You'll find another life to live

You were always quiet, Jack noted. Reserved, but observant. Oftentimes lost in thought when you weren’t busy. You were polite when it counted, but it felt rehearsed—practiced in a way that wasn’t quite genuine, yet not false either. You were a mystery Jack found himself wanting to figure out.

You were a good nurse. You knew what to do and followed through quickly and efficiently. But Jack worried. He couldn’t help it.

Part of him wanted to say it was just a rough day. But another part of him knew better. You never looked anyone in the eye longer than necessary. You never got close enough to anyone for them to know the real you.

And you apologized. Constantly. For things that didn’t need apologizing for—brushing past someone in a crowded hallway, asking for help, even when a patient snapped at you.

The first time Jack really noticed, you’d flinched when someone slammed a cabinet shut. It was quick, barely there, but your shoulders had drawn in tight, your breath hitching before you smoothed your expression back into something neutral. Practiced.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. Hospitals were loud. Stressful. People startled.

But then he noticed how you checked your phone. The way your expression would shift, just for a second, before you locked it and tucked it away. How you’d grow quieter afterward, more careful, like you were measuring every movement.

Jack never pushed. He wasn’t the type. Instead, he hovered in small ways—offering you half his sandwich when you forgot lunch, stepping in when a patient got too aggressive, walking with you to the parking lot when shifts ran late.

You always thanked him. Softly. Like you weren’t sure you deserved the help.

Even after you left…even after the bruises faded, and you started staying with a friend, and everyone else seemed to think things were better—Jack still noticed the way you held yourself. The tension in your shoulders. The distance you kept.

Even now, all this time later, it still felt that way.

At least…a little.

Tonight, you’d been quieter than usual. Moving through the shift like you were somewhere else entirely. You’d smiled when spoken to, nodded when needed, but Jack had caught you staring off more than once—unfocused, distant.

He’d meant to check on you earlier. Between patients. Between the chaos. But the ER never really slowed, and by the time he looked for you again, you were gone.

That’s when he headed for the roof.

It was his spot. Not officially—just a quiet corner he retreated to when everything got too loud. He expected it to be empty.

The door was already open.

Jack frowned slightly, pushing it wider. The night air met him first, cool and sharp, followed by the soft hum of the city below.

Then he saw you.

You were sitting on the ledge.

His heart dropped into his stomach.

For a second, he couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think past the way your silhouette cut against the dim lights, too close to the edge, too still. Every worst-case scenario rushed through his mind all at once.

“Hey,” he said softly, careful not to startle you.

“Hey,” you echoed.

Your voice was quiet. Too quiet.

Jack stepped forward slowly, each footfall deliberate. He didn’t want to spook you. Didn’t want you to feel cornered. The night air pressed cool against his skin, but he barely noticed it over the pounding in his chest.

“Didn’t know anyone else came up here,” you said.

“Sometimes,” he replied. “Needed some air.”

That wasn’t entirely a lie.

You nodded, staring out over the city. One of your legs dangled just slightly over the edge, the other tucked close. Your fingers gripped the concrete beside you.

Jack’s throat tightened.

He stopped a few feet away. Close enough to reach you. Far enough not to crowd.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

You gave a small shrug. “Just thinking.”

Jack nodded, like that was enough. Like he wasn’t cataloging every tiny detail—the stiffness in your shoulders, the way your fingers curled too tight, the way your voice sounded thinner than usual.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

You hesitated. Just for a second.

Then you shifted slightly, making room without actually looking at him.

Jack let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and carefully lowered himself beside you, keeping a deliberate distance. He planted both feet firmly on the roof, grounding himself before he even let his hands rest on the concrete.

Silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.

“You used to come up here a lot,” you murmured after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“When things got bad?”

Jack glanced at you. Your eyes were still fixed on the skyline.

“Sometimes,” he admitted.

You nodded again, like you understood more than you were saying.

Your leg shifted, heel tapping softly against the building’s exterior. The movement made Jack’s chest tighten.

“You ever just…” You trailed off, swallowing. “Feel tired?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Tired how?” he asked gently.

You huffed a soft, humorless breath. “Just…tired. Of thinking. Of trying. Of…everything.”

Jack’s hands curled slightly against the concrete.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Your shoulders sagged a fraction, like the acknowledgment alone took effort.

“I thought it would get better,” you whispered. “After I left. Everyone said it would. That it just takes time.” You swallowed again. “And it did. For a while.”

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

“But sometimes it feels like he’s still there,” you continued, voice thinner now. “Like I can still hear him. Every time I mess up. Every time I’m too slow, or too quiet, or too much.” Your fingers tightened. “I keep waiting for someone to get tired of me. For it to all…snap back.”

“You didn’t mess up,” Jack said softly.

You shook your head. “You didn’t see it all.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I saw enough.”

That made you finally glance at him. Your eyes looked glassy in the dim light.

Jack kept his voice steady. “You got out. That’s not messing up.”

Your lip trembled faintly, and you looked away again.

The silence stretched. The city hummed below. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed.

“You ever think…” you started, then stopped.

Jack felt his pulse spike.

“Think what?” he asked gently.

You stared at the ground far below. “That it’d be easier if everything just…stopped.”

The words were quiet. Almost lost to the wind.

Jack’s chest tightened painfully.

He didn’t react sharply. Didn’t panic outwardly. He just shifted, slow and deliberate, inching a little closer—close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he said.

You blinked, like you hadn’t expected that.

“On the roof?” you asked faintly.

“With me,” he clarified.

Your fingers loosened slightly against the concrete.

Jack kept his voice soft. “You don’t have to hold all of it by yourself.”

You laughed quietly, but it broke halfway through. “I don’t even know how not to.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “We can figure it out.”

You were quiet again. Your leg stopped tapping.

After a moment, Jack slowly rested his hand on the concrete between you—close enough that his pinky barely brushed yours. He didn’t grab. Didn’t pull. Just stayed there, offering.

You stared at his hand for a long time.

Then, hesitantly, your fingers shifted. Just enough to hook lightly around his.

The contact was small. Fragile.

Jack held still, like any sudden movement might break it.

“You don’t have to sit on the edge,” he murmured after a while. “We can move back. Just…a little.”

You didn’t answer right away.

But slowly, carefully, you drew your leg back from the ledge.

Jack didn’t exhale until both your feet were safely on the roof.

He squeezed your fingers gently, once.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly.

[...]

You hadn’t told Michael you were coming back. Not because you didn’t want to see him. Quite the opposite, actually. If you were honest, part of the reason you had chosen this hospital for your first attending position was because of him.

But you knew your brother, and you knew that If you had told him beforehand, he would have turned it into an event. He would’ve rearranged shifts, insisted on picking you up, making sure everything was perfect for your first day and probably announced to half the hospital that his little sister was coming back.

You loved him, really. You just didn’t need the spectacle, so you decided to let him find out the natural way.

Your first night shift was supposed to start in less than an hour when you stepped into a small café across the street from the hospital. The place was busy but calm, with students working on laptops, a couple talking quietly near the window, the soft hum of conversation mixing with the sound of the espresso machine.

You ordered a coffee, leaning against the counter as you waited, your eyes drifting toward the large front window and looking at the hospital entrance across the street. Ambulances came and went, staff walking in and out through the sliding doors.

You felt the familiar pull in your chest, the quiet, almost instinctive tug that always seemed to draw you toward places like this. Hospitals had always felt like gravity to you, no matter how far you went or how much time passed, they had a way of pulling you right back.

Your coffee had just been placed on the counter when you heard it. A chair scraping violently across the floor, then a heavy thud.

You turned and saw a man, maybe in his fifties, that had collapsed beside one of the tables, his cup hitting the ground and shattering.

For half a second the café froze, then the panic started, but you were already moving.

You dropped beside him, quickly checking for responsiveness.

“Sir? Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Two fingers to the neck, no pulse.

You looked up sharply.

“Someone call 911!” you said, your voice firm enough to cut through the rising panic. “Tell them we have a possible cardiac arrest.”

A barista fumbled for the phone behind the counter.

You positioned your hands at the center of his chest and started compressions.

“One, two, three, four…”

The rhythm came automatically, muscle memory built over years of training and long nights in emergency rooms.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Again.

You barely registered the people gathering around, someone crying softly near the doorway, the barista explaining the situation to the dispatcher. All that mattered was the man under your hands.

By the time the paramedics arrived, sweat was already starting to gather at your hairline.

One of them dropped beside you immediately.

“What happened?”

“Collapsed suddenly,” you said without stopping. “Unresponsive. No pulse when I checked.”

They quickly attached the monitor.

“V-fib,” the paramedic said.

“Charging.”

The shock lifted the man’s body slightly from the floor. Everyone in the café went silent.

The monitor beeped again.

“Still no pulse.”

You didn’t hesitate, you moved back into position and resumed compressions.

Within seconds, the stretcher was wheeled in.

“Let’s move.”

You climbed into the ambulance with them without even thinking about it. 

[...]

Meanwhile, inside the emergency department, the shift change rush was in full swing.

Robby stood near the nurses’ station finishing the last of his charts, one hand resting against the counter as he flipped through a patient file. After a long morning in the ER, the familiar end-of-shift fatigue sat heavy on his shoulders, but his focus remained sharp as he reviewed the final details that still needed to be passed on before he could officially hand the department over.

Beside him, Jack Abbot stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness from hours on the floor. He listened while Robby went over the remaining cases. Patients still waiting on labs, one observation case that might need imaging overnight, and another who would likely be discharged once the last results came back. It was the usual end-of-shift routine: quick, efficient, and built on the unspoken understanding that whatever hadn’t resolved during the day would now become the night team’s responsibility.

“Tell me again why I agreed to cover tomorrow’s shift,” Jack muttered.

“Because apparently that’s what you call a hobby,” Michael replied without looking up.

Jack sighed.

“I need to find a new one.”

Before Robby could respond, the ambulance bay doors burst open.

“Cardiac arrest!”

The stretcher rolled in fast, paramedics moving quickly toward a trauma bay, but something about the scene immediately caught Jack’s attention.

Someone was already on top of the patient and was not a paramedic. 

It was a woman.

She was straddling the patient’s torso, delivering precise, controlled chest compressions while the gurney moved through the hallway, her hair had partially come loose from its tie, and her focus was absolute.

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty—”

A nurse stepped forward.

“I’ll take over—”

But before she could—

Robby stepped closer, then stopped dead in his tracks.

His brain took a second to process what he was seeing, because the woman performing CPR looked exactly like—

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

The woman glanced up briefly and her eyes met his.

And she smiled.

“Hi, Mikey.”

Jack turned to look at him.

“Mikey?”

Michael ignored him completely and pointed at you like he was accusing you of a crime.

“You.”

You kept counting.

“Can this wait?” you asked calmly. “I’m kind of busy.”

Jack blinked, watching the entire exchange like he had just stepped into the middle of a family argument during a medical emergency.

A nurse finally stepped in to take over compressions. You slid off the stretcher, catching your breath as the team continued working on the patient.

Robby was still staring at you in disbelief.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming back.”

You shrugged.

“Surprise?”

“That’s not a surprise!”

Jack looked between the two of you.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “I feel like I missed several important chapters here.”

Michael gestured toward you.

“This is my sister.”

Jack paused.Then looked at you again. Properly this time, taking in the confidence in your posture, the way you had jumped into the situation without hesitation, the faint crease between your brows from concentration.

You gave him a small nod.

“Nice to meet you.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh.

“You just arrived in an ambulance performing CPR. You know, most people introduce themselves before climbing onto a stretcher and starting chest compressions.”

“I like dramatic entrances.”

Robby groaned.

“I turn my back for one minute and you show up doing chest compressions on my patient.”

You tilted your head.

“Your patient?”

He pointed dramatically toward the trauma bay.

“That’s still technically my shift!”

You leaned slightly closer to him, lowering your voice just enough.

“Good thing I’m here for the night shift, then.”

Michael blinked.

“You’re what?”

Jack laughed, and as his eyes drifted back to you again, something about the moment stuck with him.

The chaos, the confidence, the way you had walked into the hospital like you had always belonged there.

Later, he would realize something else too.

The first time he ever saw you…

Jack Abbot who reads at the table by the window, one leg stretched out, and you, who start reading the same books, curl up in bed and rehearse conversations in your head, words you never say aloud because you don’t want to look foolish in front of a guy who’s probably twenty years your senior, and that you absolutely don’t think about how his hands would feel like on you.

Jack Abbot who, seven days before Christmas, gets his coffee before hurriedly heading out for work, leaving his book on the table and you running after him with it, only to see him get hit by a car and immediately calling for an ambulance while clutching his hand and murmuring his name.

Jack Abbot who gets wheeled into the emergency room while you follow, trying to explain the accident to the doctor who immediately blanches at Jack’s unresponsive body, repeating in a broken voice “Brother, you hear me? Jack?” and you, who keeps walking behind until the doors of the CT Scan room swing shut, whispering to yourself “Fuck. I was going to marry that man.” and the charge nurse who hears and walks you to the room for the families with a gentle “Oh, sweetheart, Jack is strong.”

Jack Abbot who wakes up days later to lights he knows by heart and the slow beep of machines, a girl sitting in a chair nearby, chin tucked to her chest, a book in her lap, while she snores softly, wondering if the voice he heard in the darkness was hers.

Jack Abbot who listens to Robby murmuring “You gave her a scare brother. You should have told me about her, I wouldn’t have judged you.” while Dana informs him “Your girl hasn’t left since you came in. Had to force her to eat and shower.” and he feels his stomach drop, because he remembers her - you, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, at least two decades younger, the one he never had the nerve to ask out – but doesn’t remember the part where you became his.

Jack Abbot who assumes that he doesn’t remember you and him dating because he had a traumatic brain injury, which could have led to post-traumatic amnesia, so he apologizes to you before he even asks questions, voice hoarse and raw, telling you how sorry he is that he has forgotten it “I will remember kid, I swear I will.” and who watches your face crumble a little and mistakes it for sadness instead of guilt.

Jack Abbot who has to deal with Shen sipping on his Dunkin’ with a smirk when he decides to pay him a visit to tell him that he “never thought you still had game, old man.” and endures it because each time it makes you blush and he wants nothing more than to see it happening again.

Jack Abbot who doesn’t remember your first date - if he held your hand or kissed you when he walked you home - so he improvises one on the rooftop with the help of Robby and his ducklings even if he has to drag his IV with him and walking is a fucking nightmare that reminds him of the time he had to relearn to walk with a prosthetic quickly forgotten by the look in your eyes when you see the table, all stunned and teary-eyed, and that you let him kiss you on the same spot he used to stand after the bad shifts.

Jack Abbot who has so many questions, gets cheeky and can’t let it go “So we don’t live together?” “Um…no.” “Why not?” “I’m…old-fashioned.” “Do we have sex then?” and he loves it because you don’t let him mess with you, nudging him bright red “Not that old-fashioned!” “Oh so…missionary with the lights off? Is that how I treat my girl?” “Jack!”.

Jack Abbot who gets discharged mid-January and who tries to convince you that he is perfectly capable of having sex even with a healing head injury “You can get on top.” “Jack!” “That would help me heal, doctor’s advice.” “That’s not how it works!”.

Jack Abbot who doesn’t understand why he didn’t get you a proper ring, why you don’t live together and why he didn’t introduce you to his friends while you are just so full of guilt and want nothing more than to confess but you meet Robby properly, Dana, and her husband Benji and suddenly you are part of something and that makes you hesitate about telling him the truth and blowing it all apart.

Jack Abbot who remembers the accident one ordinary evening when February ends, and remembers that you were never his in the first place, who comes back to his place where you’re eating his favorite ice-cream, curled on the couch wearing his shirt and watching some trashy tv show you love and sits next to you, arm sliding around your shoulders and whispers, “I’m not angry kid, okay?”.

Jack Abbot who holds you while you are sobbing and trying to explain to him the whole situation and the worst part is…he gets it, he understands how the situation became impossible to get out of, and how at some point you felt you couldn’t confess and he really is not angry because he thinks that he might have done the same.

Jack Abbot who decided that from now on the rooftop was your first date, your first kiss, your first everything, who kisses your forehead before murmuring “We’ll be okay.” and you who believe him.

“It’s okay,” you assure her with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Trust me— I’m used to it.”

“We’re never too busy for you, hun. C’mon. Let’s find you a room,” Dana assures with a gentle pat on your arm. She cranes her neck and shouts across the work station, “We got anything open, Princess?”

The woman bends at the waist to check her computer, then calls over her shoulder, “Psych 1 should be.”

“One of you find Abbot, will ya?” Dana asks the younger residents, peering at them over the top of the glasses sitting low on her nose as she escorts you down the hall. “Tell him his wife is here.”

You tense instinctively under her touch at the turn of phrase — a bitter reminder of the stack of divorce papers on the coffee table back home, which says that pretty soon you won’t be Jack’s wife anymore, or his honey. You dread telling his coworkers almost as much as you dread signing the wretched thing.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” you assure her with a wavering grin. “It’s nothing, D, really.”

“That’s what they all say, hun,” the woman rolls her eyes.

The remaining residents share weary looks once the two of you have disappeared into the crowd — because telling Abbot his wife is in is one thing, but telling him in the middle of the unforgiving chaos of a rather brutal shift is entirely another.

“Well, I have a patient to check on, so…” Santos trails off, ambling backward with her thumb cocked over her shoulder. She spins on her sneaker and dismisses herself with a curt wave. “Later, losers.”

“Look at this place, we all have patients to check on,” Whitaker scoffs, then cowers at the expectant looks he gets from the two women at his side. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “But, yeah, I… I have to go, too…”

Samira laughs as she watches the blonde scurry off behind Santos.

“What’s his deal?” she scoffs and turns over her shoulder to look at Mel. Her dark brows furrow when she finds the girl backing slowly away. “Dr. King?”

“Oh, I’ve already completed all my rounds, I just… don’t wanna do it,” Mel confesses, forgetting to lie. She grimaces and turns away. “Sorry…”

Samira watches them go with a confused look twisting her features. She doesn’t understand their apprehension, or their subtle looks of sympathy — as if she’d just gotten stuck diffusing a ticking time bomb.

“O-kay, I guess I’ll do it then…” she mumbles under her breath and turns on the heel of her sneaker, starting the hunt for Dr. Abbot.

Dana stashes you in a small room on the farthest end of the E.R., away from all the chaos on the opposite side, which has since been reduced to a muted droning behind the shut door. She leaves the curtains drawn and the lights dim to ease the unwavering migraine she knows you’ve been sporting for some days now — which inevitably means it’s been plaguing you for at least a week or more before you told anyone about it.

You lie back against the angled exam table with your knees bent and your arms crossed over your eyes, feeling the pounding in your skull down into your bones. You struggle to even out your breathing and harder to relax — you tense on instinct when the door clicks open, and not just because every noise feels like a knife right to your temple.

Your stomach twists with the anticipation of seeing Jack, a sick sort of feeling at potentially having to confront the night before and the uncertain future ahead. You exhale a breath of relief when Robby slides in instead, letting in a sliver of white-blue light and a trickle of noise.

“Dana told me you were in,” he says in lieu of any real greeting, shutting the door behind him with his elbow as he reaches for the hand sanitizer on the wall at his side. He rubs it between his palms and wonders aloud, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure him despite the faint grimace that twists your features when you struggle to sit up straighter on the bed. “Don’t worry about me— What the hell’s going on out there?”

Robby exhales hard through his mouth, bearded cheeks puffing. “Huge wreck, right off the highway— You didn’t see it on the way here?”

“No,” you shake your head.

“Good…” he nods. “I damn near had a heart attack when Dana told me you were in— I’m sure Abbot’s head is gonna cave in when he finds out.”

He exhales a quiet laugh and waits for you to make another stupid joke in response, just like you always do. But you avert your gaze instead and shift uncomfortably on the thin mattress, like the mention of Jack’s name is enough to make you nervous.

“What’s going on?” the man wonders with furrowed brows. You give him a shocked sort of look in response, half-confused that he’d even know you and Jack were on the outs in the first place. He elaborates soon after, “Dana said you’ve been having headaches for a while now— so that means it’s been a week, at most.”

“You guys know me so well…” you deadpan with a pair of squinted eyes. “It’s nothing, Robby. Really. I just… Had another fainting spell. And usually I wouldn’t even come in for them, but Jack said if it happened again that he’d drag me down here himself, so… I figured I’d save him the trip.”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow at the cynical smile you give him.

“Well, I’m gonna save you the lecture about waiting this long to come in… Since I’m pretty sure you’re gonna hear it from Abbot anyway, so…”

“Thank you,” you sigh.

“You sure you don’t want me to tell him you’re in?” Robby presses tentatively. “He’s with another patient right now, but he’d drop it in a second if you—”

“No,” you shake your heavy head almost instantly, ‘cause you’re not so sure how true that is anymore — Jack hasn’t exactly been too keen on dropping his work these days, which is essentially the entire reason you’re in this mess to begin with. “I don’t wanna… worry him over nothing, you know?”

Robby has a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t nothing, and that there’s something you and Abbot aren’t exactly telling him, but he doesn’t press the issue now.

“Yes, ma’am…” he nods with a huff and drops down in the cushioned stool at your bedside, silently preparing himself for the hell Abbot’s gonna raise when he inevitably finds out you’re here.

Samira finds Dr. Abbot in Trauma 2, performing an emergency surgery on a patient whose pelvis was crushed in the crash, with Dr. Garcia and a crowd of other residents at his side. The younger girl slinks through the glass door into the windowless room, and doesn’t flinch at the overwhelming scent of blood and bitter antiseptic heavying the air inside.

She plucks a surgical mask from the dispenser beside the door and holds it over her mouth as she calls out a hesitant, “Dr. Abbot?”

“Little busy here, Mohan,” Jack answers without looking at her, elbows deep in the unconscious man’s open pelvis as he readjusts the metal clamps there. Bright crimson blood stains his gloves and the stomach of his blue PPE gown as he works with expert hands.

“It’s sort of important, sir…”

Jack says nothing in response; just gives the girl a silent, expectant look from behind the safety glasses sitting low on his nose.

“Your wife is here,” she tells him, dark eyes wild from behind the mask she holds over her mouth. “She’s totally fine, she’s in psych 1 with Dana, but she—”

“Since when?” Jack snaps before she can properly get the words out, flaring red-hot with an immediate worry and a suffocating tinge of regret despite Samira’s reassurances.

Flashes of the crash plague his anxious mind. He can’t help but picture you lying as limp and as bloody as the man before him now. The brutal image hits him as hard as the memory of the last thing he said to you the night before, right before you slept in separate bedrooms.

“Well, if my work schedule makes you so damn miserable, then why don’t you just sign the goddamn papers—?”

“Um… I’m not sure,” Samira answers with a waver in her voice. “About ten minutes ago, I think? I did a few rounds before I came in here, so—”

Jack stills suddenly in place. His head snaps in the younger girl’s direction, and Samira cowers at the hardened glare in his eyes.

“Is there a reason you didn’t come to me directly?”

Samira flinches at his unusually harsh tone. Her wide eyes flit between his stern ones and the anxious looks from the residents just behind him. “Well, she said not to… But then Dana said that I should, so I wasn’t exactly sure who to listen to—”

“Me,” Jack snaps. “You listen to the attending, who told everyone to come get him if his wife came in—”

He doesn’t have time to notice his slip-up, or otherwise correct it, when Garcia steps in.

“I’ll take over here,” the older woman says in her usual deadpan. “If you guys wanna argue like children somewhere else.”

Jack doesn’t argue as he steps back from the patient, peeling off his bloodied gown and gloves with suddenly anxious hands. He chucks the PPE in the biohazard bin with an obvious fire in his touch. The sudden shift in his usually calm disposition makes Samira’s chest ache, while Garcia grins behind her mask.

“Tell your wife I said hi, Dr. Rabbit,” the woman croons with a teasing lilt and a mischievous look behind her glasses.

“She’s still not interested, Garcia,” Abbot calls over his shoulder as he storms towards the door.

“Dammit…”

Samira cowers when Jack slides past her in the doorway, not looking at her once, like he barely recognizes that she’s there at all. She watches through the glass door as he disappears into the bustling crowd outside, hands balled into trembling fists at his sides.

“Don’t worry about him, kid,” Garcia sighs, half-distracted, as she fishes her bloodied hands in the unconscious man’s open pelvis. “He’s been on his period for about a week now, and we’re all paying the price for it…”

Samira’s chest deflates with a huff. “So, that’s why no one else wanted to do it…”

The two-minute trek across the E.R. feels nothing short of two years.

The entire walk there, Jack’s anxious mind struggles to discern what Mohan could’ve meant by totally fine. Were you just a little scraped up? Were you terribly injured, but at the very least alive? Was Samira trying to soften the blow, or did she truly mean totally fine?

Jack can’t help but picture the worst-case scenario, and he expects to find you hurt.

“No, I just kinda have this headache that comes and goes, you know?” he hears you say, right before he storms inside.

“Oh— And there it is,” Jack jokes when Abbot appears suddenly in the doorway, bringing in a wave of light and noise and unadulterated panic in with him.

Jack’s tight chest relaxes slightly when he finds you totally fine — lounging in a dim room with Robby at your side, laughing at his stupid joke as he draws dark red blood from the inside of your arm.

He’s relieved that you’re okay, of course, but the sight of you smiling — when Jack hasn’t quite been able to keep food down for days with the worry that you might be leaving him — hurts him in a completely different (and only slightly jealous) way.

“Oh, fuck…” you hear yourself say when Jack storms in like a white-hot flame. Because, sure, you’ve sort of made it a point to avoid the man at every turn, but you didn’t want him finding you like this.

You know what this looks like. You know it looks like you’re going behind his back and purposefully taunting him by going to his friends instead of straight to him. You know it hurts his feelings. And you may not like him so much right now, but you never want to see him sad.

“Yeah, 'oh fuck' is right,” Jack nods as he closes the door behind him, muffling the noise as the room goes dim again.

Robby inhales sharply through his nose. He can feel the sudden tension between the two of you pressing hard on either side of him. “Little pinch,” he murmurs to you, right before sliding the needle from your vein.

“Why didn’t you come get me?” Jack asks.

“Because you were busy,” you sigh, then mumble more quietly under your breath. “Go figure…”

“Why didn’t you call before you came—”

You fight the urge to rehash the fight from the night before and roll your eyes instead. “Because it’s not a big deal, Jack—”

“Yeah, I think I’ll be the judge of that,” the man concludes with narrowed eyes and biceps that strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest.

Robby’s dark eyes flit between the two of you behind the glasses perched on his broad nose. When he’s sure the arguing has ceased, he looks over his shoulder at Abbot and begins to explain. “I’m doing an electrolyte panel to check for any imbalances— It’ll also help us rule out anemia and hypoglycemia.”

Jack nods, brows lowered in concentration. “Okay… What about—?”

“I was gonna do an ECG when the results came back,” Robby finishes for him. “Her heart sounds fine, but I’ll have to wait for a room to open up if the bloodwork comes back abnormal, and… Who knows how long that’s gonna be?”

“Alright,” Jack nods again. “Sounds good.”

Robby turns to you, brows raised expectantly. “Sound good?”

“You’re the boss, Robinavitch,” you shrug.

“Hear that, brother?” Robby scoffs as he rises from his stool, taking the vials of blood work with him as he heads for the door. He elbows Jack on the arm when he walks by and flashes the frowning man a smug grin. “I’m the boss.”

Robby opens and shuts the door behind him, and all the playful energy leaves with him. The subsequent silence feels borderline suffocating. You and Jack, barely breathing, try to break it at the same time.

“I’m fine, Jack—”

“I can’t believe this—”

You huff and tip your aching head back. “I’m fine. So you can go back and do whatever it is you were doing before. I’m sure it’s more important.”

Jack’s light eyes narrow into thin slits. His firm stature never wavers — arms crossed tight, sneakers spread shoulder-length apart — like he’s interrogating an enemy on the battlefield.

“What happened? Did you faint again?”

“Yeah…” you answer suddenly sheepishly, averting your gaze to a faded stain on the knee of your jeans. “It was in your shower chair this time. I think I had the water too hot.”

“I told you about the hot water—”

“I know,” you huff like a stubborn child. “And you also told me that if I passed out again that I needed to come in so… I came in.”

“I still wish you would’ve called me first,” he tells you — not angry this time, not truly, but still obviously hurt. “When Mohan told me you were here, I thought something bad happened to you.”

“Well, considering you told me to leave last night, I honestly didn’t think you really gave a shit anymore, Jack...” you confess with a smile you hardly mean.

“I told you to leave because you said you wanted to,” Jack argues through gritted teeth. “You act like I pulled that shit out of thin air— Like you haven’t been looking for an out for weeks.”

“An out?” you echo, a little louder than you mean to, as your face screws in offense. “You’re the one who’s never home, Jack. So if anyone’s been looking for a fucking out, it’s you— Fuck…”

You whimper when a white-hot flare surges suddenly across your skull, from temple to temple and down the base of your neck. You wince and close your eyes, tentatively tipping your head back against the bed once more.

Jack forgets to be angry in an instant. His chest stings at the pained look that etches across your features. His legs carry him to you before his brain has decided whether or not he should.

“What?” he presses, eyes wild. “What’s wrong?”

“My head…” you squeak out.

Jack huffs. “Here…”

You know he’s towering over you without having to open your eyes. You can feel him there, warm like a heater, and smelling of cologne and a long shift at the E.R. He braces himself with one hand on the mattress beside your head and covers your eyes with his free one. You don’t flinch when his gently calloused palm splays suddenly over the length of your forehead, pinky curving in the bend of your closed eyelids.

He couldn’t possibly count the number of times he’s done this over the years — hundreds, at least. It’s the only way he knew how to soothe your headaches when the medicine was taking its sweet time kicking in. It’s the pressure that helps, though you’ve always argued that Jack must have some secret healing superpowers that he isn’t telling you about.

You’re only able take your first good breath in two weeks when he’s finally touching you so gently.

“Better?” he wonders, half-detached but still strikingly soft.

You nod once beneath his palm and fight back the urge to cry when his thumb rubs softly over your temple.

“Contrary to popular belief, honey,” the older man murmurs. “I didn’t come in here to fight with you.”

“It always ends in a fight with us, Jack,” you sigh. “You know that.”

“I thought you were hurt,” he confesses, in a voice so soft it makes you feel like crying. “Bad hurt. When Mohan came and got me, I thought for sure you were involved with all the shit going on out there.”

“Well, I’m not… So you can go now…” you tell him in a trembling voice, which you’d rather blame on the lingering ache in your skull and not the fact that you don’t truly want him to leave — that you never really wanted him to leave.

You miss the quiet smile Jack gives you in response, because he can see right through you.

“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere, honey…” he says on a gentle exhale. “And I’m not signing those stupid papers.”

Your heart drops at the mention of them, at the bitter reminder of their existence, even though it’s been plaguing your every waking thought for some weeks now.

Your trembling hands reach for the one he holds over your eyes. You wrap your fingers around his wrist and knuckles, peeling his palm away to peer up at him with a glassy gaze.

“What do you mean?” you ask on bated breath.

Jack meets your weary look with a softer, sadder smile.

“Well, I just got about a… three-minute glimpse of what my life was gonna look like without you,” Jack sighs, in lieu of confessing all the gory worst-case scenarios he couldn’t quite get out of his head. “And, turns out, I’m not strong enough for that, so… I’m officially declining your divorce, honey.”

“Jack…” you protest feebly, features crumpling at his poor excuse for a joke, while his calloused palm slips from your forehead and cups gently over your warm cheek.

He ducks down to meet your gaze when you try to turn away, bending slightly at the waist and bracing himself with his free hand curled around the top of the mattress. His nose is mere inches from yours — you can feel each of his exhales fan across your chin. You couldn’t shy away from him if you tried.

“I’m serious, honey,” he says with a stern but no less sincere look swimming in his light eyes. “You were right— I’m working too much—”

“No, don’t…” you protest with a shake of your head, because the affirmation doesn’t feel as rewarding as you’d expected it to. Instead, it makes you feel a little sick. Your gaze falls to the dog tags slipping from the inside of his scrubs, glimmering in the darkness as they sway just ahead of you. Your fingers reach to fidget with the chain on muscle memory. “It’s your job, Jack. I shouldn’t dictate how much you work—”

“You’re my wife, honey. You shouldn’t feel second to my job, because you’re not,” he tells you, brows raised to his hairline. “So, I’ll— cut down on my hours, I’ll stop picking up so many shifts, I’ll… I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to do, baby, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

You feel his words physically, like a white-hot knife lodged in the center of your sternum and twisting.

You struggle to find the words to respond, just as you struggle to find the air in the room to breathe. Because you’ve spent weeks thinking you’d failed at your marriage, and now you’ve failed at failing your marriage. It’s a stupid tug of war that makes you hate yourself all the more.

“Well, maybe we should wait for Robby to get back…” you murmur quietly, shifting on the mattress beneath him. “You know, before we have this conversation or whatever…”

Jack ducks his head to chase your averted gaze, brows furrowing in confusion. “What the hell does Robby have to do with this?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I might have, like, a super rare blood cancer or something—”

“Jesus,” Jack grimaces before you can properly get the words out, flinching away from you when you shatter the sincere moment. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I might only have a week left to live or something,” you retort with wide eyes, only partially playful. “So we might not even have to worry about any of this, you know? …Who knows?”

Jack meets your sparkling, half-crazed look with a firm scowl. “You’re real morbid, honey. You know that?”

“Well, what can I say?” you shrug and fight the urge to smile. “Your cynicism’s rubbing off on me, Abbot.”

Robby returns about a half hour later, to a room considerably less tense than it was when he left. He forgets to comment or otherwise pry about it when he slips inside, gaze averted to the glowing iPad resting on his palm. His free hand scratches at the grey patch in his beard — an anxious tic you’ve come to know well.

“Hey, uh—” he clears his throat behind his fist when the words get stuck there.

“Oh, shit…” you waver when the door clicks shuts behind him. “I was just kidding about the whole blood cancer thing, I swear—”

Robby’s brows lower in confusion. “…What?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Jack huffs, rising from the stool at your side for the first time in thirty minutes as he rushes to Robby in long strides — ‘cause he can feel the man’s trepidation like heat off a bonfire. “What did the blood work say?”

Robby inhales sharply through his nose as he passes the man the tablet. He crosses his arms over his chest and splays his right hand over the lower half of his bearded face. His wide eyes dart between the lit-up iPad and the edge of Jack’s profile, eagerly awaiting the man’s reaction.

You watch with your heart in your throat as Jack’s eyes flit wildly back and forth across the screen. His scruffy jaw slackens slightly in shock, and Robby nods slowly in a quiet concurrence.

“Okay, what the hell?” You shatter the heavy silence. “Are you guys just gonna communicate telepathically the whole time, or is someone gonna tell me what’s going on with me?”

“You’re fine— You’re totally fine,” Robby reassures you, gesturing wildly with his right hand. “Your bloodwork came back normal, but… There’s a high level of hCG in your bloodstream. And I think that’s what’s been causing your dizziness and fainting spells.”

“HCG?” you echo, eyes darting wildly between the two men in front of you. “What the hell is hCG?”

“Human chorionic gonadotropin,” Jack answers on instinct, half-strangled, and never once taking his eyes off the screen in his hands. “Means you’re pregnant, honey…”

You feel the world fall out from under you for the second or third or hundredth time that day. You hide your crumpling features behind your hands as your head falls back against the exam table. Your following words come out muffled.

“You have got to be shitting me…”

But he is the embodiment of that colour, and wears it almost always. It’s apparent in the way that his stethoscope hung loosely around his neck, as well his scrubs, his prosthetic leg, and even the way he takes his daily coffee: no cream, no sugar, just pure raw bitterness of the grounded roasted beans to keep him awake during his night shift and again afterwards, when he tries to fight off his sleep at the aisles of the grocery store in the early hours, making sure that his blend doesn’t run out. 

Black doesn’t scream at him or transform. Black is dull, bland, predictable, quiet. It gives him something that he can hold onto. Something that he can control and navigate around in a world that is rarely calm.

So when you, the new attending who struts into his ED and taps him on the shoulder with your clipboard — you, with your violet-purple scrubs, and your yellow Nikes, with auburn hair tied into a messy knot, Jack is taken aback. And almost drops his coffee. It unsettles him. You introduced yourself, with a tight lipped smile that is nowhere near warm, but a hint of it is there. Your wandering eyes that scanned him from head to toe as if you’re memorising him in real time.

It must have been at least a minute, because the next thing he heard was you calling out his name.

“Dr. Jack Abbot?” 

He blinks. 

“Dr. Abbot, Attending Physician. Salt and Pepper hair? Brooding, senior citizen, grumpy doctor?” 

Jack blinks again, and nods. 

He grunts a response, “Yeah, I’m Jack, and I’m not brooding.” 

You laughed.

He turns back to the monitor in front of him, hoping you will take the hint and move along. But you don’t. Instead, you’ve come up to him, shoulder to shoulder, looking at the trauma board like you own the place, and are used to the rhythm of the never-ending chaos of Pittsburgh’s ED. 

There’s something rattling about you, he thought to himself. 

You’re dressed too colourful, it disrupts his routine and eyesight. Yet at the same time, it feels as if you were shining in a quiet way.

He decided then and there that he doesn’t like it. But he quickly dismisses the thought, and reminds himself that it’s probably the coffee, bitter in his throat, that’s making him feel this way. He takes another sip anyway.

He heard you muttering something to yourself, something about a stab wound in Trauma 2, your tone rushed and clipped but not cold. It sounds like music to his ears for some reason, and he’s never felt this way. 

He’s confused. 

And when he glances up to look at you again, you’re gone. Off to take care of the stabbed patient, your sneakers squeaking on the floor that smells like disinfectant. He watches you go. He tries to shift his focus back to the monitor, but he’s unable to. 

Black is supposed to be predictable. So why does it feel like his entire world just turned upside down?

⸻

At first, everything about you bothered him. It feels as if the colours that you wore everyday screamed at him, and when you’re quiet, the colours spoke for themselves. 

He sees your leaf-green mug in the break room, with lavender tea, he notes while looking at the tag. The charge nurse told him that you’ve just lost a patient, and he sees it in the way that your posture is sunken, you’re fiddling with the mug’s rim, eyes downcast and you’re silent. 

You didn’t even acknowledge his presence when he walked into the room. He doesn’t say anything. Only pulled out a chair, sat next to you, and just stayed by your side until you pulled yourself back together and squeezed his shoulder as a sign of thank you when you walked out, and he observed how you undid your hair and redid it again with your pink claw clip, he glints at the small shiny rhinestones on it.

Since then, something has changed. Your colours now begin to crawl obviously towards the edge of his peripheral vision. He tells himself he’s only feeling this way because you are new to the ED.

It’s nothing deep. 

But it’s not, because there’s just something about you that shakes him. Even when you don’t interact with him outside of patient care, he can sense your presence from a mile away.

Because unlike the over-confident interns, or the stubborn residents who float in and out of the ED with extreme rashness, you stay. You’re the calm in a storm. He starts to notice that you began to orbit him, when you two are working on a patient together, he realises that you hand him the tools that he requires before he even realises that he needs them. It’s like you were able to read his mind, it also helps the fact that you’re a fellow attending as well, but there’s something about you that he can’t quite put a finger on. You ask for an opinion from him on difficult cases, you talk to him more now about your day, ask about his day, what he does for fun. He realises that he wants to get to know you better..

And slowly, he finds himself to be at ease with you.

Your colours begin to thrive more in the chaos instead of fading. It sort of reflects certain things back at him. Silent reminders of what he has long tried to not see in himself, tried to ignore ever since his wife’s passing.

Of course Jack tries to ignore you. He tries to keep his conversations with you to a minimum. Keep them short. Never answer beyond what is necessary. Keep his answers as brief as possible when it comes to patient care. You don’t need an explanation on why he does things the way he does, you're a goddamn attending too. You would understand why. 

He will not fall down into that hole of trying to hope for the start of something new, he doesn’t deserve it. 

Jack Abbot doesn’t get second or third chances.

But one day, when he was sipping on his tasteless, too bitter for his own good long black, you walked into the break room, took the mug out of his hand, and replaced it with a navy-blue thermos, with a little post it note that says, 

“Try this. It’s better than whatever the hell you’re drinking.” 

You didn't say anything, and just poured his coffee down the sink, left his mug there, and walked out.

He takes a peek inside the thermos. 

It’s fucking cappuccino. 

He scoffs in disbelief.

Yet he takes a sip. Not bad. He thought to himself, and took another. 

Shift after shift, you brought him new coffee flavours for him to test out to find his new favorite. And he drinks them all. Even the ones he hates.

Not too long after, you found a yellow post it note on your locker that says, 

“Flat White’s good.” 

You grinned.

You’ve never made fun of his silence. In fact, you embrace it like an old friend. You don’t ask questions about his prosthetic like the meddlesome interns, there’s a mutual silent understanding between the two of you that you knew he had a rough past. 

In Jack’s eyes, you kept turning up, with your stupidly bright shoes, yellow, orange, neon blue, depending on your mood. Yellow on a good day, red when you feel like you’re about to start a fight with a patient, and to an extent; him, and blue when you’re feeling calm. 

He starts to notice the little things about you too — your nail polish, your perfume scent. All that while it seems that you’re unafraid of him, when most usually do when they hear of the ever dark tales of Jack Abbot and his military ways when he was in the Army or even in the ED. 

He begins to lose track of how long it’s been since black was the only colour that he was familiar with in his lonely world.

And for the first time, Jack wonders what his life would feel like if he let just a little colour in. Not to change who he is. Not to betray the quiet comfort of black. But maybe, just maybe, to make space beside it. For violet. For auburn. For yellow. For you. 

⸻

It happens on a night like any other when it’s past 3AM, the ED is in a low hum of hull, a rare pause between silent and chaos that feels oddly unnatural. A patient in Trauma 6, snoring like a caveman he is. Jack is reviewing a patient’s chart with his eyes burning at the back of his skull, lacking sleep from the afternoon before, when he focused too much on the Steelers rerun. 

You suddenly appeared beside him, holding two mugs. But when he looks up, something in him relaxes visibly, like he was waiting for you. He could smell the flat white emanating from the navy-blue mug in your left hand. The leaf-green mug, that same one from that night smells like hot chocolate. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Are you ten years old?”

You shrug. “Hey, if it works, it works. I’ve got a sweet tooth.” You extend your left hand towards him. 

He accepts the mug without a word, fingers brushing yours briefly, a touch that really means nothing but at the same time feels too much all at once. It overwhelms him. Clouds his senses.

You lean back against the counter beside him. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The hospital hums around you, distant and alive. “Why is it that everything you own is in black?” you ask, voice soft, not prying but just curious.

He thought of just saying something basic like it’s his favourite colour. But he doesn’t. He tells you the truth.

“Black is quiet,” he says. “It doesn’t expect anything. It’s like…a room with the lights off. I know where everything is. Nothing surprises me. I’m used to the dark, even when I was in the army. That kind of silence just sort of becomes a companion to me.”

You hummed. “And me?”

“You’re the damn sunrise.”

Silence. 

Your lips twitch, almost a smile, almost something else there too. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He looks at the mug in his hand, then at you. There’s a tension in him, coiled and reluctant. But something in him shifts. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the months of small kindnesses and squeaky shoes and post-it notes. Maybe it’s just time.

“I don’t know how to be around it,” he says finally. “How to be around you. All that colour. All that warmth. I’ve spent a long time building a life in the dark.”

You meet his eyes, and your voice is quiet, almost unsure. “Do you want it to stay that way?” Your hand crossed in front of you at the nurse’s station.

He doesn’t answer immediately, but his hand finds yours on the counter, almost thoughtlessly, and he holds his eye contact with you. 

“No,” he replies. “Not anymore.”

⸻

A week later, he shows up in navy-blue scrubs. It ain't rainbow that's for sure, but it's small steps. You grin when you see him, and he rolls his eyes like it’s nothing. But his ears flush slightly. He doesn’t tell you that he almost didn’t wear it. He could not bear to wipe the thought of not seeing your smile.

And when you pass him that evening in the hallway, your fingers trail along the edge of the sleeves of his scrubs, a brief touch, you whisper, “Hey cowboy, blue looks good on you.”

And for once, Jack doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t retreat into silence.

He just looks at you and says, “Yeah. I’m starting to believe you a bit.”

To Jack, it feels like the whole palette of only black paints consisting of his life has shifted. And that maybe the quiet, colourless world of his wasn’t meant to stay that way forever.

Not with you in it.

—

--

"You alright?" Ellis asks as you pull your bloody PPE off, tucking it into the in by the door. You shrug, nod, hold your hand out for the spray of purell from the wall-mounted dispenser as you head for central. You pointedly ignore North Two, where the man is being held as the cops talk to him.

"Doing okay, champ?" It's Shen this time, and his use of 'champ' garners him a sidelong glance and a raised brow. He takes your muted wrath in the spirit with which it's meant, holds both hands up in easement before he skirts around you to finish filling out a chart.

You stop at your computer, leaning over it logging and eyeing the results of a blood test on a case earlier in the shift. You feel someone stop beside you, figure that they'll move on their way, that they're waiting for someone to clear before they move again.

I was gonna let him do it

When the presence lingers, you don't have to look up to see who it is. You know that a simple nod will send him on his way for at least a few minutes, but you don't think you can look at him, not right now.

"Something I can do for you, Dr. Abbot?"

Your smart question is met with silence, and you pull in a deep breath through your nose. You brace yourself before you pull yourself up to your full height, meeting his eye.

You know immediately that it's a mistake.

Jack is looking at you the way he looks at a troubling case—discerning, dissecting; trying to pinpoint where the pain is, what fix he can apply, prescribe.

"You're not sending me home." It's meant as a request, but it comes out as a plea. You know that your firmness missed the mark when his head tips to the side, just a little. His eyes dart to North Two, hold there for a moment.

"Tell me what you need."

"To be here," You insist, "To work." To not think about it

A short nod, just enough to let you know that you're good to get back to your job. You bow back over your computer, expect Jack to leave. But—

"If you change your mind—"

"I won't." You're too tired to be embarrassed by the fact that you answered too fast. And as Abbot turns away, you just catch on his sigh, his mutter of, "No, you won't."

--

When his hand lands on your lower back on your way out of the ER, you figure he's just keeping you moving—maybe to sop you from turning around and making this shift a double, or to help you avoid the couple of news vans and reporters that have pulled up.

You let him steer, even as that steady pressure keeps up for block after block. You don't even realize where you are until Abbot stops, fishes into his pocket for a set of keys. You look up at the unfamiliar door, mind racing as Abbot unlocks it. He turns to you, holds it open, waits.

You should tell him off. What the fuck was he thinking, bringing you back to his place like some stray puppy? Never mind the fact that this man is your boss, that this is wholly inappropriate.

You should go back to your apartment, shower, get into bed. Maybe schedule an emergency appointment with your therapist.

But you also know that you probably shouldn't be alone right now. Your apartment will be too quiet; your head will be too loud. That was half the reason you'd insisted on staying at work. You glance down the block, consider, then slide past him and step inside.

--

You take your time looking around—eyeing the books, the mail, the photos, the knick knacks—the little things that make somewhere home. You turn back to Jack just in time to see hm changing his shoes, putting a high-backed house shoe on where his boot usually covers his prosthetic.

Neither of you speak as you put your bag down and he takes your jacket. He disappears down the hall of the apartment, returns with a stack of fabric. You take it, cataloguing a towel, a washcloth, a pair of sweatpants, a shirt.

"First door on the left. Put your clothes in the hamper in there, I'll wash 'em." He nods toward the hall. "Go on."

--

You expect yourself to break down the second the warm water hits your skin. But as you stand in the steam, the toll on your body takes precedent. Your head is pounding; your feet are throbbing; your back and neck ache.

I was gonna let him do it

You draw in a deep breath, bracing your hands on the wall to ground yourself.

I almost let him do it

Your jaw tightens, stomach churning as you think back.

Gun muzzles were always described as cold, but this one was warm—probably from being tucked against the man's body. You can still feel the weight, the press of it, the slight waver and brush as his hand had shook. You can hear the click of the safety.

Your mind had gone quiet in that moment.

You'd just leaned in, and told the man that he'd only be making your shift better.

It had been enough to shock the both of you.

It had caught him off-guard long enough for you to try and disarm him, to call for security as the the two of you had struggled, sending the gun skittering under the bed as the treatment bay filled with security, fellow residents. Ahmad had the guy in a headlock in seconds; Abbot was between you and them before you could blink. When he'd asked you what had happened, all you'd managed was to point toward the bed, to say, "Gun."

The cops had tried to give admitting shit for it, but you'd waved them off, insisted, "He didn't seem—When he came back, he wasn't like that. I was trying to assess him. I must've moved too fast, he freaked. They couldn't have known, they didn't do anything wrong, so don't—don't."

Shen had tried to talk you into going home; Ellis had bombarded you with questions. Abbot told them to back off. He hadn't asked you if you were alright; he hadn't tried to make you go home, either.

"Where are you going next?" He'd asked. You'd just nodded toward the board, answered, "Hyperkalemia, South Three," and gone on your way.

--

You can smell coffee when you step out of the bathroom. You glance back in, making sure you clothes are safely tucked into the hamper before heading back into the living room. Jack passes you on the way, hands you a tv remote, says, "Mugs are on the counter."

"Thanks."

You get yourself a cup of coffee, tuck yourself into the corner of his couch. You consider the remote for a moment before setting it on the coffee table.

I was gonna let him do it...Wasn't I?

Were you? What the hell would that have done to everyone around you? Were you so far gone that you hadn't thought about how it would effect everyone else in the department? What would the patients have done when they'd heard the pop? You know your fellow doctors would've come running—what if he hadn't stopped with you?

Your lower lip wobbles. Tears prickle at your eyes, and the well of panic and fear and resignation that you'd been waiting for spill over. You sit with the mug of coffee in your hands, letting go to swipe at tears and sniffle every few seconds.

You've calmed by the time Jack comes back out. You know that you look hellish; your burning eyes must be red-rimmed, bloodshot. He sits down on the other end of the couch, nods toward the tv.

"Nothin'?"

"Feel free," You croak. Jack huffs, picking up the remote and turning it on. You listen to the tv as he flips through a few channels. You glance between it and him a couple of times.

"You're not gonna try to get me to get some sleep?" You ask.

"Do you want to sleep?"

"God no."

"Okay," Jack gives a small shrug. "I can never turn it off right after a shift."

"...Huh."

"What?" He frowns, glancing toward you.

"Just uh...Implies that you're ever able to turn it off...At all."

A smile unwittingly pulls at your lips as Jack rolls his eyes, turning back to the tv. You lean back against the couch, scrubbing your hand across your eyes. The sounds of a baseball game make you pick your head up, brow furrowing as you squint at the tv.

"There's a game on a eight in the morning?"

"I recorded it."

Your mouth forms a small 'o' as you nod.

"We can watch something else," Jack adds.

"No. No, this is good."

--

You don't focus much on the game. Now and again, the tears flow, and you let them run quietly until they ebb. You dab them with your borrowed shirt sleeve.

Jack manages to wait until the seventh inning stretch before he asks:

"You talking to anyone?"

"I have a therapist."

"You speak to 'em regularly?"

"Mhm."

"They know about this?"

"About what?"

When he doesn't answer, you glance toward him. You expect open reproach, but Jack watches you with patience—and maybe a little pity. You push a sigh through your nose as you turn back to the tv.

"I talk to her about the day to day stuff, you know, not the...Grippy sock stuff."

"So you don't think about this every day."

"No."

Jack hums; you see him nod in your periphery.

"I had a bad day," You hurry to add, "We all have them."

"Not bad enough to tell someone threatening to shoot you that they're about to make your shift better."

Your head snaps to Jack, stunned—you'd omitted that from your report. But he just tips his head, shakes it again.

"I was one exam room over. I put two and two together when you pointed out the gun."

A lump forms in your throat as you burn with shame and embarrassment.

"I didn't—" It bursts out of you as the tears well again. "I wasn't—No one was supposed to know—"

Jack's across the couch in a second, pulling you into his chest as you sob. His hand curls around the back of your neck, thumb sweeping your nape as you shake against him. You feel his breath against your hair; you think you feel the pressure of a kiss, but it's gone as soon as you register it.

"C'mon." It's a soft urging as you slowly calm.

"Where 'm I going?" Your tongue feels heavy; your voice is thick from your crying.

"To get some sleep."

"I'll sleep here."

"You'll get better rest in a bed."

"I'm not taking your bed, Jack."

"You'll be more comfortable."

"I don't care. They need you in working at the Pitt."

Jack's hand slides around your neck to gently grasp your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"We need you, too." His hold on you stays firm as you try to look away, bu he won't let you. He gives a small nod, searching your eyes. "I need you. Okay?"

You muster a small, short nod, sniffling.

"I'm still not taking your bed."

He sighs, but it doesn't stop the smile growing on his lips.

"Stubborn little so-and-so," He mutters before pushing himself off of the couch, holding a hand out to you. "Come on."

You take it, letting him lead you down the apartment hall again. You take a cursory look around his bedroom as you had his living room a few hours ago. You climb ungracefully into the neatly made bed, snuggling under the covers.

Jack takes a moment longer, drawing the blackout curtains closed, leaving only his bedside lamp to light the room. You roll onto your side, tucking your hands under your head, watching the play of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he leans down, removing his prosthetic and massaging the skin there for a moment.

He glances back and gives a small smile when he spots you watching him.

"All set?"

"Not gonna read me a bedtime story?"

He snorts, reaching out and shutting off the lamp before shuffling under the covers himself.

"Keep it up and you're sleeping on the couch."

You smile into the darkness as he settles down beside you. You can feel him watching you—maybe waiting for you to fall apart again, to offer reassurance.

"...Sorry I cried on you," You mumble.

"I prefer it to having a patient pee on me."

"Oh, well in that case—happy to oblige."

Your eyelids flutter as his hand smooths over your cheek. "Get some sleep."

"Mmkay."

You hold your breath as his hand slides down your cheek, over your shoulder, trailing down your arm. As his fingers skim across yours, you impulsively catch hold of his hand. You're certain he'll give your hand a squeeze before pulling away, but Jack goes still, and you fall asleep with your fingers tangled together.

--

"Hungry?"

You nod, shuffling closer to the table where a pizza box is laid out on his small table.

It had been strange to wake up alone in a bed that wasn't yours, and it had taken a few moments to remember where you were, and how you'd gotten here. Your freshly washed clothing had been neatly folded and waiting for you when you woke up, but you'd stayed in your borrowed clothing.

"You up long?" You ask, sitting at his table.

"Mm," He shrugs. "A bit."

You narrow your eyes slightly, fishing your phone out of your pocket to eye the time.

"How long was I asleep?"

"You got a good five hours."

You grunt, taking a slice leaning back in your seat, muttering, "New weekly record."

"What do you usually do when you can't sleep?"

"I don't know. Read?"

"You need some new hobbies."

"11-8, we've got a report of an assailant with a knife–"

You glance over as Jack hurries to stand, watching him go into the living room and switch something off. Your brows raise as he comes back, amused by the way he studiously avoids your eye and settles back in.

"...Was that a police scanner?" You ask knowingly. His answering grunt is enough, and you stifle a laugh. "So let me get this straight: you hang out listening to the police scanner like you're fricking Batman, but I need some new hobbies?"

"Alright."

"Are you actually fighting crime when you're off shift? It would explain your go-bag."

"I like to be prepared."

"Uh-huh." You smile as Jack shakes his head, picking at a piece of pepperoni on his slice. "Thanks for letting me crash."

"Sure. You needed sleep."

"I mean...I mean crash-crash."

"Just glad you came in."

"You didn't think I would?"

"Wasn't sure." Jack takes a bit, leans back in his seat. You don't have to look to know that he's watching you; to be able to feel him winding up. You figure you're going to get a speech, but—

"Tell me next time you feel like that."

You wince, wind up to argue, but Jack holds a hand up to stop the argument.

"I don't need to know what you're thinking word-for-word. But tell me if it's getting...You know."

"Scary?"

"Does it feel scary?"

You consider it, picking at the crust on the slice. "...Last night did."

"A man put a gun to your head. That would scare anybody."

"...Yeah." You draw in a deep breath. "I'll tell you if you tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"When you're thinking about going to the roof." You think for a moment that you've gone too far; Jack's brows pop up, jaw muscle ticking as he clenches it. You wait for him to tell you that you've overstayed your welcome, o give him back his clothes, take your half-eaten slice and get out.

But instead he leans across the table and holds his hand out. Deal.

You take hold of his hand, pump it once, and you both settle back to finish eating.

--

"You coming in tonight?"

You give him a knowing glance as you pull your jacket on, and he smiles, nodding.

"I figured you would," He adds, "Never hurts to ask."

"I guess."

"You could take the day. Everyone would understand."

"I need to get back in there."

"Exposure therapy."

"Something like that."

You pick your bag up, slinging it over your shoulder. "I know I said it before, but thank you. Seriously. I don't, uh..." You trail off, looking around his entry way. "I don't know what the last few hours would've looked like if I'd gone home."

Jack closes the gap between you, tipping his head to catch your eye, and smiling when you do.

"Anytime."

And from anyone else, you'd think they were just trying to console you, but in that moment, you know that he means it. You nod, reaching out and giving his arm a gentle squeeze and a pat before turning away.

"See you in a couple'a hours."

sequel: you shouldn't be (up here alone)

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

 ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; 

Jack hadn’t intended to charm you, that was clear. He had about as much game as an empty and abandoned Chuck-E-Cheese. Still, he was earnest, dry-humored, and ferocious when it came to patients. There was never a battle he was unwilling to wage or a line he couldn’t creatively fudge. It had been Jack, after all, who had shown you how to finagle ultrasounds in order to ensure the measurements were within the cutoff, standing just close enough at the machine that his shoulder brushed yours while he murmured, “Angle it like this,” as if it were a secret—in a way, it kind of was.

But a year in, the man was clearly hung up over his ex-wife, and no matter how much you’d worked on your self-esteem and confidence, you couldn’t compete with a ghost. Still, you found yourself enjoying the night shift because you were around Jack. He wasn’t laugh-out-loud fun like some of your friends, but he always had a sharp comment or knowing look that seemed to buoy you through lulls or rough moments. He lingered when you talked, leaned against counters instead of walking away, and somehow always ended up beside you during the slow stretches, even when there was no obvious reason for it.

“Tell me something,” he said, sliding his phone over to you across the cluttered workstation. The plastic surface was covered in old tape residue and a half-wiped coffee ring. “You’re young.”

You didn’t look at him, fingers still moving as you scrolled through a chart. “Tell that to the bartender who didn’t card me. I am not forty-five and I sure as hell don’t look it.”

“Hospital lighting is unflattering for everyone. I’m afraid I can’t comment,” he said balefully, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.

“Fuck off, Abbot. What can I and my Gen Alpha niece translate for you today?”

“The fuck is 6-7? My nephew texted it to me and I cannot for the life of me figure it out.”

“Not a clue. My niece is a little too old for that.”

“Damn. You’re the only person I’m willing to ask.”

“You could just Google it,” you suggested. He gave you a flat look over the tops of his glasses, unmoving.

“Remember what happened last time I Googled something you suggested?”

You snorted. “It is not my fault you kept asking me about omegaverse.”

“The patient kept saying I had ‘alpha’ energy. Ellis said it was something about omegaverse, not that I was going to ask her to clarify. Also, if anything, I’m an omega. I’m like catnip to strong and tough people.”

“This is an insane conversation. And I’m pretty certain we determined the patient meant it in an incel way, not a horny wolf-adjacent way,” you replied, trying to keep your eyes on your chart. The insurance company was not going to like this test. You mentally cycled through the billing department’s preferred phrasing, trying to find language that might convince the evil overlords of healthcare not to immediately deny everything.

“I think you’ll recall you brought it up.”

“It is not my fault you caught me after watching a two-hour YouTube video about how an omegaverse porn copyright case made it in front of a federal judge.”

“Your viewing habits are baffling.”

“Didn’t have a lot of TV time growing up. Gotta watch my weird shit now.”

“I thought everyone in your generation was raised on iPads,” he shot back.

“How old do you think I am?” You finally looked up. 

He gave you a shit-eating grin, one corner of his mouth pulling higher than the other.

“I dunno. Twelve?”

“Damn. Must be the next Doogie Howser then,” you replied, backspacing your notes.

“Never mind. With that reference, you gotta be seventy-five,” he laughed, the sound surprising you with how nice it floated through your ears. There was always a little bit of pride when you got the normally serious man to laugh.

“You got that reference too, babe,” you laughed back.

It was a habit—calling people babe. It started with your sister, then your friends, and now your coworkers. Most of them found it amusing. Cassie loved it. Jesse got a cute little blush whenever it slipped out. Jack hadn’t been subjected to your HR-violation habit until now.

You hadn’t even realized you’d done it until the silence lasted far longer than you expected. The monitors beeped steadily behind you. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed too loudly.

“You good, Abbot?” you asked.

He was looking at you inscrutably, brows drawn together, mouth pressed into a thin line like he was thinking something through very carefully.

“You called me babe,” he said. There was something like surprise under the stoicism, quickly masked.

“Sorry. It’s a habit I adopted from my sister. It’s spiraled, clearly,” you replied, keeping your tone light even as your stomach tightened.

“Ah,” he said slowly. “So this isn’t indicative of some yearning crush on me?” 

There was a mischievous tilt to his mouth now.

“You caught me,” you laughed. “I’ve been in love with you for years. I’m ready to propose any day now.”

That earned you a hearty chuckle, and it would be a lie to say you weren’t thrilled to be the one who got it. He laughed with his whole chest, head tipping back slightly, and when he looked at you again, his eyes lingered just a beat longer than necessary. You didn’t know if you’d say you were in love with Jack Abbot, but sometimes crush felt like too small a word for whatever this was.

“Incoming blunt force trauma,” Lena sighed from behind you. “Someone at the Steelers game took a fall from a great height, apparently. Frankly, I’m surprised they waited until nine p.m. to make bad decisions.”

You snorted and gestured at Jack. “Idiot sports fan is all you, babe.”

“How kind,” he snarked, already pivoting on his heel. He started barking orders to the night-shift residents and nurses, his voice snapping into that commanding cadence that made people move faster.

“Hey, another incoming,” Lena added, pointing at you. “Apparently our fall had a friend. Sounds like they were trying to scale something in the stadium.”

“Alas,” you sighed, pushing away from the workstation, “I suppose I’ll subject myself to fans of a bad football team.”

“You support the Dallas Cowboys,” she said skeptically.

“And like any good Cowboys fan, I’ll talk shit and complain but never root for anyone else. We suck, but it’s poor management—at least I think that’s the excuse we’re working with now,” you laughed. “Can you try and come up with language that would convince an insurance company to pay for South 10’s arthrocentesis?”

“Sure,” Lena didn’t sound confident.

You walked toward the ambulance bay as the truck pulled in, the cold night air briefly cutting through the stale warmth of the ER. As soon as you saw the patient, your stomach dropped.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” you hissed. “Ellis, take point. I have to switch out with Abbot.”

“You good?” she asked.

“I know him,” you grumbled.

You pushed into Trauma One and found Jack directing Mel’s line placement and triage. First glance: internal bleeding, broken femur. Relief washed through you when you didn’t recognize the man. He was barrel chested, a bushy beard and slightly-too long hair. He was in ratty jeans, cowboy boots, and a navy blue sweatshirt that had been cut off. 

“Abbot,” you sighed. There must have been something in your voice because his eyes snapped to you immediately. “We need to switch patients.”

Mel glanced up but didn’t comment. Jack stepped closer, concern flickering across his face.

“I’ll explain later. Can’t treat people you know,” you sighed.

“Are you good?”

“Let’s just say I’m more inclined to let him die than do anything risky to save him,” you muttered.

He studied you for a beat, then nodded without hesitation.

With ease, you slid into his spot. For the next thirty minutes, as Mel evaluated the patient, you forgot entirely about the too-familiar man in Trauma Two. It took four nurses, yourself, and the traction kit to set his femur fracture. Thankfully, it was closed—easier recovery, no surgery.

Throughout the triage, the full story of the injury came out. Apparently the two geniuses in your ED were in town for the Cowboys/Steelers game. In all their wisdom, the gentlemen with multiple broken ribs, internal bleeding, and at least one femur fracture thought scaling the stadium to be the best evidence of their Cowboys pride.

“It’s just been so long since we hit the playoffs,” the man complained. 

You briefly met eye contact with Princess and Donnie across the body and said, 

“Cowboys went to the playoffs in 2024, man.”

“You’re shitting me.”

If anything, you wanted to double check Mel’s concussion markers—surely he wasn’t surprised by that. 

“This is not a commentary on your work Mel,” you said, swiping your pen light over his eyes again. 

“Our patient here just said something real dumb, and I think doc is hoping there’s a medical explanation for it,” Donnie snickered. 

“What was it?”

“Cowboys went to the playoffs, like, two seasons ago,” Princess said. 

“Which is crazy, because we suck most of the time,” you added. 

“Holy shit, you a cowboys fan too?”

“Not the time, sir,” you said, feeling for a contusion on his skull. 

“EMTs said that he was in a football helmet when he fell,” Donnie said. 

“Well we weren’t going to climb the concrete pillar thing without protecting our heads. My girl thinks I’m handsome—can’t change that,” he replied gleefully. 

You weren’t surprised this man was friends with Bradley. They both seemed to have an overly simplistic and optimistic view of the world. The fact that you moved halfway across the country and still managed to find people from, presumably, your hometown was absolutely astounding. 

A terrible realization about what a small world it was. 

“You got this Mel?” You asked. 

“Oh yeah, thanks,” she said cheerfully. 

To Donnie and Princess you gestured to watch the patient by point at your eyes then the patient. If he was friends with Bradley, he wouldn’t hesitate to cop a feel and that was the last thing you wanted. 

When you finally stepped out, Jack was leaving Trauma Two.

“The patient is okay,” he said. “Most of his ribs are broken and he probably bruised his pancreas, but he’s okay.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you pulled Jack into an alcove of the Pitt. A little storage nook that held the sandwich cart when not in use. 

“I’m going to tell you something and if I find out that you said this to another soul, I will put capsaicin in your googles,” you said quietly. 

“That’s evil,” he said proudly. 

“The patient in trauma 2. He’s my ex-boyfriend,” you grumbled. 

“No fucking way,” Jack said way too loudly. You poked him in his unfairly hard chest. 

“Capsaicin, glasses,” you repeated. 

“You can’t tell me you dated Dumber from Dumb and Dumber and not expect me to be shocked.”

“Look, my early twenties were a rough time. I lived in a trailer with my mom and worked at the local dive bar. I didn’t exactly think my life was going to leave bumfuck nowhere.”

“You dated him after you went to college?” Jack asked, shocked. 

“No, I dated him in my early twenties. I didn’t go to college until I was twenty-five,” you said. 

“I didn’t know that,” Jack replied. 

“Look, I grew up poor as shit and somehow, by the skin of my teeth, made it out. Bought my mom a house, put my sister through school, too. And that motherfucker, I let him—very, very briefly—break my heart. But trust me when I say, I dodged a bullet.”

“You dodged a mullet,” Jack whispered, laughing with glee. “That man has an honest to god mullet, with a rat tail. I cannot believe that man ever convinced you he was good enough for you.”

“Surprisingly wholesome response,” you huffed. “Look, I’m going to steer clear of his room. The last thing I want is for him to recognize me and then his wife to find out.”

“He’s married?” Jack asked.

“Somehow,” you replied. “Last I heard they were in the same trailer park, except this time with three kids they can’t afford.”

“And you had sex with that man?” Jack asked suddenly. 

“I’m not answering that,” you said, walking out of the alcove. 

“Wait, sorry,” Jack laughed following you. “I’m just struggling to recognize the serious, put together attending in front of me with someone who would date that.”

“Weren’t you young and dumb, Abbot?”

“Not that dumb,” he grinned. “Married my wife.”

“You did join the army, though. And that doesn’t make up for how cute your high school sweetheart story is,” you replied, knocking him with your elbow. “Not all of us grew up somewhere with options—romantic or otherwise.”

“Do you have pictures?” 

“Pictures of what?” Ellis asked. Looking at you, she added, “I cannot believe you abandoned me to that man. I think my IQ dropped. I think I forgot my second year of residency.”

You snorted. “Bradley is a fucking idiot.”

“Bradley?” She asked, with raised eyebrows. “Didn’t know you were on a first name basis with him.”

“We grew up in the same town. If anyone mentions my name to him while he’s here, I’ll make sure the next bowel impaction is theirs.”

“Shit doesn’t bother me,” laughed Ellis. 

“Then I’ll give you the next cold,” you said. “Think about all the mucus and saliva.”

Ellis heaved a full body shudder, “Fine. Fine.”

Assuaged that no one would be blabbing about your connection to Bradley, especially to Bradley, you went back to your charting. 

“Lena, any thoughts on the language?”

“Did you try, ‘I’m the doctor not you, I wouldn’t order anything unnecessary’?” 

“I think they would charge double for that,” you sighed. 

“Hmm, your problem then. Chat with billings.”

You groaned. Tonight was going to suck. 

-- -- --

For the bulk of the night, you had been kept busy with a massive flu outbreak and three MVAs. At least one of the MVAs was a drunk driver, although the kicker was both drivers were drunk. A certain poetic justice existed in that situation. The ED felt permanently overfull, monitors chiming in uneven rhythms, the smell of antiseptic clinging to you no matter how many times you washed your hands. Your feet ached, and you knew you would feel it tomorrow, too 

You had been so focused on the patients and subsequent charting, you hadn’t thought about Bradley and his dumbass friend for at least an hour. You were halfway through reconciling medication orders when Jack appeared at your side, close enough that you felt the warmth of him before you registered his presence.

“Cat’s out of the bag,” Jack told you, ushering you into the break room.

He didn’t touch you exactly, but his hand hovered at your elbow, steering rather than pushing, and he waited until you were fully inside before closing the door behind you. The break room was dimmer than the ED, a blessed quiet punctuated only by the hum of an ancient refrigerator.

“What?” you asked.

“Bradley mentioned to Donnie he was a Cowboys fan and Donnie let your name slip–you’re the only Cowboys fan he knows,” Jack said in a hushed tone.

He kept his voice low and was closer to you than normal. It almost felt like he was preparing for you to freak out. You weren’t exactly going to freak out, but something close to a light sense of dread came over you. 

“No,” you whined, collapsing on one of the seats.

The chair creaked under you. Jack remained standing for a beat, watching you with a pinched expression before finally sitting down beside you, knees angled toward yours.

“You’re not going to have a good night,” Jack said hesitantly.

“God what is he saying?” you whined, hiding your face in your hands.

Jack leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs. When you didn’t immediately look up, he stayed there, patient.

“He told everyone the story of how you met,” Jack said. “It was romantic at first.”

“Until he got to the fact he’d stolen the truck and flowers? Yeah, I’m sure.”

Jack huffed quietly through his nose, the closest he came to laughing most of the time.

“He’s charming, I’ll give him that,” he grumbled quietly. His jaw tightened as he said it, like the admission annoyed him.

“He was a bad decision,” you hissed. “We dated for less than a year.”

“And yet somehow he broke up with you?” Jack inquired, sitting next to you.

The question came out sharper than curiosity alone would explain. He glanced at you sidelong, watching your reaction more than waiting for an answer.

How did you explain to the man who found the love of his life in algebra that at some point, especially in a small town, you didn’t think you’d find anyone better? Your town had less than 50,000 people in it and there was a period of time where Bradley was charming and romantic, if not very bright.

“There was a period of my life where I thought that the only thing in my future was kids I didn’t want and a double wide, if I was lucky,” you said carefully. “Our friends were friends and incredibly enough, he was once very sweet.”

Jack didn’t interrupt. He didn’t even nod. He just listened, eyes fixed on you in a way that made it hard to look towards him.

“And then?”

“And then he found weed and beer and dropped me on my ass for his dealer. I cried for a day before I realized how pathetic I felt. I enrolled in community college the next day and a year later I transferred to the local state university and eventually ended up in medical school.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose slightly, not in surprise so much as in something that looked suspiciously like admiration.

“Eventually? Sounds like a lot of hard work went into it,” he commented.

“It’s not polite to brag,” you said.

You meant it lightly, but his gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened, like he was cataloguing something he just learned about you. Your therapist did that sometimes; it was unnerving.

“Also his wife is asking for you,” Jack said.

“Oh, I’m not going in there,” you scoffed.

“Why not?”

“She’s convinced I want him back—which, gross. Still, I’m kind of afraid she’ll kick my ass,” you said. “Hannah was the scariest girl in my high school class. The fuck are they doing in Pittsburgh anyways? I don’t think he’s left the state his entire life.”

“They always wanted to see the Cowboys play the Steelers,” Jack shrugged. “Is there a rivalry I don’t know about?”

He shrugged, but his hand curled briefly into a fist against his knee. He seemed to dislike Bradley more than you did, which is odd because he was your ex-boyfriend. Jack Abbot was a good colleague, maybe even a friend, but it was a little odd that he cared this much about such an unfortunate chapter in your past. 

“No,” you scoffed. “One of the first home games Bradley went to with his dad was against the Steelers. Apparently they destroyed the Cowboys and he’s never forgiven them. I guess this is a life goal or something. Or maybe he’s an idiot, both are good options.”

Jack snorted and stood.

He didn’t immediately step away. Instead, he lingered, then squeezed your shoulder, his grip firm and grounding, before he spoke.

“You’ve done really well for yourself. You should be proud.”

There was no humor in it, just earnestly and the intensity of a man who never spoke in half measures. It made your skin tingle where he touched you. He really was not making this crush thing easier—he didn’t even know what he was doing.

“Hard to feel that way when the worst ex-boyfriend is in 20,” you grumbled. “Why couldn’t yall have met my hot bitchy ex-girlfriend or the boxer I dated?”

Jack froze for half a second before turning back toward you.

“You dated a boxer?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, for a few months earlier this year. I broke up with him because he disagreed with me when I told him his nose was broken,” you said.

You expected a laugh, but it never came. Instead Jack said in an odd voice, “Didn’t know you were dating.”

His posture shifted subtly, shoulders squaring. He seemed shocked and a little unnerved. 

You shrugged. “Off and on. Not a fan of the apps, so I have to meet people the old fashion way and since I work sixty hour weeks—it’s rare.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Just didn’t realize you were dating,” he echoed. He stared at the floor, jaw working, like he was biting back a follow-up question.

“I know, you said that.”

“I have to go check on a patient.”

He moved quickly then—too quickly—already halfway to the door by the time he finished speaking.

An untrained observer might think Jack’s behavior was perfectly normal, but you couldn’t help but watch his sudden retreat puzzled. Normally, your stoic colleague was measured and unswayed by the currents of the ED. No sudden beep or alert made him move any speed other than measured and direct.

Before you could get up yourself, Ellis walked in and her eyes lit up when she spotted you. 

“You dated that freak?”

“Fuck off,” you groaned, banging your head on the table. 

“Can’t believe that’s the competition," Ellis laughed. 

“Are you trying to tell me something, Ellis?” You asked. 

She snorted. “No, my girlfriend doesn’t share. I am not in the competition.”

“Okay? So who is?”

“I’ve said too much,” she grinned.

“Oh you did that on purpose,” you grumbled. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Gossip is bad, boss.”

“Fuck off, Ellis.”

-- -- --

You managed to survive the shift without laying eyes on Bradley or his, apparently fuming, wife Hannah. Your escape was surreptitious and via the back entrance loading docks, slipping out with your badge already tucked away and car keys in hand. The loading dock was dim and echoing, concrete stained with old oil spills, the November air sharp enough to sting your lungs after hours inside. You rolled your shoulders, adjusting the strap of your bag, already mentally halfway home.

It was just your luck that Jack was waiting out back for you.

“Jesus Christ,” you nearly shrieked when he appeared from around the corner. “Make a fucking noise, oh my god.”

His hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, posture deceptively casual. He looked like he’d been there for a while, weight shifting from foot to foot, gaze flicking toward the doors every few seconds.

“I’ve been having trouble with something,” he said, ignoring your outburst, like he hadn’t just sent your heart rate tachycardic.

He took a step into your space. Despite your shock and annoyance at said shock, he didn’t step back, which you noticed immediately.

“Being fuck normal?” you asked.

“Never been that.”

“Clearly,” you grumbled. “What do you need Abbot? I’m going home and blocking everyone from my hometown on Facebook. With my luck there’s already been a post about this on the town Facebook page, probably from my mother.”

You started down the dock, boots scuffing against concrete, already pulling your phone out of your pocket.

“Do you still think that’s the kind of man you deserve?” Jack asked.

You stopped walking. He had caught up to you, again.

“What?” You were deeply confused now. “Are you talking about Bradley? That was like, fifteen years ago.”

“I just can’t get over how younger you thought that motherfucker should have been allowed to see you naked,” he said harshly.

The words landed boldly in the open air. It was not exactly the most appropriate comment for a coworker to make, but Jack seemed to be on a roll. His jaw was tight, his hands flexing once at his sides. With furrowed eyebrows, he was only a few centimeters from. You couldn’t help but feel a little shocked by the turn of events. Bradley seemed to have triggered Jack more than he had you. You were going to say something, but he kept talking. 

“And now I’m worried you still date people like that.”

“I do not,” you scoffed. “I’m going home, Jack. I’m tired.”

You shrugged your bag up higher on your shoulder and jogged down the dock steps. Right before you rounded the corner toward the parking garage, Jack stuck his arm out to block you. His forearm braced against the concrete wall beside your head, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. The garage lights cast harsh shadows across his face.

“You said the last guy you dated tried to argue with you about what a broken nose was,” Jack continued like you hadn’t walked a solid fifty feet and two minutes from the last thing he said.

“Yes?” You sighed.

“That’s loser behavior.”

“Thank you for that riveting critique of my dating life. I certainly don’t get enough comments from my mom or sister.”

“I’m serious. Why do you think you deserve losers?”

“Because losers are the only ones who tell they’re interested, I guess. You do realize I pay a therapist for this kind of conversation. Don’t hurt Cassie’s livelihood like this.”

You tried to laugh it off, but Jack didn’t. He didn’t move away either. His focus on you was almost unnerving now. It was a lame joke, an attempt to ease his intense focus on you so you could go home and collapse into your bed. In a back corner of your brain, you hated to hear his evaluations of your dating life.

“There are better options,” he continued.

“Like who? Robby?” You scoffed.

“Absolutely not,” Jack replied harshly.

The word came out fast, almost reflexive. He stepped closer to you, nearly backing you against the wall, close enough now that you could smell him.

“I’m telling him you said that,” you replied weakly.

“This whole time, I thought you were dating CEOs and hedge fund managers—”

“Why would you think so low of me?” You asked, almost offended.

“I thought you were dating impressive people. But you’re dating Joe Shmoe who’s an amateur boxer and thinks he knows more about medicine than you. I didn’t think…”

You sighed again. “Did you just corner me out here to insult my taste in men?”

“No.”

He didn’t continue.The silence stretched. A car passed by the loading dock, headlights briefly washing over both of you.

“Spell it out Jack. I’m exhausted. I want to go home.”

“I didn’t think I had a chance,” he said. “You are so impressive. You worked your ass off, managed top of your class in med school, was a resident at the Cleveland Clinic, fellowship too and then came out here and you’re one of the best teachers we’ve had.”

His voice softened with every word. He was somehow closer still. His eyes bored into you and his hand hovered near your hip, but didn’t quite make contact. You could hear the soft huffs of his breath as he leaned near you. 

“That’s kind of you to say,” you said, you didn’t like how shaky your voice sounded. Your heart was pounding hard enough that you could feel it in your throat.

“And I watched how funny and affable you were and thought there was no way this incredible woman wants anything to do with me.”

“What are you saying?” You were terrified of his answer.

“I’m saying that I can’t stop thinking about you, and that I want to take you on a well planned, non-accessory burglary date.”

“Fucking with me like this is cruel,” you whispered.

“Not fucking with you,” Jack said. “Fell ass flat for you the moment you got in my face about my shit charting.”

“It’s important to beat insurance companies at their own game,” you said quietly.

“So you say,” he whispered.

His hand lifted slightly, hovering near your wrist, now.

“You’re so amazing. And I just want you to know that. I want to sweep you off your feet like you deserve.”

Your brain raced as it tried to make sense of everything that was happening, the cold air, the concrete wall at your back, the man in front of you looking more nervous than you’d ever seen him.

“You want to date? Me?”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t a joke?”

“Do you think I would joke about this?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s your answer.”

You blinked and eventually said, “I thought you were still in love with your wife.”

“I’ll always love Sarah. But she never believed in soulmates or anything like that. Love is not finite.”

“I can’t compete with her,” you said.

“Not a competition,” he replied. “Not even a game. It’s just life…let someone romance you, okay?”

“And you’d be doing the romancing?”

The disbelieving tone was clearly evident.

“I don’t see anyone else out here on the loading dock,” he commented idly.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I can’t believe you still haven’t given me an answer. You’re leaving me out to dry here,” he said. For the first time, his confidence cracked just enough to show nerves.

“I’ve never lied to you about my feelings, Jack,” you said.

“What do you—oh my god, are you kidding me?” He sounded annoyed. “You were clearly being sarcastic.”

“I always sound like that. Not my fault you chose to see that way. Mamma taught me not to lie.”

“So you’re in love with me?”

“Love is a strong word. You’re still annoying,” you said.

“Yeah, well, so are you,” he shot back. “Please tell me I can kiss you.”

“Yeah, you can kiss me,” you giggled. You hadn’t giggled since high school.

Jack didn’t rush it. He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek softly. It felt reverent, almost. When his lips touched yours, they were cold and chapped with the chilly Pittsburgh air. It was tentative, careful and restrained. When you kissed him back, his breath hitched audibly, his other hand settling at your waist, the warmth bleeding through your coat and scrubs.

He pulled away, looking almost as shocked as you felt. As much as you didn’t expect this happening, you doubted he had either. You were too befuddled by the turn of events to do anything more than lean in again, reveling in the feeling and satisfaction of knowing that the man who had captured your attention so intensely, somehow felt the same way. 

The second kiss was deeper, less careful, all the held-back want finally slipping through long fought for control. He lingered there, forehead resting against yours when he finally pulled away, breathing a little heavier than before.

“You’re off tonight, right?” He asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m picking you up at 7pm and I’m going to take you on a real date. I’m going to wine and dine you and then I’m going to walk you to your front door and kiss you before going home,” he whispered. “And I’m going to show you exactly how not to fumble someone as phenomenal as you are. Sound good?”

What else could you say, other than, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

-- -- --

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You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

According to Parker, he “fumbled” you. Even if they were using the football terminology instead of the colloquial meaning, that’s about how it felt. One moment he had you and the next moment he didn’t. If it wasn’t so devastating, he might have felt embarrassed at how sudden it was and how it had been exclusively his fault. You had taken him by surprise; without much warning, you had asked him out for coffee polite and giving him a kind and clear option to refuse you.

“Seriously, if you’re not into it, my feelings will not be hurt,” you had told him.

“Really?”

“I mean rejection is unpleasant, but it’s just a part of life,” you shrugged. “I’ll let you think about it. Find me tomorrow.”

And he had thought about it. Stewed over it, might have been a better descriptor. He’d called his therapist, as he often did with big decisions. William was all for it. He thought it would be good for Jack to go and at least see how it went. There was no obligation to fall in love or become the next great love story.

Except, that’s kind of how it went.

The date was simple, a coffee/book shop at a respectful halfway point between your neighborhoods. It was an up and coming neighborhood with shops and eateries. Small cafes and fusion restaurants dotted the pedestrian focused streets. There were colorful signs, public art, and small green spaces dotted along.

When planning the date–something you insisted on doing since you asked–you made sure the area was accessible for him with his leg. On bad days, the area would have been outside of his normal limitations. But on good days, and Jack had conserved energy and movement all week to make sure this was a good day, a few blocks were nothing compared to a 12 hour shift.

Jack had found street parking a few blocks away. You were seated outside, in a casual outfit, more casual than your normal hospital scrubs. At the hospital, your hair was normally pulled back and away from your face—very much not the center of attention. Now, it framed your face and Jack couldn’t help but want to memorize the way you looked.

It’s not like he hadn’t noticed you before you asked him out, but he hadn’t given you much thought. He had thought you were pretty in the way you do with coworkers you only see sporadically. More often than not he thought of you as competent and reliable, arguably more important qualities.

But now, he was struck a little dumb standing at the threshold of the coffee shop.

You were frowning at the menu in your hands and the furrow of your brow was enticing. Christ, he was sounding pathetic.

The coffee date lasted over 24 hours.

Obviously, it had started with coffee. The awkward small talk had nearly sank him, but you had salvage the conversation by asking a question so far out of left field it shook him out of his rut.

“What’s a conspiracy do you kind of believe?” you had asked suddenly. Previously, you both had been having a very painful conversation about college.

“What?”

“Like, I think that Queen Elizabeth had something to do with Lady Diana’s death. What’s yours?”

“Do you want the bummer one or the funny one?”

“Both please,” you said. Instead of lounging back against your chair, you were suddenly leaning forward. You were interested in what he had to say.

“I do think the US government knew there weren’t WMDs in Afghanistan, they just wanted to send us to war with a better justification,” Jack said. “Well, as justified as war could ever fucking be.”

“And your funny one?”

“I don’t think we went to the moon in ‘69, but I think we went shortly after,” he told you.

Your laughter made him want to stay there in the moment for eternity. Jack didn’t believe in soulmates, but he believed in charming the woman in front of him for however long she would deign to focus her attention on him. Your attention was intoxicating. He felt like a five year old desperate to show off for his parents; he was constantly resisting the urge to metaphorically go, “Look at me! Look at me!”

After Jack found his rhythm, it wasn’t hard to find things in common with you. You were bright and funny. Instead of listening to his police scanner, he had a list of podcasts he was going to give a try in hope of discussing them with you. He enjoyed hearing about your friends and family, just as much as he enjoyed talking about his own friends and family.

It seemed to shock both of you when the coffee shop closed, but you knew a restaurant open late. From there you talked about hospital gossip, things you did in your free time, and the ongoing drama between Jack’s neighbors across the street.

And when the meal came to a close, Jack was the one who said, “Forgive me if this is forward, but I don’t know how much I want this to end.”

“I don’t sleep with anyone on the first date.” You had sounded almost apologetic.

“I don’t even have condoms at my place, so that’s not where my head was at. Maybe I could make us some hot chocolate and we could keep talking? I understand if you want to get home, though, no hard feelings.”

You bit your lip and Jack was desperate for you to say yes. And you did.

That night, you fell asleep talking about the things in your career you still wanted to accomplish, the places you both still wanted to travel. Jack even found himself slowly opening up about his leg—though the war and his wife stayed far off limits. He slept slumped over on the couch; you had fallen asleep on his lap and he sure as hell wasn’t going to move.

Jack could fill a thesaurus with the words that described you.

Jack could fill a thesaurus with words that described the way he hurt you.

It felt like the honeymoon phase lasted forever. There were saccharine glances across the ER when you found yourself down in The Pitt, enough that his colleagues gave him plenty of shit for his love-sick doe-eyes. Even Robby commented that he seemed to be perkier.

But what comes up must come down.

It started with the pharmacy fucking up his sertraline perscription. It would be a few days before the half life of the drug worked its way out of his system, so he had time to work it out. Nevertheless, the world seemed to conspire against him. A flu outbreak decimated the hospital; he worked two doubles in two weeks; his residual limb was bruised due to ill fitting suction on his prosthetic. Needless to say, it had been a stressful couple of weeks.

When he finally came out on the other end…he just felt…fine. Normally, after weeks that overwhelmed and beat him down, he felt exhausted and relieved. This time, he felt ambivalent about the whole thing. He was exhausted, definitely, but none of the other feelings he was expecting followed.

When you had asked if he wanted to come over, he had declined.

“I think I need to sleep and rest my leg,” he told you.

He was in his wheelchair, still. It meant he was only supervising most emergent traumas, stepping in only when absolutely necessary and physically possible. Most of his shifts had been on smaller issues like pneumonias, broken bones, and a surprising number of appendicitis surgeries.

“Okay,” you said, simply. He searched your face for any hidden feelings about the change of plans and there were none. You were as willing to meet him where he was at as always. “Anything I can do to make it easier?”

“I’ll take a kiss?” he asked hopefully.

Your smile lit up your face and he was shamelessly addicted to it. Your whole body changed demeanor when you smiled and he loved to be the reason. Squatting next to his wheel, you pressed a firm kiss on lips—chaste, but full of care.

“Call me if you want company. Even if it’s just to lay in bed next to you and do our own things,” you told him as you left the Pitt.

The responsible part of him knew that he should have taken you up on the offer. There was a silent alarm bell ringing in his head that he just hadn’t noticed yet. Sure, something felt amiss, but he thought he had finally caught the flu that had been going around.

He spent the next few weeks in a bit of daze, convinced he was sick but not quite able to pin down symptoms. Most of your dates had gone from dinners out to laying on separate ends of the couch until you went home to your own bed. He felt like a boring boyfriend.

Then there was the weekend you were working and he was off. Almost the entire time was spent in his bed. At one point he turned on the TV but nothing sounded good. He tried old classics, new blockbusters and yet nothing hit the spot. He was so tired that when he eventually landed on Friends, he let it play. He kind of hated the show, but the energy to pick up the remote and continue to search for something to fill the silence felt insurmountable.

Everything was feeling heavier. Everything was taking more effort. Food tasted like nothing—though he was rarely hungry enough to eat real meal. He showered exclusively after shifts only. Now the only person he really saw outside of work was you—even that was sporadic and low effort. He hadn’t kissed you in at least a week.

He just couldn’t shake the funk. And then his half shift turned into a double. The thoughts that had percolating in the background no longer had a filter to keep them from his cognizant thinking. By the time he got home, he had realized a few things that felt so insurmountable in their truths:

First: you were full of life and brought so much joy to everyone around you.

Second: he was widower, missing his leg, and a functioning brain.

Third: there was no way in hell he was good enough for you.

These thoughts weren’t new, in fact, they were the first things he voiced to his therapist after his first date with you. Jack felt confident with his scrubs on standing in The Pitt. He knew the ebbs and flows of the place. He knew his hands would be steady no matter what maelstrom blew his way.

Yet, when he thought about you and his ability to care and support you, his fingers that seemed to respond to the whim of a thought were sluggish. He felt clumsy and inept. It seemed impossible to imagine how he, a man who frequently stood on the edge of a building trying to feel something, could offer you anything.

Despite the rattle of these thoughts in his brain over the last few months, they no longer felt like hypotheticals. He was an anchor and you were a boat meant to be free on the wide ocean. He was holding you back in harbor.

And so he avoided you. He didn’t want to break up with you; he was selfish. But he knew it was the right thing to do.

It took nearly a week of half-assed text messages and brushed off hospital encounters when you finally cornered him on the hospital roof.

“I’m not going to jump,” he said.

“I know,” you replied. Your voice was quiet and subdued. He had done that to you. He had pulled you down into his turmoil and dimmed the glow you naturally emitted.

“But they still send someone up here to talk me down,” he sighed.

“Well, the optics aren’t great. And Robby’s not on shift today.”

“So it fell to you to clean up my fucked up head.”

You were silent, but he heard your footsteps growing closer until you stood behind him. He didn’t turn around, but his fingers—his oh, so clumsy fingers—itched to hold you and feel your skin. You took deep breath and then asked,

“Are you going to tell me what’s been up lately?”

“Do I have to?”

There was a long pause and then a bewildered snort.

“I ran through this conversation in my head a few dozen times and that was never anything I scripted a response to, I have to be honest.”

There was a sardonic humor in your voice. It felt colder than what he wanted to feel.

“Sorry.”

“I don’t know what you’re apologizing for. I think you’re trying to have a conversation I haven’t caught up to yet.”

Jack stared at the rising sun. The warm orange glow bled slowly across the tops of the city. It washed away the gloom of the night. Jack liked the gloom. He liked the comfort and familiarity of the darkness. It was easier to breathe when only the light of moon was around to expose him.

And yet there was still something hopeful about the dawn. There would always be a new day. People below still woke up, got on the bus or the train or in their cars, went to their jobs, loved their friends and family, and went home. He, meanwhile, lived in this sterile building waiting for their lives to fall apart—ready to fix them. And he couldn’t even fix himself.

“I’m so tired,” he eventually said.

He was sure you heard more than just his words. He knew you heard the weariness, the frustration, and probably even the heartbreak.

“Why don’t you come over? I’ll make us breakfast and we can talk or just sit in silence,” you suggested. He was about to give you a rote decline until you added in the smallest voice he’d ever heard from you, “I need you to give me something here.”

Clearing his throat, he tilted his face up towards the warmth of the sun.

“Yeah, I’ll come over,” he told you.

“Okay. Don’t stay up here too long. I think they’ll send security after you before long.”

You walked off the roof. Instead of cajoling him down or bullying him to leave, you trusted him to get down on his own. Sighing, he swung under the safety rail and back onto the roof again. His leg fucking hurt. His heart fucking hurt and he was about to hurt it worse.

-- -- --

When Jack broke up with you, your reaction was not what he expected.

“I mean, okay. But I guess I just don’t get it,” you said. He expected heartbreak and tears, but right now he was mainly staring down confusion.

“I’m not good for you,” he said.

“You said that. But specifically, what do you do that is bad for me? Because I haven’t noticed.”

“Nothing yet, but I will,” he replied. Your eyebrows furrowed.

“That is…really dumb. Of course you’re going to hurt me. I’m going to hurt you. It’s part of being human. Weren’t you married?”

Jack let out a harsh breath through his nose and stared at you on the other side of the couch. You were curled up against the corner, clearly protecting yourself from whatever emotional damage Jack was about to wrought on you.

“I don’t mean the simple stuff. I mean…” he paused and found he couldn’t look at you when he finally admitted. “My brain gets so dark. At this point I feel like a ghost of a person. How can I love you, if I’m not whole? You can’t love an anchor, and I’m the heaviest anchor out there.”

“So you’re breaking up with me because you’re depressed? Jack, half my friends are depressed.”

“You’re not hearing me!” He exclaimed. “You are brilliant! You light up every room you walk in. Everyone loves you! I can’t taint that. I can’t taint you.”

Jack heard his voice break. At some point during his tirade he stood, but never faced you head on.

“Taint me,” you scoffed.

“Don’t try and talk me out of it,” he said.

You laughed quietly, but instead of the joyful sound he’d come to associate with you, it was angry and mean. He had done that to you. He was already corrupting you.

“Listen here Jack Abbot. I will never beg a man to stay with me,” you said fiercely and there was a voice in the back of his head telling him he was doing something he couldn’t take back. “God, you’re a presumptive asshole.”

“I care about you so much. But I ruin everything I touch—everything that’s good. I can’t ruin you.,” Jack told you, finally looking up at you.

You were sitting on the couch staring him down. With crossed arms, you seemed to study him with a perception that made his hair stand on end. It felt like you could see through him and categorize him all at once. He did not like it. It felt vulnerable.

“I won’t beg you to stay with me,” you repeated again. “But if you change your mind, we can talk. But that offer has a very, very narrow window. For now, I think it’s probably best you leave.”

So he did.

-- -- --

The love Jack held for you felt like it could crush him on a good day. It washed over him and he yearned to drown in it. Jack was fine being on his own. Being alone never bothered him. What bothered him was no longer being alone with you.

It didn't take long for people to figure out he was no longer dating you. Two days after the heartbreaking conversation, and exactly five hours of sleep combined (but plenty of time staring at his ceiling), you had been called down to the Pitt and not approached Jack once. It didn't take a rocket scientist to put the meaning together.

He knew it was bad, but he still watched you. Your smile wasn’t as bright, but you still were efficient and reliable. Yes, he made the right choice. Even if the grief of seeing you made him want to curl up under the desk and cry.

With a surprising amount of self control, it took Ellis nearly four hours to bring it up.

“Did you guys break up?”

“Yes.”

“Who broke up with who?”

Jack sighed. “Are you going to leave me alone if I don’t answer?”

“Technically, sure. But I will figure it out.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he grumbled, “I broke up with them.”

Ellis stood straight up, and asked, “What did they do? Shen and I can egg their car.”

“They didn't do anything. Please don’t egg their car,” Jack replied quickly. He was horrified at making anything harder for you, though touched at the concern from his protégés.

“What do you mean they didn’t do anything?”

How do you professionally phrase, “You see, Parker, I have this darkness deep in my heart that eats away at anything good in my life and I wanted to protect them from my corrosive nature.” He couldn’t quite manage it, so he settled with saying,

“I think this is none of your business.”

“All right. Let me know if the need to egg their car changes.”

“It will not.”

-- -- --

They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Jack isn’t sure if he agrees with that. He also isn’t sure who “they” are. Regardless, he finds them full of shit. Ever since he walked out of your life, his bones ached for you. Banal and simple things reminded him of you.

He watched a cereal commercial and almost started tearing up because you’d simply walked by that cereal before. He felt pathetic.

And he’d rather feel pathetic than hurt you.

He was listening to his police scanner again; podcasts felt too much like you, even ones you hadn’t recommended. No one had said anything, but he could tell people had noticed his change. There were riskier medical choices, picking fights with insurance companies and administrators, not to mention his normally prickly demeanor became downright caustic.

“You’re a real piece of work tonight, Abbot,” Lena snapped at him. “We’re all running interference for you and it’s like you’re trying to get punched in the face.”

It was a silly comment to be what got through to him finally. Robby had said harsher things earlier and many (many) more times, Parker had avoided him like the plague, even Shen’s normally cool demeanor had been cracking under Jack’s battering ram of acidity. Briefly, he wondered if Lena was right. Was he needling at people because he wanted them to see him like he saw himself? Fuck that sounded a lot like William, a man he hadn’t seen for a couple months.

“Fuck,” he groaned, leaning his forehead on the tall nurses station, focusing on the cool temperature against his overheated skin. “I’m sorry, Lena.”

“I’m not the only one who deserves an apology.”

“I know, trust me.”

It took nearly two weeks for his apology tour to conclude, but he managed to apologize to each resident, tech, consult, and supporting staff that he had managed to piss off throughout the past handful of weeks.

He made a new appointment with William, picked up a new refill of his meds, and the fog began to clear. In hindsight, it was obvious what had happened. But in the middle of it, parsing through triggers and maladapted coping skills was difficult.

It took three sessions before he told William that he’d broken up with you.

“And how do you feel about the decision now that you’re no longer in that headspace?”

“Monumentally stupid,” Jack grumbled. William gave him a comforting smile, but he could tell the man felt the same way.

“You mentioned she left the door open?”

“That was months ago,” Jack sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face.

“You’ll never know unless you try.”

“But it will suck ass if she isn’t willing to try again,” Jack grumbled.

William nodded and said, “Yes. Unfortunately there are consequences for our actions even when they are explainable.”

Looking back, he couldn’t help but cringe at his behavior and assumptions. Implying that you would let him “corrupt” you? Suggesting that you isn’t actually know what was best for your own life? It was more than a little embarrassing.

His favorite qualities about you were your steadfast nature and reliability. You didn’t waver under his grumpy exterior and found something about it worth seeking out. You were oh, so brave. Not once had you lied or hidden your feelings from him. To think that he could change you was silly.

More than that, it just reaffirmed how much he cared for you.

Even when he was in the throes of his depressive episode, his love for you never wavered. He struggled to shower, eat, and take care of himself, but he never struggled with how he felt for you.

Loving you was breathing, not easy as breathing, it was breathing. As sure as his lungs took in air, he revered you. He yearned to care for you with his clumsy fingers; he yearned to try and train them to hold you better, tighter.

There would always exist a voice in the back of his head that said you would be better off without him, and maybe you would be in some theoretical way. Still, Jack was a selfish, selfish man. He wanted you. He wanted your smile and laugh and the brush of your lips on his. He wanted you jokes and honesty and steadiness. He wanted you.

When his nieces were young, they had been transfixed by the ice bucket challenge. So like the good uncle he was, he let them douse him in freezing cold water. He had thought, due to a similar set of circumstances in army training, it wouldn’t be that bad.

When the water hit him, his chest clenched and his lungs felt like they froze in his body, completely incapable of taking in air.

That’s what it felt like when he spied you across the Pitt, smiling with a bashful expression on your face while Jesse stood just a tiny bit too close.

Jack really liked Jesse. Except right now Jack hated Jesse.

The iron manacles that were cinching tighter around his chest nearly brought him to the ground when Jesse, tucked a non-existent bit of hair behind your ear. It was a smooth move. The urge to remove Jesse’s finger grew exponentially.

The clenching of his heart made it hard to breathe. Somehow he managed to be so full of love for you and so broken hearted at the same time. He had just left a small bunch of wildflowers in front of your locker and it seemed like he was mere seconds too late.

Was it jealousy if he didn’t have you anymore? Was it envy for desperately wishing he could push Jesse aside and take his place?

He forced himself to take a deep breath and exhale. There was a moment that he debated whether or not to go back for the flowers, but ultimately, he decided to leave them. You may have moved on, but you deserved to know how he really felt. There was a short note with the flowers, one he had spent the past three days agonizing over. It had no greeting or salutation. It simply read:

It was silly of me to think so little of you that any man could in any way hold you back. I am an anchor, but you’re more than capable of unmooring. I was in a bad place when I broke up with you and I had not yet realized (though, I suspect you did). I am sorry for hurting you that way. But I never wavered in my love for you.

I’m lost without you. I’m lost in love with you.

If the window is still open, I would be grateful to talk.

But watching you from his perch behind the nurse’s station, Jack suspected the window was closed. He would be okay; he always was. You were one more ghost he could learn to live with.

-- -- --

my characters aren’t the only ones with praise kinks so feel free to leave a comment or reblog ♡

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