turn too fast when you walk down the street.
You’re beautiful. Beautiful enough that people can’t help staring at you. But Pope’s never been forced to hear it firsthand, never had to stand there while some pervert talked about putting a pearl necklace across your throat and chest. And you don’t even understand what he was saying.
He could handle it. He could handle it right now. If the guy’s still lingering around when Pope leaves, he might just have to. The asshole will be out of this building tomorrow regardless, he’ll will make damn sure of it.
Your hand touching his arm snaps him out of it. He looks down and sees your painted fingers resting there, cautious like you’re not sure what’s going on in his head.
“Pope?”
The heat cools just enough for him to breathe. He rubs a hand over his jaw. “He said somethin’ bad enough.”
You cock your head to one side. “Taking me to dinner isn’t exactly the worst offer I’ve ever had. And like I said, pearls aren’t really my thing, but it’s a nice sentiment, I guess?”
Pope shoves his hand through his hair, forced to take a step back because standing this close to your face is messing with him.
“Look a pearl necklace isn’t… it’s not jewelry, okay? It’s not fuckin’ nice. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
You fold your arms over your chest, your hair slipping forward and partly covering your face. Pope’s fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the impulse to reach out and brush it back into place.
“Not really… I— well,” you pause, fingers drumming along your left arm. “What else could a pearl necklace be, if it’s not jewelry?”
His blood pressure ticks up exponentially. Why must you make everything so difficult?
“I’m not gonna explain it. Just trust me, it’s not somethin’ appropriate for anyone to say to you.”
“What happened to ‘I’m an adult’ and ‘it’s my call if I wanna know stuff’?”
Shit. He did say that, didn’t he?
Pope takes a deep, irritated breath, wishing he could turn back time and rip his own vocal chords out. This must be his own purgatory. Cursed to answer all your sex related questions for all of eternity and unable to do anything about it.
You trust him. That much is obvious. He doesn’t want to abuse that trust. A Sisyphean task. Endless. Futile.
“Alright, look. It’s slang for a guy… finishin’ on you. On your throat, your chest, wherever.” His voice is strained, worried he might break something delicate in you just by saying it. “It’s disrespectful. Sleazy.”
You blink, eyes huge as you look up at him, clearly stunned by what you just heard. You shake your head slightly, trying to puzzle it out. “So it’s… disrespectful if someone does that to you?”
Pope cracks his neck, wincing slightly, as if the right words are somewhere trapped there and refusing to come out easy.
“Christ — yes,” he grumbles. Then quickly, backtracking, “I mean no — no, it ain’t disrespectful if it’s something you, uh, wanted someone to do, but it’s disrespectful for someone to say shit like that to you unprompted.”
“Oh, well, yeah, that was gross,” you agree, wrinkling your nose.
Then you turn away from him, starting to put away the groceries with a distracted, absent-minded care. He thinks he’s in the clear, that you’re satisfied with his sparks note version of the definition.
He’s eyeing the door, when you pause again, bottom lip caught between your teeth, a bag of carrots dangling in your hand.
“Why would someone even want to do that to someone? The guy, I mean? Not him specifically, just, like, any guy? Is that something… you think about? Like a lot?”
He coughs, almost choking, and a hot flush creeps up the back of his neck.
There’s an instant headache pulsing behind he eyes as he tries desperately not to picture exactly what you just asked him.
Is it something he thinks about? Not until this moment. Not until he imagines those same wide and trusting eyes looking up at him as he spills milky white ropes of cum across your bare chest.
Christ. He’s no better than that asshole downstairs, thinking shit like that about you.
He presses two fingers to his temple. “No, it’s not like I sit around thinking about stuff like that.”
It feels like a fib now.
“So why would someone wanna do that at all?”
Because it would feel good, he thinks. Immediately. The act itself, yes, but the claim in the aftermath. The evidence left behind.
The way people are always trying to leave marks on things they like. Names carved into desks. Initials scratched into trees. Dogs pissing on fire hydrants.
You stare at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.
He looks at the wall behind you, at the cheap paint and the little crooked shelf you’ve decorated with candles and a tiny ceramic flower.
Anything but your face. Anything but the curve of your throat. Anything but the where your shirt dips when you shift closer.
“It’s…” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “It’s visual.” The word sounds dragged out of him. “That’s part of it. Men are wired like that. And part of it’s ego. They wanna see you messy like that. Wanna see that you let ‘em do it.” His mouth flattens. “It’s not always romantic. A lotta the time it’s just selfish.”
“But maybe it depends on who it is? Like doing it to you?” You continue to worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Like… if it was someone safe. Someone you trusted a lot.” A tiny crease forms between your brows. “And if it was something you wanted too, couldn’t it be kind of romantic?”
Pope goes still. All his blood seeming to rush downwards as the question lands between you like something lit, something rolling close to dry brush.
He can feel the conversation slipping somewhere it shouldn’t. He needs to reign it back in, regain control.
Instead he says, “Could be. If you trusted ‘em. If it was somethin’ you were askin’ for, or… into. Not somethin’ that’s being pushed on you.”
You go quiet, turning that over.
Then, in that soft, absentminded way of yours, like you don’t realize you’re lighting a match in a room full of gas, you say, “I guess that makes sense. A lot of things probably feel different with a person you trust.”
You’re looking at him so intensely he has to take another step back. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Can’t. Your gaze moves back down into the grocery bag with a shrug, sweet and unaware that you’ve just handed his imagination enough to ruin the rest of his night.
He’s corrupt for wanting to be that person for you. The one you trust enough to paint your body. To teach you all this dumb shit, but with his hands, with his mouth, with his cock.
He clears his throat hard, grabs the last bag off the counter even though it’s already empty, then sets it right back down like he forgot what he was doing in the first place.
“Yeah,” he says finally, voice flat in that way it only gets when he’s holding too much under it. “Maybe.”
He leaves not long after that. Before you ask anything else. Before he can give into his urges and contaminate you with his darkness.
By the next afternoon, the guy downstairs is gone.
Smurf’s property manager tells the tenants it was a lease violation. Some issue with unauthorized guests, late rent, maybe smoking too close to the building. Nobody asks too many questions. Nobody wants to.
And a few days later, you mention in passing that the creepy man by the vending machine must’ve gotten into some kind of accident.
“His face looked weird when he was packing up all his stuff,” you say, frowning a little. “Like he burned himself or something.”
Pope just hums, eyes on the road.
He doesn’t tell you cigarette burns heal terribly.
you discover pope's 'no' turns into a 'yes' the second you flash a little cleavage
PAIRINGS pope cody x bunny reader
WARNINGS 18+ MDNI adult sexual themes, sexual tension to the max, mention of r not wearing a bra at one point, nipple mention, oblivious reader, pope being so down horrendous per usual
WC 0.9k
Late afternoon gold tends to run thick over the Cody lawn in the summer. It was one of your favorite things about the place when you first came to work for Smurf. How everything gleams. Shiny and incandescent.
You wade into it with a mason jar hugged to your waist, twirling the striped straw every so often.
Slivers of sun shimmer on the driveway, and you consciously uncurl the squint from your eyes and nose. Pope likes your nose exactly like it is, smooth and scrunch-free. Says it’s hard for him to concrete when you do that.
You huff as your try to keep the pink tank you grabbed from the dryer from migrating south with every passing breeze, revealing a cameo of the cream lace of your bra. No such luck.
You find Pope half-hidden beneath one of the sedan’s raised hood, back muscles flexing each time he coaxes a bolt loose, greases painting dark vines up his arms.
You move to balance on the edge of the headlight, bare knees brushing hot chrome.
The wrench freezes mid-turn.
“Hi, Pope,” you chirp, taking another sip of lemonade, “could you, um, maybe drive me to the fair later?”
Sugar granules fuse to your lip. You catch them with your tongue and the lemon pop rocks across your taste buds like fireworks.
Pope answers with nothing but a grunt, wrench ticking back alive, never even gifting you half a glance. Hard no. At least for now.
You purse your lips, frown poised to bloom into protest, then remember this morning.
One second you were stretching past him for the cereal (no bra, tank practically see-through in the window light) and the next his favorite striped mug was skidding from his hands, blue porcelain grenading on the tile in a starburst of shards.
My fault, you’d blurted, kneeling to scoop the wreckage before the words even made sense. (Fault… why? You hadn't touched a thing.)
Pope didn’t answer, he was too busy swallowing, too busy staring at the faint chill-pebbled shapes pressing against your shirt. His neck was blotchy, pupils blow, chest rising like he’d jogged the stairs.
When he finally blinked, it was like someone hit play: “Feet,” he barked, lifting you bodily, setting you atop the counter, bare soles dangling.
Then he dropped to his haunches, collecting splinters of mug he never once looked at, because his gaze kept ricocheting back to the cotton clinging to your chest.
Maybe, just maybe, a girl could call that cause-and-effect. You’re not completely sure of the mechanics of it all, though.
So you decide to test it.
Carefully, you tip closer, weight settling into your elbows, neckline sagging, granting the engine and its keeper a clearer view of your breasts.
Frost-sweaty lemonade kisses the upper arc of cleavage. You gasp at the temperature but stand your ground.
The socker’s click sputters, stops.
Pope peers over the hood, eyes catching first of the condensation bead sliding downward, and his ears blaze a color Crayola forgot to name, stunned-dawn red that nearly makes you giggle.
“It’s okay if you’re busy,” you continue, leaning closer until the garage fan sends a draft straight down your shirt, pebbling your nipples. Goosebumps race over the newly exposed skin and you let the shiver travel through your chest. You pretend not to notice, tracing the sandal strap that digs into your ankle. “I’ll walk — but the gravel might chew these up…”
The wrench kisses the concrete with a clatter. Pope straightens, dragging an ink-black sleeve across his brow like he’s erasing a private thought.
“You shouldn’t walk that road alone.” Keys rustle in his pocket as he fishes them out, surrendering. “Give me five; I’ll clean up.”
You light up like he just offered the moon.
“S’why you’re my hero,” you beam, bouncing up to enfold him in a hug.
His startled grunt vibrates through sweat-slick muscle, then your chest slides over his filthy tee, soaking up a broad swath of charcoal grease.
When you pull back there’s a smeary hand-print of engineer grime stamped across your tank, right over your chest. Like someone finger-painted possession on you.
“Oh shoot —” You trace the smudge with a fingertip, then waggle it at him. “Do you have a little cloth, or… maybe I should rinse it before it sets?”
Pope’s stare lingers on the soot-black curve of your breasts like it’s art in a gallery. “Yeah… I’ve got a cloth.”
But he doesn’t move right away, thumb flexing against his sides as though he’s weighing whether to wipe the mark away or keep it exactly where it declares you his.
A beat passes, two, before he jerks into motion, rummaging inside the open toolbox and coming up with a soft flannel rag.
He offers you the cloth.
You curl your fingers around it, then look up through your lashes. “It — could you do it, Pope? I’ll only make a mess.”
Something flashes in his eyes — impatience, protectiveness — before he bites it back and steps into your space.
His knuckles are white on the rag and he dabs at the smear in slow circles. Each pass is gentler than the last. You bite down on a small little mewl at the feeling.
“Can’t be on cleanup duty twenty-four seven,” he mutters under his breath.
“Maybe if you weren’t so distracted by my chest, there’d be nothing to clean?”
He freezes, eyes dark, lips a hard line. That’s answer enough. Two more strokes and the stain is only a faint shadow.
With a grunt he stuffs the rag in his pocket. “Get in the truck.”
You obey, hopping in and sliding across cracked vinyl, and by the time the hood clangs shut you’re grinning at the windshield. Pattern confirmed.
Pope can drop a man with one shot, turn grown crooks into choirboys with a look, but a flash of cleavage and the apex predator forks over both ignition and itinerary. Interesting.
MARIA NOTE short little drabble? blurb? ficlet? on my baby angels bunny reader and pope just bc i love them so much and i am in a perpetual state of thinking ab them <3 if u enjoyed pls let me know!! and my inbox is open to ideas for them :-) 🌸🌿
pope goes to smurf's house only to find you playing dress-up in lingerie
bet u wanna MEET THE READER! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING pope cody x bunny!reader
WARNING 18+ MDNI explicit language, sexual tension, male-gaze objectification, lingerie/revealing clothing, voyeuristic framing, possessive behavior, jealous pope, power imbalance (age & authority), internal monologue with some violent thoughts, smurf's coercive caretaking, family dysfunction/toxic dynamics, obsessive attraction
WC 2k
Well, that sucked.
By the time Pope gets back, the rush has leeched out, leaving only that deep-kernel ache that seats itself behind his eyes and chews on the hinges of his knees.
Two straight hours of Craig’s bullshit. Handling one of his messes: steal a box truck, ditch it by the frontage weeds, ferry a duffel that sloshes like loose change in hell.
And that kid — peach-fuzz jaw, barely old enough to drive, hands rattling on the wheel — kept chirping, They get the plate? You think the cops got the plate? Until Pope finally told him to Shut the fuck up.
It should’ve been simple. And it was. But now his shoulders have ratcheted up to his ears, boots scraped with dried roadside clay, and something electric still zings along the wire of his veins, buzzing rest right out of reach even while his muscles sag for it.
He ought to drive to his own apartment. Strip, shower, face-plant into bed. Instead, he hooks the wheel into Smurf’s driveway, jaw hooking and unhooking as the tires snap and grind.
His place has felt wrong lately. Like stepping into a church long after the candles are snuffed, all the heat siphoned off, air too neat, too unlived-in.
He skips the confession that he knew you’d be here tonight.
You’d told him earlier you were going over to Smurf’s after dinner, helping finish month-end paperwork for one of the Cody businesses because half the receipts were missing, the books didn’t match, and Smurf liked having someone patient enough to untangle the mess without asking too many questions.
Pope kills the engine and sits there for a second, both fists locked on the wheel, eyes tracking the jaundiced porch light as if it might blink out.
The notion of finding you perched on the counter, hair pulled back, tongue caught between your teeth while you tame Smurf’s math brings him a molecule of relief.
Maybe if he can stand close enough, let that warmth bleed off you and into him, that static in his body will finally ebb.
But when he steps inside the kitchen he doesn’t find you there.
Instead the room is empty except for a lamp left on and a stack of folders spread across the island.
He’s halfway to calling your name when your voice drifts down the hallway.
“No, I don’t know if this one fits right.” A heartbeat of silence, Smurf’s gravelly reply lost in drywall, then you again, soft and rueful: “It’s weird in the shoulders.”
His boots are already angling down the hall before the thought finishes forming. A prickle climbs the back of his neck. Pre-impact warning, he thinks.
He rounds the doorway and when he sees you, the whole room seems to swim in distorted colors.
Every sane impulse collapses into a pinhole centered on you. Balance? Shot. Vision? Down to one shaky frame. All he can do is absorb the hit and pray his face doesn’t show it.
You’re standing barefoot in the glow of Smurf’s vanity lights, one arm over your chest, gigglinh a little while Smurf fusses with the back clasp of a dove-gray lingerie set that leaves most of your spine exposed.
Lace webs your hips, throwing sparks of silver thread catching every twitch of light, sketching a glittered arrow that drags Pope’s gaze downward before he can marshal a single thought.
His palms twitch, desperate to chart every raw continent of skin in front of him. He’s never seen this much of you outside a bathing suit.
His zipper strains as his cock twitches in his jeans.
And still he’s motionless, swallowing hard, worship curdling into something closer to panic because if you turn and see what’s in his eyes, you’ll know things he’s barely admitted to himself.
You twist, a startled little oh hitching out as gravity helps sink the lace a fraction to frame your breasts in shadowed leafwork.
Pope’s eyes bite down, brutal and starving, then wrenches upward to your face, forcing itself past you to Smurf.
She waits with that fox-like smile, the one that says she laid the snare hours ago and knew exactly which wolf would step into it.
“What the fuck is this?” he barks.
“Langauge.” Smurf reminds, tapping your hip like you’re a showroom dummy.
“You got her parading around like that in the middle of the house?”
“She’s not parading,” Smurf corrects. “We were having fun.”
You hunch your shoulders like a breeze just cut through, never mind that the motion only lofts your chest higher in the fabric, and offer him a sheepish half-smile.
“Smurf was just helping me pick out some… stuff,” you say, as if the word covers feathers and dynamite alike.
Stuff. Harmless, cute, nothing to see. At least that’s the story you seem to be trying to sell.
What use do you have for lingerie? Especially the kind that looks like sin stitched up?
A boyfriend? Somebody you’re texting while he’s too busy mopping up Craig’s mistakes to notice? Far as he knows you’re not seeing anyone, but the idea of that sweetness wrapped up for anyone else pours molten lead straight into his head.
“You don’t need —” he falters, fingers flexing like they might crumple the air — “stuff like that.”
He knows it’s a selfish claim. The idea that lingerie is pointless unless he is the one unhooking it, unless his mouth is the one to learn every inch of you that the fabric covers. Anything that decadent belongs behind a door he locks, the key warm in his fist, an invitation meant for him alone.
Smurf lifts a single painted brow. “Need’s got nothin’ to do with it, baby. A girl gets to feel pretty just because.”
Pope scoffs.
“She’s already plenty pretty —” His eyes flick to you. “ — you’re already… you’re fine without all this.” He swings his glare back to Smurf. “Whatever game this is, it’s not what you hired her for. Cut it out.”
You wet your lips, nervously looking between the two Codys. “Pope, it’s okay.”
His name, or the semblance of it (he’s not sure you even know his real name at this point), from your lips while you’re dressed like this feels like blasphemy.
In an instant he’s seeing the bodysuit rolled down slow, edges snagging on goose-bumped thighs while you try to stay modest, him kissing away the apologies that rise in your throat, laying you back across the vanity bench so he can have his way with you.
Sweat beads at his hairline. He pinches his nose, swallows broken glass. “Go put somethin’ else on.”
“Don’t bark orders at her,” Smurf chides, the words lazy.
He pretends he didn’t hear her; only when his eyes meet yours do they soften, apology threaded through the glare. “Go on, please.”
You nod at that and hurry back down the hall. Pope’s body tilts to follow the sway of your hips before he yanks it still until the bathroom lock snicks closed.
When he turns, Smurf is already studying him the way a jeweler studies a flawed diamond, looking for cracks, head tipped, eyes sharp.
He offers nothing, no twitch of the mouth or flinch, just the blank slate he’s spent years perfecting.
She finally concedes and pushes off the dresser.
“Think I’ll fix myself a sandwich,” she murmurs, “Try not to devour the poor girl before I’m back.”
Her hand lands on Pope’s chest in a mock-pat; he jerks away and she chuckles low as she saunters past him, heels clicking all the way down the hall.
He wipes a palm down his jeans, trying to scrape off the phantom of her touch.
Devour — that’s her word, not his. And as much as he wants to do that, what he feels for you is bigger than hunger.
It’s blueprints and scaffolding, a whole cathedral of intention he barely dares to name. Smurf can’t fathom that depth. She pokes at the surface and calls it knowledge, never understanding the miles of dark water beneath.
The bathroom door creaks open and you step out, head ducked, hands smoothing a cotton sundress the color of lemon ice.
The hem flutters modestly around your knees, though you still tug it lower.
“Sorry,” you breathe, a nervous puff of air.
The word pricks at him. He wants to say there’s nothing to be sorry for, that the fault lies in his own head, in Smurf’s games, in every inch of distance he keeps for your sake.
A knot in his shoulders eases. “Don’t apologize.”
It’s a stupid thing to say, because after the way he’s treated you, how would you know you didn’t have to?
He presses the heel of his hand over his mouth, scrubbing like he could wipe the taste of the whole night away. His eyes flick to the dirt still crusted on his boots, grit he suddenly can’t stand around you, and scuffs one sole against the other as if that’ll fix anything.
“C’mere.” The request is low, ragged, and you obey without hesitation. Always a good listener for him.
As you step into the slice of light between you, he lifts one broad hand, slowing it at the last second to straighten the twisted strap at your collarbone.
His touch is rough in theory, calloused pads snagging silk, but in practice it’s feather-light, reverent, as though he’s afraid you’ll bruise if he breathes too hard.
The tiny contact is a fuse and a salve all at once. The instant your warmth bleeds into him the restless buzz he’s been carrying dims, a far-off generator finally cut.
He draws back just enough to meet your eyes. “You don’t gotta let her play dress-up with you like that.”
“I don’t mind — honest,” you say, giving a tiny shrug.
“I mind,” he says, the line grating rough. Even he seems surprised by the bite, lips pressing thin as he exhales.
Your shoulders dip. “You didn’t like it?”
The downward curve of your mouth guts him. He curses under his breath.
“I… yeah, I liked it.” Too damn much, he thinks. “...It’s just the kind of thing that’s supposed to be private, y’know? Meant for one set of eyes.”
“Private as in… like, saved for a boyfriend?”
He schools his face, but inside he’s turning over every recent memory, searching for the invisible man who might already have his hands on you.
“Yeah… like for a boyfriend,” he murmurs. “And only when you’re good and ready. Don’t let some jerk fast-talk you into giving him what he hasn’t earned.”
“He wouldn’t,” you say, like the question never existed.
Your eyes lift to his like you’re lining up a target, lashes barely fluttering.
There’s no shimmer of shyness now. Just concentrated fire, sliding over his cheekbones, jawline, the slight stubble he didn’t bother shaving. It feels like you’re pocketing measurements for later, mapping angles with the same precision he uses to load a round.
Hallway light glints off your pupils, then pools into rich shadow.
Pope’s next breath sticks in his throat; he isn’t used to being seen like this — like the whole world has funneled down to just him, and you’re perfectly happy living inside that narrow beam.
And it’s strange when you just confirmed his suspicions. Proof there is someone out there who’s already earned that privilege, someone so gentle you can declare his goodness without blinking.
It should reassure him. Instead it tastes like rust and gun-oil, sparks off a terrible instinct that wants a name, an address, a reason to break knuckles until the picture stops existing.
Possession floods his lungs. He forces it down, masks the scorch as nothing more than a normal breath.
“Good,” he manages through grit teeth. “Just… promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. People aren’t always what they say.”
Your fingers toy with the strap he’d fixed. “Promise.”
Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth, just a flicker, before sliding back up, a soft smile playing at the corners as if you know a secret he hasn’t caught.
Something in it says the good man you vouched for is already standing here, but Pope’s too busy counting heartbeats to see the answer staring him down.
MARIA NOTE thank u for reading!!!!! u get a gold star and a juice box !! if u r craving more bunny antics (or want pope to suffer in new and interesting ways), requests are open!! and reminder that feedback feeds the gremlins, and the gremlins write the fics :-) 💛⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ 🌼
sunday nights spent slow dancing to marvin gaye and jack talking about how lonely he's been his whole life until he met you.
swaying with you and looking in your eyes and smiling when you tell him you like this song. huffing a little laugh at your youth and telling you how you make him feel like that young man he used to be.
whispering how good he'd have treated you, and a part of him is sick because he's missed out on so much time with you. so many years lost. time that you weren't even born for. he's a melancholy old man, but he's yours <3
part two dr jack abbot x fem! social worker reader (8.5k)
part one ∘
summary: PTMC cannot seem to hold onto a social worker these days, but you arrive determined to break the pattern and slot right into the pitt family. that's unfortunate for one dr. jack abbot, who does not like anyone getting too close and definitely isn't used to someone challenging him. it leaves him wondering who are you, what do you want and why does he care?
notes: slow burn / a lil angsty / reader's age not specified but is implied late 20s/early 30s / i wrote this after wanting a reader who didn't shy away from abbot! / this will be an ongoing series / taglist & requests for these two open
warnings: sadness and death in the context you would expect from working in an emergency department! i use canon events from the series however spread out over a longer period of time, so be aware there may be spoilers for the pitt.
listen here for my playlist for this series
If the devil were to appear before you and offered to undo one of your actions from the fortnight, it would be an impossible choice between two actions. Both involved the brooding doctor who now plagued your long night shifts and your mind in the hours beyond The Pitt.
On one hand you could undo the revelation you never intended to make to anyone at your new job - the fact you had more experience practicing medicine than most of their current residents. That if you wanted to, it would only take donning a pair of scrubs for you to blend in seamlessly. Allowing your mind and body to fall back into the motions you spent years studying… until you stopped.
The other was to retract the decisions that led you to gaze on the vision that was Dr. Abbot shirtless. Not only gaze, but to let your touch relish the heat that radiated from his skin. How under the guise of dressing his wound, you let your fingers dance over the constellation of freckles that spanned his tense shoulders.
The first issue was more about self-preservation, as opposed to a genuine fear the revelation that you had almost been a fully-qualified doctor would become the latest tidbit to tantalise The Pitt. People knowing you had trained to be a doctor wasn’t the problem, it was the inevitable question that followed - why didn’t you finish? That part of you wasn’t something you were prepared to make public domain. Fortunately, Dr. Abbot was not exactly the type to be trading in others secrets. This was a man so shut off, it was hard to decipher whether he was pleased he saved a life at times. But that didn’t mean the question didn’t linger on his own lips. Ever since, you would catch his eyes boring into you, like something to be solved; as if you were just another patient and that knocked you sick.
The second issue was about your own mortification after you were privy to what lay beneath Dr. Abbot’s dark scrubs and tight t-shirts. You wanted to scrub the image of his bare toned body from memory as it continued to haunt you. Tattooed to the insides of your eyelids, even when you scrunched them shut in attempts to compose yourself and relieve the intrusive visions anytime you crossed paths with him since. The repertoire of shared smirks and sarcasms the pair of you had built after a rocky introduction, was now out the window. How could you act normal after your skin had learnt what the previously forbidden parts of his, felt to the touch?
To not expose yourself, ever since the incident you’d maintained short pleasantries and minimal conversation with Dr. Abbot. Pushing yourself away for the sake of your own dignity. Could he see you ogling him? Had he noticed your fingers lingering too long? All of it was too mortifying. The lump that rose in your throat when he now offered you a good morning. The dryness in your mouth when he asked a simple question. The way your body froze when your bodies reunited in touch just from him brushing by or tapping for your attention. But most of all, by avoiding him, you wouldn’t have to watch his sharp eyes focus on you, trying to unravel the mysteries that surrounded you and the questions you had opened yourself up to.
Paranoia resonated that maybe the whole Pitt could sense your internal crises around Dr. Abbot. Could decipher your gaze as that of a nervous crush-stricken school girl. Or worse, already all knew about the incident. Robby had caught you both compromised in your hideaway of the abandoned wing, and he often couldn’t keep his trap shut. You’d caught him too many times with Santos in the middle of what felt like a father-daughter gossip session. Your brain’s natural reaction had been to propel yourself away from your new-found friends at The Pitt. Never sticking around too long, retreating to your office or the Family Room under the guise of casework and confidentiality.
All of those consequences because you played the hero, since you’d barked at poor Mohan like she’d overstepped onto your property. Because you wanted to get closer to what stood behind her, yearned to cave into desires you weren’t ready to address. But most of all, because mind, body and soul ached to care for Jack Abbot.
It felt like finally you could catch a break when Dana had told you about her fifty-something birthday party. A chance to relax around your friends again, away from The Pitt and likely, away from Abbot. Dana quickly became your closest confidante in the ED after guiding you through your first day. Both of you recognising a kindred spirit in each other. Both women with a tough exterior and past, who feel things so deeply inside it aches. She’d been privy to your first explosive interaction to Abbot and had watched quietly at the sidelines to see what would happen next. The sparks from yours and the attending’s first meeting had caught her off guard. Dana felt they might just ignite something - not that she had shared that inkling with either of you.
It took you only a couple of hours after your heroics with Abbot before you confessed to Dana about it. Ever since, she had watched you transform from your ballsy self into Bambi in his presence; wide eyes, hesitant movements and skittish reactions. Every interaction left her with a self-righteous smirk as she watched you scramble away from Abbot. Leaving her old friend silently brooding as he desperately tried unravel the mystery that was you.
It felt freeing to be spending your time away from The Pitt and concentrating on anything not work related. In an attempt to not sit in your apartment ruminating until the party, you’d begged Dana to let you help set up. The party was being held at a sports bar her husband owned with her brothers. The only girl in a family of three brothers, it made sense why Dana was not to be messed with.
Your arrival couldn’t be heard over the rabble of thick Pittsburgh accents fighting to be the loudest. Dana had taken you sternly by the shoulders when you’d insisted on helping her set up and attempted to warn you, ‘As kind as that offer is, honey. It’s one you’ll regret. My people, they’re loud, they don’t behave and they will try and set you up with someone’s son.’
The only person who notices your arrival is a little girl with the same perfect blonde locks as Dana.
‘Matching,’ she points between you, then twirls. She’s right, both your dresses are the same shade of summery blue.
‘Yours has more sparkles though, I love it,’ you grin.
‘Thank you!’ But she continues to look at you expectantly, ‘now you spin!’
It’s only as you are mid-twirl, does an adult actually notice your arrival.
‘Charlotte, leave the lady alone!’ A man built like a linebacker approaches you, his daunting figure clearly nothing to the little girl who rolls her eyes dramatically.
‘Sorry, Miss. We’re closed for a private party tonight- ‘
‘Knew you’d still come early!’ A tipsy Dana hollers louder than necessary. It’s enough for the mob to finally turn and notice your arrival. Dana parades you round introducing you to her burly brothers, beautiful daughters and adorable nieces. The crowd cheering your name like you’d been a family friend since forever.
It’s when you’re attempting to arrange towers of party food with Dana, you dare to ask the question.
‘So which of The Pitt’s finest are coming tonight?’ You attempt to ask innocently. The scoff that comes out of Dana, indicates you failed miserably.
‘Just the usual motley crew,’ she grins wickedly, knowing that wasn’t a satisfactory answer.
‘Robby and the day shift gang?’ Futilely praying Dana will take pity and answer without you ever having to say the words.
Dana is no fool, she shrugs ‘and then some.’
You consider crushing the profiterole you’re failing to balance, with your first.
‘Oh my god,’ you groan, ‘you’re sick, you’re a nurse, you’re supposed to be caring and take pity!’
‘It’s my birthday,’ she grins, ‘I’m very old, kid. Gotta be clear when you ask me stuff!’
‘Fine,’ you grumble, ‘is a certain night shift attending going to be here?’
You get a shrug, a petulant shrug from a woman with a grin that reaches ear to ear.
‘Abbot!!’ His name bursts out of your mouth, ‘is Abbot coming tonight?’
‘A girl can only hope,’ a Dana duplicate adds wistfully, appearing beside you both suddenly and swiping the profiterole you’d only just managed to balance.
‘Rachel!’ Dana scolds.
‘Who are we talking about?’ Another dupe materialises now, another witness to your mortification.
‘Jack Abbot,’ Rachel murmurs over a mouthful of cream.
‘Hot,’ her sister nods in fervent approval. For your introduction to Dana’s twins, you hoped to present yourself as something other than a walking beetroot. Maybe as the successful and sometimes witty woman you liked to think you are - rather than some stuttering girl who can’t admit her crush.
‘Melissa! Rachel!’ Dana points her finger in the way you’ve seen her do to misbehaving patients so many times. ‘That man is nearly as old as your father. Have some shame!’
The girls shrug in unison.
‘It doesn’t stop Leonardo DiCaprio,’ Melissa challenges, ‘so why should it stop me.’
At this point Dana’s palms are pressing against her temples.
‘Right! You’re both banned from interacting with any men over the age of 25 tonight unless you’re related to them!’
Before any protests can be formed, Dana is shooing her daughters away and ordering them to be helpful. But the conversation has you doing more mental mathematics than you anticipated when getting ready earlier.
If Dana’s daughters are still in college but in their early twenties and if Jack isn’t fifty yet, then that would make him how much older than —
‘I don’t know if Jack’s coming,’ Dana cuts off your calculations ‘you can breathe now, sweetie.’
‘Oh brilliant, so he’s Schrödinger’s RSVP then?’
Dana snorts, ‘look, Abbot ticks the maybe box in life, none of us know what he does except turn up to work or get shot at for fun.’
‘I need a drink,’ you resign.
Dana claps your shoulder, ‘that’s the spirit! Loosen those inhibitions in case he comes!’
‘I’m not-‘ you protest, ‘ - he’s not going to come!’
‘But you want him to,’ Dana taunts gleefully as she drags you to the bar.
Jack Abbot does come.
By the time he arrives, the party is well in motion, he can tell solely by the way Robby is swaying to Duran Duran whilst using Lena for stability. The bar is decorated within an inch of its life, far from the cool sports bar it typically is. The televisions all diverted from their regular ESPN scheduling to slideshows of Dana that everyone had submitted photographs to. He’s certain the state of Pennsylvania’s helium supplies have been plundered for tonight; floating stars, hearts and a D A N A twist and twirl under the AC with more stability than several of his colleagues here. Jack’s mouth twists into a smirk as he catches a giant 5 followed by ? bobbing under the lights of the make shift dance floor. He’s not sure anyone other than himself, Robby, her mother and husband know how old Dana really is.
In the centre of the dance floor, amongst the rabble, there you are. Slightly bent at the knees to level yourself with the little girl whose hands swing with yours. The pair of you bopping around to the music, carefree in pretty party dresses. As if you’ve always belonged right in this moment. It’s the most carefree and unprofessional Jack has ever seen you, the tense shoulders and jaw reserved for him over the last few weeks, melted away as you giggle with the little girl and spin her round. He almost feels depraved for observing the scene before him, knowing this isn’t a version of you meant for his eyes.
Is this the you that the other staff know so well? The you that Ellis claims necks tequila shots like juice before destroying old men at pool? The you that drove Santos and Whitaker round the city on your day off to pick up free furniture? The you that poses playfully in photo booths with mystery men? The you that made such an impression on his colleagues, it’s resulted in a relationship where you are can dote on Dana’s nieces?
‘Are you joining us or going to stand in the doorway like a creeper all night?’
Dana’s hand lands gently on Abbot’s arm, breaking his trance.
‘I guess I can participate for the birthday girl,’ he huffs, pulling his friend in to kiss her cheek.
But she notices how that infamous Dr. Abbot stare returns, and follows its path to where you still twirl on the dance floor, now with another niece bouncing on your hip and streamers decorating you both like scarves.
‘Those kids have been all over her for hours now,’ Dana smiles, ‘she hasn’t come up for air once, think they might be having a better time than anyone else.’
Jack doesn’t even realise himself the small smile that cracks across his face, but Dana does.
‘How long you guys been here?’
It’s a miracle you aren’t keeling over with nausea, the way you spin around with the girls, the skirt of your dress flaring out and exposing more of your skin.
’We came to set up this afternoon, her included. She’s basically been entertaining them ever since. Bless her.’
Dana wonders if her friend is even aware of the fondness that graces his often-stern face as he takes you in.
’She’d have been killer in peds, don’t you think?’
That turns his head, squinting at Dana, trying to extract the potential underlying meaning of her words. He agrees, absolutely, you would’ve made a wonderful pediatric doctor. Since you started, it’s hard to ignore the way children gravitate towards you, as if there’s a sparkle surrounding you that only youthful eyes get to see.
‘I know, Jack.’
He really doesn’t want to blow your spot up, it would feel like a betrayal.
‘You know what, exactly?’ he presses, stern gaze replacing the fondness from before.
‘The thing that out of everyone here, only you also know,’ Dana’s eyes soften, ‘heard she did a real good job patching your dumbass up.’
‘Ah,’ Jack hums, ‘you really know.’
Dana nods and his face falls back into a studious look reserved just for you ever since that day. Its intensity sears into your skin from across the room, a sensation now a calling card to announce Dr. Abbot is in your vicinity. It prickles across your bare shoulders and before you can confirm what you already know, a tiny voice chirps into your ear.
’An old man is looking at you. He’s with Auntie Dana.’
It’s hard to subdue your laughter, ‘he’s not that old!’
‘He is! Like Grandpa!’
You know for a fact that Dana’s father is well into his eighties and that sends you into a full fit of giggles. Maddie who remains bouncing on your hip mirrors your giggles, not fully getting what’s funny, but relishing in being the cause of it. It’s all the girlish laughter that gives you the confidence to turn around and match Abbot’s gaze. No different to being surrounded by your girls in the club gives you nerve to shoot your shot on the dance-floor. Except your girls in this case are both under five and you absolutely, definitely, are not shooting your shot with the trauma-riddled, well-respected, older doctor you work with. But none the less, you raise your hand and wiggle your fingers at him, Maddie and her sister mirroring you too.
For a moment, after several weeks of near radio silence, Jack wonders if you could possibly be waving at him? Maybe Dana? Or someone else? Despite the fact you’re staring right back at him, eyes twinkling, exposed shoulders shaking with laughter. Awkwardly, Jack raises his hand as if it’s his first time ever doing so.
‘See, that’s nice!’ Dana adds, ‘and you thought it would be awkward!’
Jack’s head snaps round, ‘I never said it would be awkward.’
‘And neither did I!’ she grins.
‘Yes, you - did she say it would be awkward?’ Jack presses now, mind rattling about all the possible things you and Dana could’ve discussed about him.
‘Christ, Abbot. Check your ego man, we don’t sit clucking about you all day.’
He sighs deeply and attempts to get back to their previous discussion,
‘She never told me the reason why she qu-‘
Before Jack can even finish the question he’s been dying to ask for the last several minutes, Robby pounces.
‘Brother!’ he cheers, one beer too many already. Jack is never going to get anywhere with his investigating now.
‘I told them you wouldn’t miss Dana’s birthday,’ Robby beams, pressing a beer into Jack’s hand, ‘said she’s the only one of us you tolerate.’
Dana slaps a hand to each of her dear friends’ cheeks, ‘and it’s a title I hold so dearly! Yet, I implore you go and actually socialise with your fellow doctors.’
With that, Robby is herding Jack towards the booth most of the The Pitt staff congregate around. Santos is the first to clock the addition to their group.
‘Holy shit,’ she exclaims, ‘they let peepaw out past curfew!’
All the younger staff members gawp at Jack as if he’s a tequila-induced apparition. He takes it as his queue to start drinking the beer Robby passed off to him.
‘I’ve never pictured him out of scrubs or camo…’ Victoria blurts out, originally intending to just murmur the comment to Whitaker. Her hands immediately slap over her mouth. Whitaker and Samira suddenly find something more interesting to look at on the table. Santos and Princess are beaming ear to ear.
‘Oh really, Javadi? Prefer a man in uniform then?’ Santos asks with glee.
Shen decides to save the girl from further mortification, ‘nah, Abbot scrubs up well! Not as well as you though.’ Jack turns to see who Shen has dialed up the charm for and finds you now stood behind him and joining the group.
’Thank you, John, it’s my first Pitt group-outing, had to make an effort!’ and with that, you take the hand Shen originally offers to help you on the step up to the booth and instead do a spin in your pretty dress to his cheers. When the fuck did Shen get so smooth, Jack wonders to himself. He’s one of Jack’s favourite colleagues, but right now, he doesn’t know why he’s filled with the urge to punch him.
‘It paid off,’ Whitaker admits aloud before immediately wishing the ground would swallow him whole, and regretting the shots him and Javadi did that’s clearly resulted in verbal diarrhea. Jack mentally adds Whitaker to the list of people to punch as he white knuckles the beer bottle in his hand. He hopes taking a long swig will stop anyone from noticing the wicked scowl he knows has taken over his face.
‘This is turning out to be the best night of my life,’ Santos declares, ‘we should all absolutely drink more.’
Robby cheers to that and hurries along with Santos and Princess to the bar to make more poor choices.
He notices your gentle touch to his arm before your words. ‘Hi, Dr. Abbot,’ you say quietly, just for yours and Jack’s ears. It’s the closest you’ve been to each other since the SWAT saga and he reckons it’s the fourth time in history you’ve ever touched him. But he’s not quite sure why his brain has decided to track that…
‘Hi stranger,’ barely above a whisper, ‘and just Jack.’
‘Hi Jack,’ you correct yourself now, ‘sorry, still not used to saying your first name.’
‘Maybe it’s time we work on that.’
The two of you just look at each other for a moment in comfortable silence.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been -‘ you start but Abbot cuts you off.
‘They’re right by the way.’ You cock your head to the side at the vague statement.
‘Shen and Whittaker,’ he breathes, ‘you look lovely.’
‘Lovely?’ you repeat, a smile beginning to break. Jack wonders if he’s caught the verbal diarrhea without even touching the tequila. Before he can let his mind begin to worry he’s said something that’ll push you back into keeping a three-metre distance from him, you smirk.
‘I don’t know, I think you can do better than that… Charlotte said I looked like a mermaid and Maddie said a princess.’ You gesture towards the dance floor where you’d been with Dana’s nieces.
Whether he’s willing to admit it or not, Jack is delighted that you’re bantering with him for the first time in weeks. Maybe he didn’t totally fuck up this friendship he thought you were building.
‘Oh really? I suppose I need to step up my game then,’ he muses coyly. It thrills you seeing Jack adopt his signature pose when he’s misbehaving; hands clasped behind his back and smirk undeniable. It’s the pose you’ve grown used to seeing teasing residents and charming nurses, it’s one you would deny makes you blush when it’s used on you.
‘I suppose you could start by getting me a drink,’ you shrug innocently.
‘I think you’re right,’ Jack agrees, rocking on his feet a few times. Playing over in his head whether this is a good idea, whether this is just you two getting back on track or something more loaded. Instead, he blows caution to the wind and lets his hand fit into the small of your back, guiding you towards the bar.
You touched him when dressing his wound, but, he realises now as his palms feel the soft fabric of your dress, he’s never really touched you. The heat of your skin radiates through and he can’t help but notice if he’d just placed it two inches higher, his hand would know the feel of your skin under his.
When you reach the bar, the bartender beelines for you, as if Jack is a phantom. But your eyes stick to him and he can’t quite decipher the look in them.
‘Ladies first,’ he offers, knowing damn well the bartender isn’t listening to him anyway.
The bartender looks hopeful anticipating your answer, like a soppy golden retriever.
‘Please could we get,’ your emphasis on the we, isn’t lost on Jack or the now disappointed bartender, ‘a vodka cranberry and…’
It takes Jack a moment to notice you’re waiting for his order due it his fixation on how his hand hasn’t left your back and you’ve made no attempts to stray from it.
‘Double whiskey on the rocks,’ he huffs, realising he has to move his hand to get his wallet. The order has you sniggering and Jack quirks his brow as he finishes tapping his card.
‘What’s so funny, missus?’
‘It’s just… a very classic manly order and it’s not helping with perceptions of you…’
Jack stills, a little nervous by the turn this has taken. Have people talked about him to you? Have you been asking questions about him? The shadowy parts of his mind start to cloud over the evening he had just started enjoying.
‘Well, I knew you had arrived because,’ you bite your lip to stifle your laughter, ‘Dana’s niece informed me an old man was staring at me.’
‘Wow,’ he scoffs but at least your answer causes the clouds to start retreating.
‘Hey, I corrected her and said you weren’t that old,’ you protest.
‘Not that old, good lord,’ Jack’s false outrage has your giggles returning, ‘you really know how to make a man feel good.’
‘And I definitely didn’t agree when she said you were like her Grandpa!’
He clutches his chest in offence but on the face is one of the biggest smiles you’ve ever seen grace Abbot’s face.
‘Killing me here, sweetheart.’
And god, does that new nickname only encourage your teasing further because the chance to see if you could get a wider smile from Jack is too tempting.
‘But if it helps,’ you start to whisper, getting on the toes of your heels to move closer to his ear, ‘Dana’s daughters think you’re a fox.’
The breath that puffs past his ear is sweet and fruity from the sip you just took; it’s not dissimilar from the perfume radiating from the curve of your neck that’s inches from his face now you’ve tip toed to him.
‘Well… that’s mortifying,’ a snort cracks from him and both of you immediately wish he hadn’t as it has you reeling back to take in the noise that just left him.
‘I can’t believe Dr. Abbot just snorted,’ you guffaw.
‘And I can’t believe I’m getting called a fox by the little girl whose nose I once removed a marble from.’
You go back to sip from your drink, your face flushed from all the laughter. Jack mirrors the movement, nursing his whiskey. Maybe it’s the liquid courage going straight to your bloodstream that has you saying the next sentence.
‘Every woman loves a silver fox,’ you shrug before your lips return to the straw. Jack feels the wind knocked out of him, not just by the comment, but how your eyes look up at him, big and sparkling, like he’s something worth admiring.
‘Less of the silver, please,’ he chuckles, attempting to play it cool.
‘You’re right,’ you hum and he notices your free hand hesitate before reaching out. It lands by his temple. Nails gently gliding through his hair, behind his ear and pulling straight a curl at the nape of his neck.
‘There’s still some red in here,’ you say so softly he almost misses it.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold.
Jack isn’t sure the last time someone touched him so intimately yet not sexually, and that thought makes the clouds in his head rumble again. Because why does he keep finding you trying to breach the walls?
‘You think so?’ he mouths and you nod in response, hand no longer touching his hair but remaining in his orbit. For a second, his think you’ll let it land on his cheek. Then the thunder claps from those pesky clouds.
‘We should get back to everyone,’ he announces, returning to the Dr. Abbot you’re used to in the workplace. He refuses to acknowledge the sting in his gut when he sees your hand flinch and your face drop at the change of tone. Wordlessly, you follow him back to the gang and internally berate yourself for constantly getting into these compromising positions with the man.
For the last couple of hours, you have been attempting to drink away the twisting sensation in your gut caused by Jack practically dragging you back to the group. You overstepped, you know it. The fun the two of you were having drifted into flirting in a way it never has before, too overt, too much. Jack did the right thing, you suppose, shut it down before you got carried away, remembered to establish boundaries between colleagues. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t left your cheeks stinging with mortification. So, you’d huddled away with Santos and Parker, their laughter louder than the voice inside your head. A tray of tequila shots had been demolished and every-time that lime wedge was braced between your lips, you felt Jack’s burning stare return. Was he judging you? Thinking you’d already drank too much? Bracing himself for more boundary crossing the more alcohol you drank?
Maddie was right, he is an old Grandpa, you huff in indignation as you look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Carefully with a wet paper towel, you try to get rid of the remnants of the salted rim of your shot glass before you’re able to reapply your lipgloss. The lipgloss that you left a perfect pucker mark of on the cheeks of a giddy Santos and blushing Whitaker, after relishing in your victory in the darts-drinking-game hybrid invented by Dana’s youngest brother.
Even the losing teams involving Dana’s burly brothers couldn’t help but cheer for the winning underdogs. But you knew you’d chosen your team wisely with Santos’ terrifying competitive streak and Whitaker’s hand-eye coordination. At one point in your celebrations, you’d felt the ground move from under you as one brother hoisted you up to march you around and span you, as you dissolved into fits of laughter. Now that had resulted in Abbot glowering at you with such a ferocity it felt like you’d go up in flames. You weren’t sure if it was a sign of him being a sore loser or him thinking you were just overstepping with everyone.
It was that moment you decided to retreat to the bathrooms to compose yourself. You hadn’t felt like you were embarrassing yourself or overstepping, it was just so nice to finally have fun and be yourself with people. It made your soul feel warm to be embraced by this big family of Dana’s and of The Pitt, after so long alone.
A sharp alarm interrupts your bathroom mirror musings. Your eyes shoot around the room to see where it could possibly be coming from but a frustrated voice quickly indicates its source.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ comes from a cubicle you hadn’t noticed was occupied. The voice familiar.
‘Cassie, is that you?’ your hand nudges the door, ‘can I come in?’
The door tugs back and reveals McKay sat down with the source of the sound apparent.
‘Ah,’ you marvel.
Loud and angry, the monitor sirens from the ankle she has exposed and propped up on the toilet roll holder. McKay flusters as she inspects what could possibly be wrong.
‘I’m not out of area,’ she insists, ‘if I was they would’ve called by now! And I’ve never seen it flash that light before?’
You shuffle forward to inspect.
‘It’s a battery fault! It’s okay, you’ve not done anything wrong!’
McKay looks baffled but before the array of questions you anticipate can start, you cut her off.
‘Do you have a spare one?’
‘Yeah, in the car’ she murmurs ‘but-‘
‘Give me your keys!’ you’re poised, ready to test out how well you can run in these heels. McKay shuffles in her bag then tosses you the jumble of keys that definitely were decorated by her son, as you catch them by the Spiderman plush that dangles from them.
‘Be right back, don’t panic!’ you shout back, already halfway out the bathroom doors. With your heard turned back towards the cubicle you leave behind, you don’t notice the group you’re running straight into.
‘Woah,’ Dana laughs as she stabilises you, ‘what you running from, kid?’
She stands with Robby who looks bemused and Jack, who looks confused until he notices the keys you clutch.
‘You’re going?’ Abbot almost croaks, the first word’s he’s said to you since it was just the two of you at the bar. But that can wait, you’re a woman on a mission.
‘Dana, perfect! Do you guys have a toolbox somewhere?’
‘Yeah I think -‘
‘Perfect’ you rush, ready to run to the carpark, ‘McKay’s monitor is faulty, need to fix it! Be right back!’ All three are perplexed but you’re outside before they can muster any follow up questions.
Robby is waiting by the door once you retrieve the spare battery from Cassie’s glove box. He’s clearly enjoying the excitement and has a grin as he takes you by the elbow and starts guiding you. ‘They found a toolbox and they’re in the back office!’
When you both arrive into the office, there’s a small congregation waiting expectantly. Dana, her husband, Jack, Parker and Cassie, who is now looking quite pale.
‘Did you find it?’ Cassie pleads. You present it to all like a grand prize and not just a boring battery pack. Robby nudges a seat forward for you, as you claw open the packaging.
‘So,’ Parker interrupts, ‘I found what I think will be the right screwdriver for the screws on the monitor.’
‘See, I knew I could count on the butch in the room with the tools,’ Dana snorts as Parker looks a genuine sense of pride, passing over the screwdriver. Gesturing for McKay to put her ankle on it, you pat your legs but there’s a green tinge to her complexion.
‘Fuck, they’ll think I’ve tampered with it though,’ she frets, ‘maybe I should just go straight down to the office?’
You shake your head at her worries, ‘it’s okay, I’m allowed! Social workers are authorised to adjust ankle monitors. If you call them tonight and let them know, give them my number and I can explain.’
The relief that washes over Cassie is clear, you reach further down her leg and give her knee a reassuring squeeze.
‘I promise, Cass. You don’t need to worry about this one.’
She nods and you get to work unscrewing the piece that holds the faulty battery in place. It’s an easy fix and it’s when you place the new battery in, that Robby interrupts the methodical silence.
‘Well if no one else is going to ask…’ he gestures to the room, ‘how in the hell did you know what to do?’
Heat rises in your cheeks as you keep your eyes fixated on where your hands keep working, you know every eye in the room is on you.
‘Fuck, ok,’ you sigh, ‘my last job was at Allenwood.’
Just as you expected, the room goes silent at the revelation until a ‘Holy shit,’ leaves Dana’s husband’s mouth.
‘Isn’t that a prison?’ Robbie gesticulates, shocked.
‘It’s not just a prison, it’s fucking maximum security,’ Abbot’s voice is gruff and unexpected. It has your head snapping up. He stands further away in the corner of the room, biceps bulging as his fists clasp behind his back. Only for a second do you catch his eye before he withdraws his gaze. The way his face has settled makes him appear furious and it stings - just like the earlier embarrassment. Is he judging you? Is he mad you never mentioned it? The reaction doesn’t make sense.
‘See,’ Parker smirks, ‘badass! Just like I told y’all.’
It has Dana, Cassie and Robby in stitches but Jack continues to brood in the corner of the room.
‘No wonder you destroyed the guys at darts,’ Dana’s husband laughs, ‘you’re not one to mess with, huh?’
It makes you laugh and you’re just relieved this is everyone’s response rather than the barrage of questions you feared. Why would you want to do a job like that? Do you like a bad boy then? What’s the scariest thing you saw? Who was the most violent inmate? They were all questions you’d been hounded with before but you shouldn’t have ever expected them from the people that have started to feel like family.
‘Nope!’ you flash a smile as you screw in the final part. From the corner of your eye you see movement from Jack, before hearing the door swing open and slam shut.
‘Done,’ you hum to McKay, but you’re looking at the concern on Dana’s face as remains angled towards the door Jack just exited. She catches you noticing and rearranges her face into a soft smile.
‘We should probably do the cake after all that excitement,’ she suggests, getting ready to rally you all back out to the bar.
When a small frosting covered hand tugs yours, you’re grateful for the distraction. After the news of your heroics makes rounds at the party, you get cornered by Dana’s big brother at the dessert table, playing matchmaker. Desperately trying to set you up with his son who’s around your age, after an abysmal array of ex-girlfriends. The latest one, a real trust-fund girl, was not popular with the Evans family after a comment about the area they live in. So, he was attempting to persuade you to take his number, desperate for him to get a woman who was independent.
‘And you fit in so well with the family,’ he was pleading, when Maddie had insisted you dance with her again and who were you to refuse such a cutie?
‘I think another member of your family has first dibs on me,’ you chuckled with him as she marched you back to the dance floor.
‘Just how much cake did you have?’ you question as you inspect the tiny sticky hands you hold. The fact Maddie has to think about it indicates that it was too much.
‘Is it so much that you’ll puke on me if we spin?’ you tease. Her nose scrunches up and a gap tooth smile is revealed when she emits an ‘Eww!’
‘I won’t puke,’ she pinky promises with you, ‘I only have the icing! Yummiest part.’
‘I agree,’ as you lift your arm to assist her in a twirl. That’s how it goes, back and forth for several songs, you twirling Maddie, then her sister Charlotte who joins, around and around. All three of you squealing in agreement about liking Sabrina Carpenter more than the old people music they play.
However, it all goes south and so do you, literally, when the girls insist on trying to twirl you around instead. It’s easier said than done, as you crouch in your heels to allow their arms to reach above you. Despite your efforts to remain stable, your ass meets the floor. The girls’ worried looks quickly fade once you start laughing. You know for a fact your ass won’t be the only one on the floor tonight based on the way Robby can barely walk in a straight line and Mel’s plait was long gone. The laughter is interrupted when a pair of definitely not kids’ shoes approach your little trio. A strong hand hovers before your face, a hand you wish you didn’t recognise immediately by the defined veins and splattering of freckles.
‘I promise I won’t tell anyone you hit the floor,’ Jack smirks.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Abbot. This was part of my signature dance move.’
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ he stifles a laugh and wiggles the fingers that still reach out to you, insisting you take his hand. Perhaps foolishly, you do. With ease, he hurls you up, free hand immediately catching your waist to keep you steady. Maddie and Charlotte look between each other as you now stand, in the man’s embrace.
‘Have you finished dancing?’ The question surprises you, as does how his hands remain on you despite you being right-side up now.
‘You’ll have to ask them,’ you gesture your head towards the girls and it makes Jack smile. The furrowed brow you’d seen in the office, now feels lightyears away.
Stiffly, Jack lowers himself onto their level. His voice is gentle in a manner you’ve never heard before. You’ve never seen him around child patients before, you wonder if this is how he is with all kids? If so, he’s unexpectedly natural in a way that has butterflies fluttering in your belly.
‘Would it be okay with you ladies if I joined?’
Maddie squints between him and you, suspicious.
‘That’s the old man who was looking at you,’ she whispers loudly, without finesse. It has you smacking your hand to your mouth, that she would repeat it to his face, but Jack just laughs.
‘That’s me,’ he looks up at you now, ‘I promise I know her and your Auntie Dana though.’
Charlotte and Maddie consult each other in glances alone before Jack adds to his pitch.
‘And I promise I can spin you better than her.’
The betrayal has you gasping as the girls nod fervently at his offer and Charlotte offers a hand for him to take. ‘That was a dirty move, Abbot,’ you shake in disbelief as the girls arrange you into a circle of four once the next song starts. Maddie places your hand into Jack’s before taking your free one herself. He holds it firmly.
‘I had resort to extreme measures, sweetheart,’ he shrugs as he swings his and Charlotte’s hands, ‘didn’t think I would have any chance catching a dance with you otherwise.’
Quickly, you look to the girls to make sure they’re enjoying themselves, desperate to hide the burning blush on the apples of your cheeks.
True to his word, Jack spins the girls effortlessly. Far better than your overhead twirls or the ones you did when Maddie had bounced on your hip. He’s hoisting them into the air by their armpits and spinning them like they’re flying. The girls are practically delirious with giggles and you’re not far off. Jack is certain he’ll be hitting the painkillers when he gets home but it’s worth it seeing the look on your face. Pure joy, you look so free here on the dance-floor, disco lights shimmering the fabric of your dress and in your eyes.
‘Do you want to be twirled without risk of injury this time?’ It takes you a moment to realise the offer is being extended to yourself, but his hand is reaching for yours. It’s confusing, seeing him repeatedly reach out to you now after brushing you off earlier when you got too close. But you can’t refuse, not when the girls cheer you on so excitedly.
Once again, Jack Abbot takes your hand but holds it now like it’s something precious, your fingers folded into his, as if he might kiss your hand. Instead he raises your conjoined hands and begins to turn you round as some Billy Idol song starts. The other hand touching your hip briefly, as if to help you lift off into the spin. The ball of your foot pivots effortlessly on the floor with Jack’s strong arm guiding your movement. The room blurs to sweeps of lights, occasionally a rogue piece of your hair that flares free but the one thing you track effortlessly is the tight smile that stays permanently stuck on you. You feel light, effortless, like the ballerina in a music-box. Jack Abbot makes you spin, not just literally and it’s hard to ignore that anymore.
When it comes to an end, you finish face to face with Jack, both with the same dazed smile.
‘Thank you,’ you muster, ‘…for not letting me fall.’
He nods, ‘my pleasure.’
You go to look back, only to see your group of four has dispersed and it’s just you and Jack left. ‘Looks like we got ditched,’ he muses.
‘We probably cramped their style. Oh well, thank you again…’ you drift off, assuming your dance party has drawn to a close.
‘You don’t want to dance with just me?’ Not for the first time tonight, Jack asks you something that has your head spinning.
‘No - yes - of course,’ you feel tongue tied.
‘I didn’t come over just to entertain the kids, as cute as they are.’
Your lips part in an O but no sound leaves. On cue, the playlist takes a turn towards something more dulcet. No longer anything you can harmlessly bop to with a safe distance between you. As the crooning begins, you find your hands wrapping around the back of Jack’s neck and his at your waist. Slowly, you sway in unison. It’s not lost on you that those swaying around you are in couples. Dana is held by her husband. Robbie has swept Lena off her feet, although neither are graceful. A blushing Santos is dancing with Parker which has you and Jack looking at each other with a raised eyebrow and sniggering. It’s all so sweet, so calm, so alien to the man who could barely look at you earlier.
‘Were you mad before,’ you brave asking, ‘at me?’ Faces inches from the other, you see those autumnal eyes blink.
‘No. I’m sorry,’ Jack sighs.
‘In the office, you looked furious…’
His eyes close for a moment, contemplating, the lines around his eyes disappear as he does. It allows you to freely take in the marks of a life lived, that span across his face; every crease, every freckle.
‘I didn’t like the thought of you there. Working in a place like that. The types of men that were around you… s’not right.’
Just as he had in the office, Jack looks genuinely pained by the topic.
‘I learnt a lot, about people, about life. A lot of the guys there came from situations you couldn’t imagine and they just want help.’
Jack lets your words sit with him. It all makes sense, you were going to be a doctor, now you’re a social worker. You’re good, he can’t avoid that, you’re so good and open, willing to help anyone. It unsettles him so much, the gnawing thought that you’re just here now to help him too, to fix another broken person.
‘D’you reckon everyone can be helped?’ Jack attempts to mask the unsteadiness he feels in this own voice.
‘If they want to be,’ you tone is so achingly sincere, ‘even in a place like Allenwood, I never thought anyone was beyond it.’ There’s never a follow up to your response, you just swear you feel Jack hold you a little tighter.
You’re not sure how long you and Jack dance together, songs all seemed to merge into each other. Neither of you particularly say much else, occasionally sharing a smirk at the chaos of the party that continues around you both. Eventually you’re interrupted and torn apart as everyone descends onto the dance floor for the final anthems. You get spun round until you’re dizzy by Parker to ‘Young Hearts Run Free’. Clutching your belly with laughter as you crawl around dramatically with Santos and McKay to ‘Gimme A Man After Midnight.’ At one point you’re even swept off your feet and dipped by Robby to ‘Uptown Girl.’ That garners a tight-lipped look from Jack. The night draws to a close as Dana is paraded around and carried out the door by her husband as ‘Dancing Queen’ blares at levels you’re certain will garner noise complaints.
It’s whilst you’re huddled outside with the stragglers, debating Uber shares that Jack appears at your side again.
‘Get in with me,’ Jack instructs you, rather than asks.
‘She’s coming with me, Javadi and Whitaker,’ Santos protests, alcohol making her typical tone sharper than ever. But an attitude has never faltered Jack Abbot.
‘That makes no sense. She lives closer to me and I have a car a minute away,’ he responds in a tone that somehow shuts down further debate.
‘Suits me,’ you shrug and attempt to kiss the scowl off Santos’ face before embracing the others and wishing them all goodbye and good luck with the inevitable hangovers.
‘You’ve drank way more than me!’ Javadi pouts back.
‘But I don’t have work tomorrow!’ You shamelessly gloat as you scamper towards where Jack stands holding the door open to your ride. You murmur a ‘thank you’ to him, as you duck into the waiting car. Once inside, you’re almost certain this is the nicest Uber you’ve ever been in. It can’t possibly be a standard one, does Jack Abbot splash out on the luxury rides, you wonder.
As you’re confirming your address with the driver, a groan emits, as Jack seats himself inside the car. He stretches back in the seat, shirt lifting with the movement, revealing the peak of forbidden flesh near his abdomen. A sliver of the skin you’d so desperately pretended not to remember. If the driver catches you ogling, he’s kind enough not to indicate so. Once Jack settles and buckles in, you watch him methodically rub down the leg you noticed was stiffer earlier.
‘Did I wear you out with the dancing?’ you tease.
He chuckles, shaking his head, ‘not possible.’
The both of you share a smile, before you remember to ask what you’d meant to moments before.
‘Do I?’
‘Do you, what?’ he looks quizzically.
‘Live close to you?’
‘Oh,’ Jack almost looks embarrassed, which is a first, ‘yes, I believe so. I’ve been caught behind your car a couple of time when we’ve finished shifts at the same time. We take the same journey, you just seem to turn off earlier than me.’
‘Oh my god,’ you gasp and panic falls across Jack’s face. Until a wicked grin falls on yours. ‘Dr. Abbot, you’ve been tailing me!’
‘I can neither confirm or deny, sweetheart.’ You swat at him, his face too devastatingly cheeky for a man of his age. Then you see the cogs turn in his mind.
‘Sorry… that was presumptuous, you might just be visiting someone.’
The seriousness in his tone and the drop in his face has you cocking your head.
‘Like who?’
Jack shrugs, ‘One of your many suitors.’
‘My suitors?’ it has you doubled over, cackling in the most unladylike manner to his bemusement. ‘What suitors?’ you wheeze.
He rolls his eyes as if you’re being absurd. ‘Sweet, tonight alone I’ve seen your presence cause Shen to fawn, Whitaker to become more beetroot than man, a bartender to look like he might spit in my drink and Dana’s brother offer his son’s hand in marriage.’
‘You’re too smooth, Jack Abbot,’ you whisper, blush thankfully undetecable in the dark.
‘I know,’ he smirks, ‘but I mean it.’
The air you both share in the back seats is thick, too intimate for two colleagues that seem to be in a constant state of push and pull. Even in the dim light granted by the street lights that flicker by, you can see how Jack’s eyes shine in your direction. Every shade of the autumn leaves, trapped in the irises of one man.
‘Madam, we have arrived,’ the driver announces, but his voice barely makes a dent in the atmosphere that bubbles in the back of his car.
‘Thank you for the ride, Jack,’ you’re not sure if your words are even audible.
‘Always,’ he replies just as softly. You gather your bag over your shoulder and click open the door. As you push yourself to get up, the hand that remains on the leather of the seat is grabbed. When you look round, Jack is clutching it, his mouth ajar as if there’s words readying to jump off his tongue, if only he would let them.
‘Text me when you get inside,’ he sighs.
You swing your legs out the car and stand, turning back to where he remains in the car, leaning in order to still clutch your hand. His thumb runs back and forth over your knuckles.
‘Pinky promise,’ you coo, enjoying the way he clings on longer than necessary, far too much.
And it’s as you stand on the street, do the lights behind you now cast a glow that illuminates the back seat you wanted so much to crawl back into. They light up Jack’s unreadable gaze and reflect off something you’ve never noticed before; the wedding band that is nestled on his ring finger.
Finally, you drop his hand without warning.
‘Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.’
And you let the door slam closed.
... i am so sorry but i did promise slow burn </3
ty for everyone who wanted to be on a taglist and if anymore do, just comment: @itwas-maroon16 @frenchtoastix @captaingalaxy108
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your palms sweat as you sit in the restaurant. it's fancy, the fanciest one you've been to yet. and you've been to so many restaurants with so many wealthy men lately.
wealthy men you declined to spend you time with. it wasn't worth it, even with the obscene amount of money they offered you in exchange for your company.
they were all profiles you liked. slightly older men who sounded like they'd be fun, like they'd be good company. but they weren't. they were self obsessed losers that didn't deserve the money they were waving in your face.
this profile was different. this profile didn't dress the owner up as some really great guy who just wants a sweet thing to spend time with a spoil. the profile was honest, a picture of a guy that wasn't smiling, a description of his job (property manager. did they really make that much money?), and what he's looking for.
you sent him a few messages and he replied sporadically. one word answers sometimes. late at night the messages got a little bit longer, a little bit more personal. but it still wasn't much.
as with all of the men you've tried to start sugar babying for (these are desperate times. your three jobs aren't cutting it) you arrange a dinner before any money is exchanged. it's the safest way you can think to do it, to meet these random men. your friends know where you are and you're not alone.
and he agreed to meet you there. andrew cody, the man with the money.
you're waiting for him, dressed in a pretty skirt and top. you wipe your palms on the material of your skirt and reach for your glass of wine. you've read the menu back to front several times over while you wait for him. he's not late, not yet.
you check the time on your phone obsessively, as if it'll magically speed up. as if it would make him appear in the doorway. it was your fault for arriving so early, just because you were so afraid of being late. waiters keep coming up to your table like they're ready to take your order.
each time, you shake your head, tell them your guest is almost there. just a few more minutes and they can take your order. you're biting your tongue, stopping yourself from apologising for taking up a table.
and then, he walks in.
in a button up shirt and black jeans, andrew cody scans the restaurant. you sit straighter, blink at him with your prettiest smile. he spots you and heads towards you.
it's like he has to remind himself to smile when he sees you. you stand up, extending your hand towards him like this is some kind of business deal. because it is. you're here to discuss business.
"it's good to finally meet you," you say and sit back down.
andrew looks at the table. at the menu you accidentally dog earred, at the glass of wine you've only been sipping from.
it looks... normal. honestly, andrew doesn't know what he was expecting from meeting a potential sugar baby, but not this. not you, in a pretty outfit, your hair curled, sipping on your wine with confidence that doesnt feel real.
it could be real. you could be as confident as you're trying to make yourself seem, but andrew doesn’t know. he slips into the seat opposite you and picks up his menu like he needs something to do with his hands.
"so, andrew." he looks up at you, mouth pulled to the side. "what do you do for work?"
its a standard question, one you've asked all of your dates. it says it on their profile every time, something generic that you googled once and forgot.
just like that, andrew isn't looking at you anymore. he stares at the tablecloth when he answers. "property manager," he answers. "i deal with property and... stuff."
you nod like that means anything to you. "that's pretty cool," you say and sit back, crossing your leg at the knee. "wanna discuss our arrangement?"
a waiter comes over and takes your order before andrew can say anything. he picks something random from the menu, uhming and ah-ing like he doesn't really know what he's ordering.
"so," you try again, leaning forward (the kind of pose that pushes your tits out just slightly. always makes them drool, try and push more money towards you). "about our arrangement."
"i've got money," he says immediately. "i just want some company in return."
your tongue darts out, swiping over your lips. "just company?" you ask him. "what does that mean?"
"it means I want to be able to come over and see you when things get difficult."
you tip your head to the side, taking him in like he's an unsure animal. like a frightened kitten you've found cowering under a car. "you want a key to my place?" you ask and he nods. "that's not happening, not right away."
smart girl. at least, that's what andrew looks like he's thinking. "that's fine," he answers. "you don't have to give it to me right now. or ever, if you don't want. but I do want to be the only guy you see."
you suck in a sharp breath. "that depends on how much you're willing to pay, mr Cody."
"i can pay it," he says immediately, his brows furrowed.
"how much?" you challenge.
he says some obscene number. but he says it quietly. not like how the other rich dudes you've seen have said it. he's not bragging, not in the slightest.
"okay," you say and pick up your drink.
for the first time that evening, you see something positive cross mr cody's face. "do we sign a contract or anything?" he asks.
"i can draft one up, bring it to our next date," you offer, crossing one leg over the other. your foot bounces against his knee. unintentional, but he still sucks in a sharp breath.
your food is placed in front of you. "pleasure doing business with you, mr cody," you say and take a bite.
"andrew," he replies, watching you instead of digging into his own food. "call me andrew."
more sugar daddy andrew! i will write more but it'll be little pieces of them here and there (my tummy hurts so much)
