can you break, sometimes?
Jack Abbot x reader
Summary: you're as level-headed as it gets; good at keeping your emotions in check, which makes you good at your job. But after years of maintaining this, you crumble, and your coworker-friend-maybe something more? is the one to comfort you with surprising gentleness. -> no use of Y/N, gender neutral. Not actually explicitly romantic (no kissing YET). Hurt comfort yadayadayada you know the drill
Warning: mentions of suicide, swearing, very vague info about reader's background- religious parent (mentioned once), general repression for their whole life mentioned. Probably innaccuracies in the small amount of medical stuff included. Probably ooc because Abbot is hardly in this godforsaken show. Reader has a panic attack- may not represent your personal experiences with them but I wrote it like mine used to be
A/N: binged the pitt season 1 in a week. Thought this guy was weird looking and didn't get the appeal but BAM first time I saw him in episode 1 I knew I was done. Title is a Blood Orange song lyric. Wrote this instead of revising. God bless who needs a-levels anyway
Youâve always prided yourself on being a master at keeping your calm.Â
Working in an ER, that level-headedness has been your saving grace in a multitude of high stakes situations- when any other doctor mightâve balked, mightâve had to take a moment to recover, you were there, unflinching, steady hands reaching for scalpels as you calmly voiced orders. Your feelings were entirely separate from your job, and that was your strongest quality.Â
Of course, some might say you were simply repressing things. Itâll bubble up one day, an old friend warned once over drinks. Confidently, youâd reassured her; everything was under control. You knew what you were doing.Â
Youâre the calmest goddamn doctor in the goddamn night shift, if not in the entire department.Â
Thatâs why it catches you so off guard when you break.Â
Youâre talking to a patient, sitting at the side of her cot. She has dark bags under her eyes, wrists wrapped in bandages. She told you she was fifteen years old. Itâs clear to you and to the other nurses who checked in on her that she attempted to take her own life- unfortunately something you donât see infrequently, certainly not in teenagers.Â
âI donât know why I did it,â she says, voice trembling. Her eyes are wide and wet, tears occasionally spilling past her lash line. âI just- Iâm just sick of it. I donât know, I justâŚâ she motions with her hands, fingers curling. âI was so sick of not feeling anything.âÂ
Your heart twists. You dismiss it quickly- the priority is the patient here.Â
âOkay,â you tell her in your softest voice- the one you reserve for the elderly or the dying. âWhat youâre feeling is awful, and Iâm so sorry- I couldnât imagine what youâre going through.â A pause, measured. âWeâve called the psych department to come talk to you. Theyâll clear if youâre in any immediate danger, and get you any help you need.â Sheâs nodding as you speak, wiping her eyes. âItâs okay, honey, okay? Weâre here to help. Weâll get you everything you need, I promise.âÂ
A knock comes at the door. You begin to stand- in a millisecond, her little hand has darted out, latching onto your wrist.Â
âI wonât ever do it again,â she whispers; her breath hitches and she starts to cry fat tears. âI promise, I promise-âÂ
âI know.â You put your free hand over hers. âItâs okay, lovely.âÂ
She nods, and lets go.Â
Youâve hardly pulled the door open when her parents barrel into the room. Her sobs grow as they pull her into a hug, fingers digging into their coats as she apologises over and over and over again.Â
When theyâve straightened, you tell them, in short, straightforward terms, exactly what they need to do for the wounds to heal properly, for their daughter to get the help she needs. The parents are nodding; the girl stares numbly ahead, lip quivering when you mention the psych department getting involved. Faster than youâd expected, youâre ducking out of the room and nodding to the social worker from across the room to come and do her part.Â
For a moment, you just stand there. The hospital is relatively quiet this time of night, filled mostly with the occasional beeping machine and murmured command from a nurse. You rub your face, swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand.Â
It comes all of a sudden. A weight on your chest, crushing your ribs into your lungs. You can hardly choke out a breath, your vision clouds, your knees almost buckle. Bright images and colours flash through your mind, words you donât recognise playing on repeat. Maybe itâs a textbook you memorised in med school, maybe itâs a prayer your mother used to make you say before bed. You grab the wall, gasping for air, and haul yourself into an empty hospital room. You grab the curtain and yank it shut.Â
Tears donât come. You havenât cried in what feels like decades, and you donât cry now- you right yourself, practically fall into a sitting position on the bed, and fumble for your stethoscope, pressing it desperately to your chest. Your heartbeat hammers desperately. There must be something wrong with you- something physically wrong. You havenât been drinking much water during this shift; you havenât eaten since you left the house. Maybe your lack of sleep is catching up to you. Maybe-Â
The curtain is pulled. You jump, stethoscope falling into your lap. Despite the lack of tears, you wipe at your face, desperate to remove any trace of- anything.
âEverything okay?â His voice is gentle as he moves towards you. âLena saw you come in here, wanted me to check on you.â
You only manage a nod. Your voice is still trapped in your throat, and you worry that if you speak, youâll sound as shit as you feel.Â
He catches on instantly, though. Jack Abbot is nothing if not observant- itâs part of the job, Lena murmured to you once when he caught you discreetly downing a Red Bull at your desk when he was meant to be intubating someone.Â
He steps forwards again, brows furrowing in concern. âHey,â he says simply, his voice going even softer (God help you).Â
âI need you to- to check. My back.â You manage to force those words out, past your rabbit-heart hammering in your chest. Abbot takes your stethoscope as you thrust it at him, refusing to make eye contact. Your breath still comes out staggered, and your hands shake as you curl them against your chest. You feel vulnerable and stupid as he sits next to you on the edge of the hospital bed, gently pressing the stethoscopeâs diaphragm against your back.Â
âDeep breath out for me,â he says softly. You do as he says, but your breath shakes and stutters. You gasp again, squeezing the heel of your hand against your chest.Â
âThereâs something wrong with me,â you say as soon as you can get the words out. Abbot shakes his head and says your name; his hand finds your knee, not squeezing too tight, but firm and warm.Â
âThereâs nothing wrong with you,â he says. He lowers his head to meet your gaze; you find you canât tear your eyes away from his. Thereâs comfort there, understanding.Â
âThere is,â you still insist.Â
âNo, thereâs not.â A pause. âIâve seen this a million times before.â Your name, again, practically whispered. âYouâre having a panic attack.âÂ
You begin to speak again, stuttering incoherently. You are not having a panic attack- havenât had one since you left med school. This has to be something- something clear, something fixable.Â
âItâs okay.â His hand leaves your knee- you only have a moment to mourn the warmth before he places it flat on your back. âIs this okay?â He murmurs- you nod, and he begins to trace small, slow circles between your shoulder blades.Â
Youâre in too much distress- still gasping for air, fingers clenching and unclenching fistfuls of your scrubs- to really think about the closeness of it all. Youâve known Jack Abbot for a long time, and you would certainly consider him a friend of yours, but this? This is new, uncharted territory. No one has seen you like this since college, and no one has touched you like this since you were a teenager. Youâre not one for physical intimacy, and this is certainly the most physical contact youâve experienced in years.Â
âDeep breath in,â he instructs. Itâs not harsh, the way he speaks to you. âDeep breath out. Count to seven on both, hold for four after both. Can close your eyes if it makes it easier.âÂ
You follow his orders, swallowing. Though itâs not an instant fix- youâre still shaky and your vision is still blurry- it definitely helps. You no longer feel like youâre drowning. He takes your hand in his free one and presses his index and middle finger to the inside of your wrist. Your heart is still beating faster than it should be; after a few minutes, though, you wonder if itâs the panic thatâs making it do so or him.Â
Slowly, you sit up straight. His hand falls from your back, but he keeps his fingers intertwined with yours, resting in your lap.Â
âBetter?â He asks. Again, you nod.Â
For the second time today, you surprise yourself. Whatâs left of your meagre resolve crumbles, and suddenly, youâre crying; fat tears spilling down your face, pooling at the collar of the t-shirt you wear under your scrubs. You press your sleeve to the lower half of your face to catch the snot and tears and to muffle the pathetic sobs that rattle your ribcage.Â
âI- Iâm sorry,â you gasp between snivels, breath hitching. âFuck. This- this doesnât happen. Iâm sorry, Iâm so sorry.âÂ
Abbot doesnât answer this time. You mustâve put him off, you think- not implausible, considering the fact that youâre crying so hard youâre dribbling into your sleeve. But instead of leaving, as youâd expect him to, he puts an arm around you. His hand squeezes your shoulder and you flop against his side. You donât expect to give in this easily, but an entire lifetime of bottled up feelings has just caught up to you in the space of ten minutes.Â
You keep your hand between his shoulder and your face- you donât want to get his scrubs dirty- and he pulls you closer, chin coming to rest on the top of your head. Heâs quiet, and youâre grateful for it. Thereâs comfort in the silence of the little room, as your heartbeat steadies.Â
âYou wanna go back out?â He asks softly. Enough time has passed for you to have stopped crying, but youâre still slumped against him, breathing in and out as slowly as you can, calming yourself. âYou can go back home, if you want- thereâs only an hour left on your shift.âÂ
You shake your head. âIâm okay,â you mumble, wiping your nose with your hand. You sit up, pulling away from him completely, and take your stethoscope up from where he left it behind you on the bed. You hesitate, turning to look at him. His gaze is soft, brow still furrowed in concern.Â
âYou sure?â
âYeah, yeah. I can finish the shift.â A pause, dragged out by the way heâs looking at you. âIâm sorry, for- for crumbling like that. It wonât happen again.âÂ
He shakes his head immediately. âNo, no, donât apologise- happens to all of us. This shit gets to you, nothing wrong with it. Itâs all perfectly natural.âÂ
âStill.â You sniff. âI didnât mean to lose my shit like that.â
He smiles and lets out a small laugh. âYou sure youâre okay to finish the shift?â When you nod, he adds, âIâll drive you home afterwards, if you want.âÂ
Any other day, you wouldâve declined out of fear of bothering him. Instead, you slowly dip your head. âI think Iâd like that,â you say, and his smile widens. He pats your knee and stands, extending a hand to help you up as well.Â












