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OR OR reader goes out with santos and mel after the fourth of july shift and gets drunk with them and calls jack for a ride home and he drops them off one by one but he stays with her and tucks her in and it’s sooooo fluff
yay thank u for the request i hope u enjoy!! | 1.6k of fluff, ‘her’ used in reference to reader once
The humidity outside somehow feels less stuffy after having been in the bar for a couple of hours.
You tip your head back when a gentle breeze blows through, soft as a whisper but it kisses your heated skin all the same.
“Shit,” Trinity mutters from behind you, looking down at her phone. Her face shines a little with sweat, baby hairs sticking to her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asks immediately. She’s let her hair down tonight, both literally and metaphorically, and you’re glad to have witnessed it.
Today’s shift was a lot. More so than usual, and when Santos had suggested a night out to Mel, and then to you when she caught you listening in, it was easy to accept.
Your throat aches a little from the numerous songs you shouted more than sang, but it’s a welcomed scratchiness. It reminds you that you’re here and alive.
You turn towards the pair that are now both focused on Trinity’s screen, their brows scrunched. One concerned, one more annoyed.
“What is it?” you ask.
“Literally no Uber wants to go to three different drop-off spots,” Trinity tells you. “And if they do, they're charging an insane amount.”
You let the next words slip out before you really think of it. Later, you’ll blame it on the alcohol, but you’re hardly more than tipsy by now. The last two drinks you had were water.
“I can call Jack.”
Trinity and Mel stare at you.
“Abbot,” you add.
“You can call Jack Abbot?” Trinity asks you, something almost teasing in her tone.
“Yeah,” you say, shifting on your feet. “Unless you wanna walk?”
“Oh, no. Please, call Abbot,” she tells you.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Mel says, smiling a soft, encouraging smile.
“Okay, I’ll just-” you point over your shoulder and step away, digging your phone from your purse. His contact is easy enough to find. You stare at it, your finger hovering over the screen.
You’ve had his number saved for a few weeks now. He’d given it to you after a rough shift, finding you by your locker and typing it into your phone himself with an urge to “call if you need anything.”
And you just… haven’t. You’ve pulled up his contact countless times. Looked at his name there as he’d typed it; Not Dr. Abbot. Just ‘Jack.’
Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to just hit the call button. He’s your attending, and sure he’s flirty with you, but he’s a little flirty with almost everyone. And ‘call if you need me’ is just a thing people say. At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself lately.
You suppose tonight you’re testing to see if he really meant it. If you’re not totally alone in wanting to get more of him somehow.
You press the button and hold your phone up to your ear, looking to see if Trinity and Mel are watching you. They are. Mel gives you a thumbs up.
And then you’re turning back around, because after only three rings, the line clicks, and a low “hello?” slides through the speaker.
“Hi!” you say, wincing at how awkwardly it comes out. “Um, it’s me. Are you busy?”
Jack ignores your question. “What’s going on?”
“Me and Mel and Santos are out and no Ubers are taking us. You know, Trinity’s actually a pretty good singer. Anyways, I was wondering if you could come get us? It’s totally fine if not, I mean, it’s warm, so we could walk-”
“How drunk are you?” Jack asks you, not judgemental or accusing, just curious.
“Just enough to let myself call you,” you say quietly. “Not enough to not know what I’m doing.”
“Okay,” he says. “Tell me where you are.” Like it’s that simple for him to drop whatever he’d been doing just because you asked him to. Like whatever he heard in your voice was convincing enough. Almost like he didn’t need any convincing at all.
He shows up only a few minutes later, pulling up to the curb right in front of you and leaning over to open up the passenger side door.
You wave at him. He wiggles his fingers back and nods at you, urging you to get in beside him.
Trinity and Mel climb into the backseat, chatting quietly between each other.
You watch as Jack pulls away from the curb, listening to Mel’s directions back to her place. Watch as he turns up the AC when he catches you fan yourself, an arm reaching over to aim the vent towards you.
“Thank you,” you say.
And when he turns his head to quickly wink at you, it’s hard to come up with anything else.
He drops Mel off, and soon enough it’s Trinity’s turn.
“You gonna be okay?” Santos asks you, more suggestive than anything, once Jack’s parked.
Only, Jack takes her seriously. He twists around in his seat to look at her and say “I’ve got her.”
You sink into the passenger seat, embarrassed and delighted.
She salutes him and climbs out of the car. And then it’s just you and Jack.
“Is it okay?” you start, a sudden nervous flutter in your stomach. “That I called? I mean, I hope you weren’t busy, or-”
“Sweetheart,” he stops you, that same low, patient but sure voice as on the phone. “I gave you my phone number. I want you to use it.”
“Oh, okay. Good. That’s good.”
Jack has the hand not holding the steering wheel resting on the centre console. He shifts his over just enough that his knuckles brush your arm once, twice, before pulling away again.
“Good,” he agrees with a little nod.
And before you can say something else, he’s parking outside your building. You only just realize then that you hadn’t been giving him any directions to get there.
You look at him, his black t-shirt tights across his shoulders, his hair curling around his ears. Then, there’s his fingers squeezing the steering wheel, his knee bouncing.
He’s nervous, too, you think. Or affected, at the very least.
It’s what makes you brave enough to say: “Do you want to come up?”
And Jack, turning his head to look into your shining, shy, hopeful eyes could never say no to you. Not even when he probably should.
He lets you lead the way to your door, a hand hovering behind your lower back in case you stumble. You fumble with your keys until he takes them from your hand and unlocks your door for you, holding it open with an outstretched arm that you have to duck under to walk inside.
It’s only when you bend down to take off your shoes that you feel the lingering effects of the alcohol, your vision a little fuzzy around the edges, your head swimming and focused all at once. Because every thought is about Jack.
Jack, standing in your living room like he was meant to be there, like the space just miles itself around his presence. Jack, leaning down to help you slip your shoes off when he catches you struggling, a warm hand on the back of your leg, letting you use his shoulder for support.
When he straightens up again, he’s much closer than before. You suck in a breath, eyes dancing across his face. His do the same, before settling on your mouth.
Your chin tips up the slightest bit, like you’re making room for him, inviting him, and Jack nearly accepts it. But you’ve been drinking, and this isn’t anything new for him. It’s not spur of the moment. He’ll want you the same tomorrow, more even.
So when he leans in, and you let your eyes slip closed, he doesn’t let himself kiss your mouth, but presses his lips softly to your cheek, then to the hinge of your jaw, before pulling away.
“You should get some rest,” he tells you.
You nod, a hand coming up to your cheek like you’re keeping his touch there a little longer. “Will you- do you wanna stay?”
“Sweetheart.”
“We don’t have to do anything, it’s just late, and-”
“I’ll stay,” Jack tells you.
You lead him to your bedroom, and if you thought his presence in your living room was something, this is entirely more destabilizing.
Where there’s an alternate reality where he’s in here for more. Where he’s leaning over you on the mattress, where his smell is etched into your sheets. And maybe it isn’t so far fetched, not with how he looks at you.
How he’s taking care of you tonight.
To that point, Jack goes into your dresser and picks out some pajamas for you once he finds the right drawer, setting them on the edge of the bed. He’d assumed you’d go into the bathroom to change.
Instead, he watches you reach for the hem of your top. His eyes widen slightly as you lift it, exposing your stomach. He turns around before it gets above your chest.
Jack’s meant to be a strong man, but the sight of your bare skin—skin that’s new to him—makes his heart stutter. Makes him weak.
“I have a spare toothbrush in the bathroom,” you tell him, prompting him to turn back around to find you now changed. “And I have some sweatpants if you want to change. They might not fit you, but-”
“I’m alright,” he says. Really, he’s thinking similarly to you. Thinking about a world where his toothbrush lives beside yours and he’s got a spare change of clothes here already.
And when you settle into bed after brushing your teeth, Jack’s prosthetic leaning against the nightstand, facing him with your cheek pressed into your pillow, that world doesn’t feel so far away.
“Thank you for coming,” you whisper, eyes fluttering sleepily.
OR OR reader goes out with santos and mel after the fourth of july shift and gets drunk with them and calls jack for a ride home and he drops them off one by one but he stays with her and tucks her in and it’s sooooo fluff
yay thank u for the request i hope u enjoy!! | 1.6k of fluff, ‘her’ used in reference to reader once
The humidity outside somehow feels less stuffy after having been in the bar for a couple of hours.
You tip your head back when a gentle breeze blows through, soft as a whisper but it kisses your heated skin all the same.
“Shit,” Trinity mutters from behind you, looking down at her phone. Her face shines a little with sweat, baby hairs sticking to her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asks immediately. She’s let her hair down tonight, both literally and metaphorically, and you’re glad to have witnessed it.
Today’s shift was a lot. More so than usual, and when Santos had suggested a night out to Mel, and then to you when she caught you listening in, it was easy to accept.
Your throat aches a little from the numerous songs you shouted more than sang, but it’s a welcomed scratchiness. It reminds you that you’re here and alive.
You turn towards the pair that are now both focused on Trinity’s screen, their brows scrunched. One concerned, one more annoyed.
“What is it?” you ask.
“Literally no Uber wants to go to three different drop-off spots,” Trinity tells you. “And if they do, they're charging an insane amount.”
You let the next words slip out before you really think of it. Later, you’ll blame it on the alcohol, but you’re hardly more than tipsy by now. The last two drinks you had were water.
“I can call Jack.”
Trinity and Mel stare at you.
“Abbot,” you add.
“You can call Jack Abbot?” Trinity asks you, something almost teasing in her tone.
“Yeah,” you say, shifting on your feet. “Unless you wanna walk?”
“Oh, no. Please, call Abbot,” she tells you.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Mel says, smiling a soft, encouraging smile.
“Okay, I’ll just-” you point over your shoulder and step away, digging your phone from your purse. His contact is easy enough to find. You stare at it, your finger hovering over the screen.
You’ve had his number saved for a few weeks now. He’d given it to you after a rough shift, finding you by your locker and typing it into your phone himself with an urge to “call if you need anything.”
And you just… haven’t. You’ve pulled up his contact countless times. Looked at his name there as he’d typed it; Not Dr. Abbot. Just ‘Jack.’
Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to just hit the call button. He’s your attending, and sure he’s flirty with you, but he’s a little flirty with almost everyone. And ‘call if you need me’ is just a thing people say. At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself lately.
You suppose tonight you’re testing to see if he really meant it. If you’re not totally alone in wanting to get more of him somehow.
You press the button and hold your phone up to your ear, looking to see if Trinity and Mel are watching you. They are. Mel gives you a thumbs up.
And then you’re turning back around, because after only three rings, the line clicks, and a low “hello?” slides through the speaker.
“Hi!” you say, wincing at how awkwardly it comes out. “Um, it’s me. Are you busy?”
Jack ignores your question. “What’s going on?”
“Me and Mel and Santos are out and no Ubers are taking us. You know, Trinity’s actually a pretty good singer. Anyways, I was wondering if you could come get us? It’s totally fine if not, I mean, it’s warm, so we could walk-”
“How drunk are you?” Jack asks you, not judgemental or accusing, just curious.
“Just enough to let myself call you,” you say quietly. “Not enough to not know what I’m doing.”
“Okay,” he says. “Tell me where you are.” Like it’s that simple for him to drop whatever he’d been doing just because you asked him to. Like whatever he heard in your voice was convincing enough. Almost like he didn’t need any convincing at all.
He shows up only a few minutes later, pulling up to the curb right in front of you and leaning over to open up the passenger side door.
You wave at him. He wiggles his fingers back and nods at you, urging you to get in beside him.
Trinity and Mel climb into the backseat, chatting quietly between each other.
You watch as Jack pulls away from the curb, listening to Mel’s directions back to her place. Watch as he turns up the AC when he catches you fan yourself, an arm reaching over to aim the vent towards you.
“Thank you,” you say.
And when he turns his head to quickly wink at you, it’s hard to come up with anything else.
He drops Mel off, and soon enough it’s Trinity’s turn.
“You gonna be okay?” Santos asks you, more suggestive than anything, once Jack’s parked.
Only, Jack takes her seriously. He twists around in his seat to look at her and say “I’ve got her.”
You sink into the passenger seat, embarrassed and delighted.
She salutes him and climbs out of the car. And then it’s just you and Jack.
“Is it okay?” you start, a sudden nervous flutter in your stomach. “That I called? I mean, I hope you weren’t busy, or-”
“Sweetheart,” he stops you, that same low, patient but sure voice as on the phone. “I gave you my phone number. I want you to use it.”
“Oh, okay. Good. That’s good.”
Jack has the hand not holding the steering wheel resting on the centre console. He shifts his over just enough that his knuckles brush your arm once, twice, before pulling away again.
“Good,” he agrees with a little nod.
And before you can say something else, he’s parking outside your building. You only just realize then that you hadn’t been giving him any directions to get there.
You look at him, his black t-shirt tights across his shoulders, his hair curling around his ears. Then, there’s his fingers squeezing the steering wheel, his knee bouncing.
He’s nervous, too, you think. Or affected, at the very least.
It’s what makes you brave enough to say: “Do you want to come up?”
And Jack, turning his head to look into your shining, shy, hopeful eyes could never say no to you. Not even when he probably should.
He lets you lead the way to your door, a hand hovering behind your lower back in case you stumble. You fumble with your keys until he takes them from your hand and unlocks your door for you, holding it open with an outstretched arm that you have to duck under to walk inside.
It’s only when you bend down to take off your shoes that you feel the lingering effects of the alcohol, your vision a little fuzzy around the edges, your head swimming and focused all at once. Because every thought is about Jack.
Jack, standing in your living room like he was meant to be there, like the space just miles itself around his presence. Jack, leaning down to help you slip your shoes off when he catches you struggling, a warm hand on the back of your leg, letting you use his shoulder for support.
When he straightens up again, he’s much closer than before. You suck in a breath, eyes dancing across his face. His do the same, before settling on your mouth.
Your chin tips up the slightest bit, like you’re making room for him, inviting him, and Jack nearly accepts it. But you’ve been drinking, and this isn’t anything new for him. It’s not spur of the moment. He’ll want you the same tomorrow, more even.
So when he leans in, and you let your eyes slip closed, he doesn’t let himself kiss your mouth, but presses his lips softly to your cheek, then to the hinge of your jaw, before pulling away.
“You should get some rest,” he tells you.
You nod, a hand coming up to your cheek like you’re keeping his touch there a little longer. “Will you- do you wanna stay?”
“Sweetheart.”
“We don’t have to do anything, it’s just late, and-”
“I’ll stay,” Jack tells you.
You lead him to your bedroom, and if you thought his presence in your living room was something, this is entirely more destabilizing.
Where there’s an alternate reality where he’s in here for more. Where he’s leaning over you on the mattress, where his smell is etched into your sheets. And maybe it isn’t so far fetched, not with how he looks at you.
How he’s taking care of you tonight.
To that point, Jack goes into your dresser and picks out some pajamas for you once he finds the right drawer, setting them on the edge of the bed. He’d assumed you’d go into the bathroom to change.
Instead, he watches you reach for the hem of your top. His eyes widen slightly as you lift it, exposing your stomach. He turns around before it gets above your chest.
Jack’s meant to be a strong man, but the sight of your bare skin—skin that’s new to him—makes his heart stutter. Makes him weak.
“I have a spare toothbrush in the bathroom,” you tell him, prompting him to turn back around to find you now changed. “And I have some sweatpants if you want to change. They might not fit you, but-”
“I’m alright,” he says. Really, he’s thinking similarly to you. Thinking about a world where his toothbrush lives beside yours and he’s got a spare change of clothes here already.
And when you settle into bed after brushing your teeth, Jack’s prosthetic leaning against the nightstand, facing him with your cheek pressed into your pillow, that world doesn’t feel so far away.
“Thank you for coming,” you whisper, eyes fluttering sleepily.
OR OR reader goes out with santos and mel after the fourth of july shift and gets drunk with them and calls jack for a ride home and he drops them off one by one but he stays with her and tucks her in and it’s sooooo fluff
yay thank u for the request i hope u enjoy!! | 1.6k of fluff, ‘her’ used in reference to reader once
The humidity outside somehow feels less stuffy after having been in the bar for a couple of hours.
You tip your head back when a gentle breeze blows through, soft as a whisper but it kisses your heated skin all the same.
“Shit,” Trinity mutters from behind you, looking down at her phone. Her face shines a little with sweat, baby hairs sticking to her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asks immediately. She’s let her hair down tonight, both literally and metaphorically, and you’re glad to have witnessed it.
Today’s shift was a lot. More so than usual, and when Santos had suggested a night out to Mel, and then to you when she caught you listening in, it was easy to accept.
Your throat aches a little from the numerous songs you shouted more than sang, but it’s a welcomed scratchiness. It reminds you that you’re here and alive.
You turn towards the pair that are now both focused on Trinity’s screen, their brows scrunched. One concerned, one more annoyed.
“What is it?” you ask.
“Literally no Uber wants to go to three different drop-off spots,” Trinity tells you. “And if they do, they're charging an insane amount.”
You let the next words slip out before you really think of it. Later, you’ll blame it on the alcohol, but you’re hardly more than tipsy by now. The last two drinks you had were water.
“I can call Jack.”
Trinity and Mel stare at you.
“Abbot,” you add.
“You can call Jack Abbot?” Trinity asks you, something almost teasing in her tone.
“Yeah,” you say, shifting on your feet. “Unless you wanna walk?”
“Oh, no. Please, call Abbot,” she tells you.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Mel says, smiling a soft, encouraging smile.
“Okay, I’ll just-” you point over your shoulder and step away, digging your phone from your purse. His contact is easy enough to find. You stare at it, your finger hovering over the screen.
You’ve had his number saved for a few weeks now. He’d given it to you after a rough shift, finding you by your locker and typing it into your phone himself with an urge to “call if you need anything.”
And you just… haven’t. You’ve pulled up his contact countless times. Looked at his name there as he’d typed it; Not Dr. Abbot. Just ‘Jack.’
Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to just hit the call button. He’s your attending, and sure he’s flirty with you, but he’s a little flirty with almost everyone. And ‘call if you need me’ is just a thing people say. At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself lately.
You suppose tonight you’re testing to see if he really meant it. If you’re not totally alone in wanting to get more of him somehow.
You press the button and hold your phone up to your ear, looking to see if Trinity and Mel are watching you. They are. Mel gives you a thumbs up.
And then you’re turning back around, because after only three rings, the line clicks, and a low “hello?” slides through the speaker.
“Hi!” you say, wincing at how awkwardly it comes out. “Um, it’s me. Are you busy?”
Jack ignores your question. “What’s going on?”
“Me and Mel and Santos are out and no Ubers are taking us. You know, Trinity’s actually a pretty good singer. Anyways, I was wondering if you could come get us? It’s totally fine if not, I mean, it’s warm, so we could walk-”
“How drunk are you?” Jack asks you, not judgemental or accusing, just curious.
“Just enough to let myself call you,” you say quietly. “Not enough to not know what I’m doing.”
“Okay,” he says. “Tell me where you are.” Like it’s that simple for him to drop whatever he’d been doing just because you asked him to. Like whatever he heard in your voice was convincing enough. Almost like he didn’t need any convincing at all.
He shows up only a few minutes later, pulling up to the curb right in front of you and leaning over to open up the passenger side door.
You wave at him. He wiggles his fingers back and nods at you, urging you to get in beside him.
Trinity and Mel climb into the backseat, chatting quietly between each other.
You watch as Jack pulls away from the curb, listening to Mel’s directions back to her place. Watch as he turns up the AC when he catches you fan yourself, an arm reaching over to aim the vent towards you.
“Thank you,” you say.
And when he turns his head to quickly wink at you, it’s hard to come up with anything else.
He drops Mel off, and soon enough it’s Trinity’s turn.
“You gonna be okay?” Santos asks you, more suggestive than anything, once Jack’s parked.
Only, Jack takes her seriously. He twists around in his seat to look at her and say “I’ve got her.”
You sink into the passenger seat, embarrassed and delighted.
She salutes him and climbs out of the car. And then it’s just you and Jack.
“Is it okay?” you start, a sudden nervous flutter in your stomach. “That I called? I mean, I hope you weren’t busy, or-”
“Sweetheart,” he stops you, that same low, patient but sure voice as on the phone. “I gave you my phone number. I want you to use it.”
“Oh, okay. Good. That’s good.”
Jack has the hand not holding the steering wheel resting on the centre console. He shifts his over just enough that his knuckles brush your arm once, twice, before pulling away again.
“Good,” he agrees with a little nod.
And before you can say something else, he’s parking outside your building. You only just realize then that you hadn’t been giving him any directions to get there.
You look at him, his black t-shirt tights across his shoulders, his hair curling around his ears. Then, there’s his fingers squeezing the steering wheel, his knee bouncing.
He’s nervous, too, you think. Or affected, at the very least.
It’s what makes you brave enough to say: “Do you want to come up?”
And Jack, turning his head to look into your shining, shy, hopeful eyes could never say no to you. Not even when he probably should.
He lets you lead the way to your door, a hand hovering behind your lower back in case you stumble. You fumble with your keys until he takes them from your hand and unlocks your door for you, holding it open with an outstretched arm that you have to duck under to walk inside.
It’s only when you bend down to take off your shoes that you feel the lingering effects of the alcohol, your vision a little fuzzy around the edges, your head swimming and focused all at once. Because every thought is about Jack.
Jack, standing in your living room like he was meant to be there, like the space just miles itself around his presence. Jack, leaning down to help you slip your shoes off when he catches you struggling, a warm hand on the back of your leg, letting you use his shoulder for support.
When he straightens up again, he’s much closer than before. You suck in a breath, eyes dancing across his face. His do the same, before settling on your mouth.
Your chin tips up the slightest bit, like you’re making room for him, inviting him, and Jack nearly accepts it. But you’ve been drinking, and this isn’t anything new for him. It’s not spur of the moment. He’ll want you the same tomorrow, more even.
So when he leans in, and you let your eyes slip closed, he doesn’t let himself kiss your mouth, but presses his lips softly to your cheek, then to the hinge of your jaw, before pulling away.
“You should get some rest,” he tells you.
You nod, a hand coming up to your cheek like you’re keeping his touch there a little longer. “Will you- do you wanna stay?”
“Sweetheart.”
“We don’t have to do anything, it’s just late, and-”
“I’ll stay,” Jack tells you.
You lead him to your bedroom, and if you thought his presence in your living room was something, this is entirely more destabilizing.
Where there’s an alternate reality where he’s in here for more. Where he’s leaning over you on the mattress, where his smell is etched into your sheets. And maybe it isn’t so far fetched, not with how he looks at you.
How he’s taking care of you tonight.
To that point, Jack goes into your dresser and picks out some pajamas for you once he finds the right drawer, setting them on the edge of the bed. He’d assumed you’d go into the bathroom to change.
Instead, he watches you reach for the hem of your top. His eyes widen slightly as you lift it, exposing your stomach. He turns around before it gets above your chest.
Jack’s meant to be a strong man, but the sight of your bare skin—skin that’s new to him—makes his heart stutter. Makes him weak.
“I have a spare toothbrush in the bathroom,” you tell him, prompting him to turn back around to find you now changed. “And I have some sweatpants if you want to change. They might not fit you, but-”
“I’m alright,” he says. Really, he’s thinking similarly to you. Thinking about a world where his toothbrush lives beside yours and he’s got a spare change of clothes here already.
And when you settle into bed after brushing your teeth, Jack’s prosthetic leaning against the nightstand, facing him with your cheek pressed into your pillow, that world doesn’t feel so far away.
“Thank you for coming,” you whisper, eyes fluttering sleepily.
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OR OR reader goes out with santos and mel after the fourth of july shift and gets drunk with them and calls jack for a ride home and he drops them off one by one but he stays with her and tucks her in and it’s sooooo fluff
yay thank u for the request i hope u enjoy!! | 1.6k of fluff, ‘her’ used in reference to reader once
The humidity outside somehow feels less stuffy after having been in the bar for a couple of hours.
You tip your head back when a gentle breeze blows through, soft as a whisper but it kisses your heated skin all the same.
“Shit,” Trinity mutters from behind you, looking down at her phone. Her face shines a little with sweat, baby hairs sticking to her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asks immediately. She’s let her hair down tonight, both literally and metaphorically, and you’re glad to have witnessed it.
Today’s shift was a lot. More so than usual, and when Santos had suggested a night out to Mel, and then to you when she caught you listening in, it was easy to accept.
Your throat aches a little from the numerous songs you shouted more than sang, but it’s a welcomed scratchiness. It reminds you that you’re here and alive.
You turn towards the pair that are now both focused on Trinity’s screen, their brows scrunched. One concerned, one more annoyed.
“What is it?” you ask.
“Literally no Uber wants to go to three different drop-off spots,” Trinity tells you. “And if they do, they're charging an insane amount.”
You let the next words slip out before you really think of it. Later, you’ll blame it on the alcohol, but you’re hardly more than tipsy by now. The last two drinks you had were water.
“I can call Jack.”
Trinity and Mel stare at you.
“Abbot,” you add.
“You can call Jack Abbot?” Trinity asks you, something almost teasing in her tone.
“Yeah,” you say, shifting on your feet. “Unless you wanna walk?”
“Oh, no. Please, call Abbot,” she tells you.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Mel says, smiling a soft, encouraging smile.
“Okay, I’ll just-” you point over your shoulder and step away, digging your phone from your purse. His contact is easy enough to find. You stare at it, your finger hovering over the screen.
You’ve had his number saved for a few weeks now. He’d given it to you after a rough shift, finding you by your locker and typing it into your phone himself with an urge to “call if you need anything.”
And you just… haven’t. You’ve pulled up his contact countless times. Looked at his name there as he’d typed it; Not Dr. Abbot. Just ‘Jack.’
Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to just hit the call button. He’s your attending, and sure he’s flirty with you, but he’s a little flirty with almost everyone. And ‘call if you need me’ is just a thing people say. At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself lately.
You suppose tonight you’re testing to see if he really meant it. If you’re not totally alone in wanting to get more of him somehow.
You press the button and hold your phone up to your ear, looking to see if Trinity and Mel are watching you. They are. Mel gives you a thumbs up.
And then you’re turning back around, because after only three rings, the line clicks, and a low “hello?” slides through the speaker.
“Hi!” you say, wincing at how awkwardly it comes out. “Um, it’s me. Are you busy?”
Jack ignores your question. “What’s going on?”
“Me and Mel and Santos are out and no Ubers are taking us. You know, Trinity’s actually a pretty good singer. Anyways, I was wondering if you could come get us? It’s totally fine if not, I mean, it’s warm, so we could walk-”
“How drunk are you?” Jack asks you, not judgemental or accusing, just curious.
“Just enough to let myself call you,” you say quietly. “Not enough to not know what I’m doing.”
“Okay,” he says. “Tell me where you are.” Like it’s that simple for him to drop whatever he’d been doing just because you asked him to. Like whatever he heard in your voice was convincing enough. Almost like he didn’t need any convincing at all.
He shows up only a few minutes later, pulling up to the curb right in front of you and leaning over to open up the passenger side door.
You wave at him. He wiggles his fingers back and nods at you, urging you to get in beside him.
Trinity and Mel climb into the backseat, chatting quietly between each other.
You watch as Jack pulls away from the curb, listening to Mel’s directions back to her place. Watch as he turns up the AC when he catches you fan yourself, an arm reaching over to aim the vent towards you.
“Thank you,” you say.
And when he turns his head to quickly wink at you, it’s hard to come up with anything else.
He drops Mel off, and soon enough it’s Trinity’s turn.
“You gonna be okay?” Santos asks you, more suggestive than anything, once Jack’s parked.
Only, Jack takes her seriously. He twists around in his seat to look at her and say “I’ve got her.”
You sink into the passenger seat, embarrassed and delighted.
She salutes him and climbs out of the car. And then it’s just you and Jack.
“Is it okay?” you start, a sudden nervous flutter in your stomach. “That I called? I mean, I hope you weren’t busy, or-”
“Sweetheart,” he stops you, that same low, patient but sure voice as on the phone. “I gave you my phone number. I want you to use it.”
“Oh, okay. Good. That’s good.”
Jack has the hand not holding the steering wheel resting on the centre console. He shifts his over just enough that his knuckles brush your arm once, twice, before pulling away again.
“Good,” he agrees with a little nod.
And before you can say something else, he’s parking outside your building. You only just realize then that you hadn’t been giving him any directions to get there.
You look at him, his black t-shirt tights across his shoulders, his hair curling around his ears. Then, there’s his fingers squeezing the steering wheel, his knee bouncing.
He’s nervous, too, you think. Or affected, at the very least.
It’s what makes you brave enough to say: “Do you want to come up?”
And Jack, turning his head to look into your shining, shy, hopeful eyes could never say no to you. Not even when he probably should.
He lets you lead the way to your door, a hand hovering behind your lower back in case you stumble. You fumble with your keys until he takes them from your hand and unlocks your door for you, holding it open with an outstretched arm that you have to duck under to walk inside.
It’s only when you bend down to take off your shoes that you feel the lingering effects of the alcohol, your vision a little fuzzy around the edges, your head swimming and focused all at once. Because every thought is about Jack.
Jack, standing in your living room like he was meant to be there, like the space just miles itself around his presence. Jack, leaning down to help you slip your shoes off when he catches you struggling, a warm hand on the back of your leg, letting you use his shoulder for support.
When he straightens up again, he’s much closer than before. You suck in a breath, eyes dancing across his face. His do the same, before settling on your mouth.
Your chin tips up the slightest bit, like you’re making room for him, inviting him, and Jack nearly accepts it. But you’ve been drinking, and this isn’t anything new for him. It’s not spur of the moment. He’ll want you the same tomorrow, more even.
So when he leans in, and you let your eyes slip closed, he doesn’t let himself kiss your mouth, but presses his lips softly to your cheek, then to the hinge of your jaw, before pulling away.
“You should get some rest,” he tells you.
You nod, a hand coming up to your cheek like you’re keeping his touch there a little longer. “Will you- do you wanna stay?”
“Sweetheart.”
“We don’t have to do anything, it’s just late, and-”
“I’ll stay,” Jack tells you.
You lead him to your bedroom, and if you thought his presence in your living room was something, this is entirely more destabilizing.
Where there’s an alternate reality where he’s in here for more. Where he’s leaning over you on the mattress, where his smell is etched into your sheets. And maybe it isn’t so far fetched, not with how he looks at you.
How he’s taking care of you tonight.
To that point, Jack goes into your dresser and picks out some pajamas for you once he finds the right drawer, setting them on the edge of the bed. He’d assumed you’d go into the bathroom to change.
Instead, he watches you reach for the hem of your top. His eyes widen slightly as you lift it, exposing your stomach. He turns around before it gets above your chest.
Jack’s meant to be a strong man, but the sight of your bare skin—skin that’s new to him—makes his heart stutter. Makes him weak.
“I have a spare toothbrush in the bathroom,” you tell him, prompting him to turn back around to find you now changed. “And I have some sweatpants if you want to change. They might not fit you, but-”
“I’m alright,” he says. Really, he’s thinking similarly to you. Thinking about a world where his toothbrush lives beside yours and he’s got a spare change of clothes here already.
And when you settle into bed after brushing your teeth, Jack’s prosthetic leaning against the nightstand, facing him with your cheek pressed into your pillow, that world doesn’t feel so far away.
“Thank you for coming,” you whisper, eyes fluttering sleepily.
OR OR reader goes out with santos and mel after the fourth of july shift and gets drunk with them and calls jack for a ride home and he drops them off one by one but he stays with her and tucks her in and it’s sooooo fluff
yay thank u for the request i hope u enjoy!! | 1.6k of fluff, ‘her’ used in reference to reader once
The humidity outside somehow feels less stuffy after having been in the bar for a couple of hours.
You tip your head back when a gentle breeze blows through, soft as a whisper but it kisses your heated skin all the same.
“Shit,” Trinity mutters from behind you, looking down at her phone. Her face shines a little with sweat, baby hairs sticking to her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asks immediately. She’s let her hair down tonight, both literally and metaphorically, and you’re glad to have witnessed it.
Today’s shift was a lot. More so than usual, and when Santos had suggested a night out to Mel, and then to you when she caught you listening in, it was easy to accept.
Your throat aches a little from the numerous songs you shouted more than sang, but it’s a welcomed scratchiness. It reminds you that you’re here and alive.
You turn towards the pair that are now both focused on Trinity’s screen, their brows scrunched. One concerned, one more annoyed.
“What is it?” you ask.
“Literally no Uber wants to go to three different drop-off spots,” Trinity tells you. “And if they do, they're charging an insane amount.”
You let the next words slip out before you really think of it. Later, you’ll blame it on the alcohol, but you’re hardly more than tipsy by now. The last two drinks you had were water.
“I can call Jack.”
Trinity and Mel stare at you.
“Abbot,” you add.
“You can call Jack Abbot?” Trinity asks you, something almost teasing in her tone.
“Yeah,” you say, shifting on your feet. “Unless you wanna walk?”
“Oh, no. Please, call Abbot,” she tells you.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Mel says, smiling a soft, encouraging smile.
“Okay, I’ll just-” you point over your shoulder and step away, digging your phone from your purse. His contact is easy enough to find. You stare at it, your finger hovering over the screen.
You’ve had his number saved for a few weeks now. He’d given it to you after a rough shift, finding you by your locker and typing it into your phone himself with an urge to “call if you need anything.”
And you just… haven’t. You’ve pulled up his contact countless times. Looked at his name there as he’d typed it; Not Dr. Abbot. Just ‘Jack.’
Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to just hit the call button. He’s your attending, and sure he’s flirty with you, but he’s a little flirty with almost everyone. And ‘call if you need me’ is just a thing people say. At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself lately.
You suppose tonight you’re testing to see if he really meant it. If you’re not totally alone in wanting to get more of him somehow.
You press the button and hold your phone up to your ear, looking to see if Trinity and Mel are watching you. They are. Mel gives you a thumbs up.
And then you’re turning back around, because after only three rings, the line clicks, and a low “hello?” slides through the speaker.
“Hi!” you say, wincing at how awkwardly it comes out. “Um, it’s me. Are you busy?”
Jack ignores your question. “What’s going on?”
“Me and Mel and Santos are out and no Ubers are taking us. You know, Trinity’s actually a pretty good singer. Anyways, I was wondering if you could come get us? It’s totally fine if not, I mean, it’s warm, so we could walk-”
“How drunk are you?” Jack asks you, not judgemental or accusing, just curious.
“Just enough to let myself call you,” you say quietly. “Not enough to not know what I’m doing.”
“Okay,” he says. “Tell me where you are.” Like it’s that simple for him to drop whatever he’d been doing just because you asked him to. Like whatever he heard in your voice was convincing enough. Almost like he didn’t need any convincing at all.
He shows up only a few minutes later, pulling up to the curb right in front of you and leaning over to open up the passenger side door.
You wave at him. He wiggles his fingers back and nods at you, urging you to get in beside him.
Trinity and Mel climb into the backseat, chatting quietly between each other.
You watch as Jack pulls away from the curb, listening to Mel’s directions back to her place. Watch as he turns up the AC when he catches you fan yourself, an arm reaching over to aim the vent towards you.
“Thank you,” you say.
And when he turns his head to quickly wink at you, it’s hard to come up with anything else.
He drops Mel off, and soon enough it’s Trinity’s turn.
“You gonna be okay?” Santos asks you, more suggestive than anything, once Jack’s parked.
Only, Jack takes her seriously. He twists around in his seat to look at her and say “I’ve got her.”
You sink into the passenger seat, embarrassed and delighted.
She salutes him and climbs out of the car. And then it’s just you and Jack.
“Is it okay?” you start, a sudden nervous flutter in your stomach. “That I called? I mean, I hope you weren’t busy, or-”
“Sweetheart,” he stops you, that same low, patient but sure voice as on the phone. “I gave you my phone number. I want you to use it.”
“Oh, okay. Good. That’s good.”
Jack has the hand not holding the steering wheel resting on the centre console. He shifts his over just enough that his knuckles brush your arm once, twice, before pulling away again.
“Good,” he agrees with a little nod.
And before you can say something else, he’s parking outside your building. You only just realize then that you hadn’t been giving him any directions to get there.
You look at him, his black t-shirt tights across his shoulders, his hair curling around his ears. Then, there’s his fingers squeezing the steering wheel, his knee bouncing.
He’s nervous, too, you think. Or affected, at the very least.
It’s what makes you brave enough to say: “Do you want to come up?”
And Jack, turning his head to look into your shining, shy, hopeful eyes could never say no to you. Not even when he probably should.
He lets you lead the way to your door, a hand hovering behind your lower back in case you stumble. You fumble with your keys until he takes them from your hand and unlocks your door for you, holding it open with an outstretched arm that you have to duck under to walk inside.
It’s only when you bend down to take off your shoes that you feel the lingering effects of the alcohol, your vision a little fuzzy around the edges, your head swimming and focused all at once. Because every thought is about Jack.
Jack, standing in your living room like he was meant to be there, like the space just miles itself around his presence. Jack, leaning down to help you slip your shoes off when he catches you struggling, a warm hand on the back of your leg, letting you use his shoulder for support.
When he straightens up again, he’s much closer than before. You suck in a breath, eyes dancing across his face. His do the same, before settling on your mouth.
Your chin tips up the slightest bit, like you’re making room for him, inviting him, and Jack nearly accepts it. But you’ve been drinking, and this isn’t anything new for him. It’s not spur of the moment. He’ll want you the same tomorrow, more even.
So when he leans in, and you let your eyes slip closed, he doesn’t let himself kiss your mouth, but presses his lips softly to your cheek, then to the hinge of your jaw, before pulling away.
“You should get some rest,” he tells you.
You nod, a hand coming up to your cheek like you’re keeping his touch there a little longer. “Will you- do you wanna stay?”
“Sweetheart.”
“We don’t have to do anything, it’s just late, and-”
“I’ll stay,” Jack tells you.
You lead him to your bedroom, and if you thought his presence in your living room was something, this is entirely more destabilizing.
Where there’s an alternate reality where he’s in here for more. Where he’s leaning over you on the mattress, where his smell is etched into your sheets. And maybe it isn’t so far fetched, not with how he looks at you.
How he’s taking care of you tonight.
To that point, Jack goes into your dresser and picks out some pajamas for you once he finds the right drawer, setting them on the edge of the bed. He’d assumed you’d go into the bathroom to change.
Instead, he watches you reach for the hem of your top. His eyes widen slightly as you lift it, exposing your stomach. He turns around before it gets above your chest.
Jack’s meant to be a strong man, but the sight of your bare skin—skin that’s new to him—makes his heart stutter. Makes him weak.
“I have a spare toothbrush in the bathroom,” you tell him, prompting him to turn back around to find you now changed. “And I have some sweatpants if you want to change. They might not fit you, but-”
“I’m alright,” he says. Really, he’s thinking similarly to you. Thinking about a world where his toothbrush lives beside yours and he’s got a spare change of clothes here already.
And when you settle into bed after brushing your teeth, Jack’s prosthetic leaning against the nightstand, facing him with your cheek pressed into your pillow, that world doesn’t feel so far away.
“Thank you for coming,” you whisper, eyes fluttering sleepily.
OR OR reader goes out with santos and mel after the fourth of july shift and gets drunk with them and calls jack for a ride home and he drops them off one by one but he stays with her and tucks her in and it’s sooooo fluff
yay thank u for the request i hope u enjoy!! | 1.6k of fluff, ‘her’ used in reference to reader once
The humidity outside somehow feels less stuffy after having been in the bar for a couple of hours.
You tip your head back when a gentle breeze blows through, soft as a whisper but it kisses your heated skin all the same.
“Shit,” Trinity mutters from behind you, looking down at her phone. Her face shines a little with sweat, baby hairs sticking to her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asks immediately. She’s let her hair down tonight, both literally and metaphorically, and you’re glad to have witnessed it.
Today’s shift was a lot. More so than usual, and when Santos had suggested a night out to Mel, and then to you when she caught you listening in, it was easy to accept.
Your throat aches a little from the numerous songs you shouted more than sang, but it’s a welcomed scratchiness. It reminds you that you’re here and alive.
You turn towards the pair that are now both focused on Trinity’s screen, their brows scrunched. One concerned, one more annoyed.
“What is it?” you ask.
“Literally no Uber wants to go to three different drop-off spots,” Trinity tells you. “And if they do, they're charging an insane amount.”
You let the next words slip out before you really think of it. Later, you’ll blame it on the alcohol, but you’re hardly more than tipsy by now. The last two drinks you had were water.
“I can call Jack.”
Trinity and Mel stare at you.
“Abbot,” you add.
“You can call Jack Abbot?” Trinity asks you, something almost teasing in her tone.
“Yeah,” you say, shifting on your feet. “Unless you wanna walk?”
“Oh, no. Please, call Abbot,” she tells you.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Mel says, smiling a soft, encouraging smile.
“Okay, I’ll just-” you point over your shoulder and step away, digging your phone from your purse. His contact is easy enough to find. You stare at it, your finger hovering over the screen.
You’ve had his number saved for a few weeks now. He’d given it to you after a rough shift, finding you by your locker and typing it into your phone himself with an urge to “call if you need anything.”
And you just… haven’t. You’ve pulled up his contact countless times. Looked at his name there as he’d typed it; Not Dr. Abbot. Just ‘Jack.’
Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to just hit the call button. He’s your attending, and sure he’s flirty with you, but he’s a little flirty with almost everyone. And ‘call if you need me’ is just a thing people say. At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself lately.
You suppose tonight you’re testing to see if he really meant it. If you’re not totally alone in wanting to get more of him somehow.
You press the button and hold your phone up to your ear, looking to see if Trinity and Mel are watching you. They are. Mel gives you a thumbs up.
And then you’re turning back around, because after only three rings, the line clicks, and a low “hello?” slides through the speaker.
“Hi!” you say, wincing at how awkwardly it comes out. “Um, it’s me. Are you busy?”
Jack ignores your question. “What’s going on?”
“Me and Mel and Santos are out and no Ubers are taking us. You know, Trinity’s actually a pretty good singer. Anyways, I was wondering if you could come get us? It’s totally fine if not, I mean, it’s warm, so we could walk-”
“How drunk are you?” Jack asks you, not judgemental or accusing, just curious.
“Just enough to let myself call you,” you say quietly. “Not enough to not know what I’m doing.”
“Okay,” he says. “Tell me where you are.” Like it’s that simple for him to drop whatever he’d been doing just because you asked him to. Like whatever he heard in your voice was convincing enough. Almost like he didn’t need any convincing at all.
He shows up only a few minutes later, pulling up to the curb right in front of you and leaning over to open up the passenger side door.
You wave at him. He wiggles his fingers back and nods at you, urging you to get in beside him.
Trinity and Mel climb into the backseat, chatting quietly between each other.
You watch as Jack pulls away from the curb, listening to Mel’s directions back to her place. Watch as he turns up the AC when he catches you fan yourself, an arm reaching over to aim the vent towards you.
“Thank you,” you say.
And when he turns his head to quickly wink at you, it’s hard to come up with anything else.
He drops Mel off, and soon enough it’s Trinity’s turn.
“You gonna be okay?” Santos asks you, more suggestive than anything, once Jack’s parked.
Only, Jack takes her seriously. He twists around in his seat to look at her and say “I’ve got her.”
You sink into the passenger seat, embarrassed and delighted.
She salutes him and climbs out of the car. And then it’s just you and Jack.
“Is it okay?” you start, a sudden nervous flutter in your stomach. “That I called? I mean, I hope you weren’t busy, or-”
“Sweetheart,” he stops you, that same low, patient but sure voice as on the phone. “I gave you my phone number. I want you to use it.”
“Oh, okay. Good. That’s good.”
Jack has the hand not holding the steering wheel resting on the centre console. He shifts his over just enough that his knuckles brush your arm once, twice, before pulling away again.
“Good,” he agrees with a little nod.
And before you can say something else, he’s parking outside your building. You only just realize then that you hadn’t been giving him any directions to get there.
You look at him, his black t-shirt tights across his shoulders, his hair curling around his ears. Then, there’s his fingers squeezing the steering wheel, his knee bouncing.
He’s nervous, too, you think. Or affected, at the very least.
It’s what makes you brave enough to say: “Do you want to come up?”
And Jack, turning his head to look into your shining, shy, hopeful eyes could never say no to you. Not even when he probably should.
He lets you lead the way to your door, a hand hovering behind your lower back in case you stumble. You fumble with your keys until he takes them from your hand and unlocks your door for you, holding it open with an outstretched arm that you have to duck under to walk inside.
It’s only when you bend down to take off your shoes that you feel the lingering effects of the alcohol, your vision a little fuzzy around the edges, your head swimming and focused all at once. Because every thought is about Jack.
Jack, standing in your living room like he was meant to be there, like the space just miles itself around his presence. Jack, leaning down to help you slip your shoes off when he catches you struggling, a warm hand on the back of your leg, letting you use his shoulder for support.
When he straightens up again, he’s much closer than before. You suck in a breath, eyes dancing across his face. His do the same, before settling on your mouth.
Your chin tips up the slightest bit, like you’re making room for him, inviting him, and Jack nearly accepts it. But you’ve been drinking, and this isn’t anything new for him. It’s not spur of the moment. He’ll want you the same tomorrow, more even.
So when he leans in, and you let your eyes slip closed, he doesn’t let himself kiss your mouth, but presses his lips softly to your cheek, then to the hinge of your jaw, before pulling away.
“You should get some rest,” he tells you.
You nod, a hand coming up to your cheek like you’re keeping his touch there a little longer. “Will you- do you wanna stay?”
“Sweetheart.”
“We don’t have to do anything, it’s just late, and-”
“I’ll stay,” Jack tells you.
You lead him to your bedroom, and if you thought his presence in your living room was something, this is entirely more destabilizing.
Where there’s an alternate reality where he’s in here for more. Where he’s leaning over you on the mattress, where his smell is etched into your sheets. And maybe it isn’t so far fetched, not with how he looks at you.
How he’s taking care of you tonight.
To that point, Jack goes into your dresser and picks out some pajamas for you once he finds the right drawer, setting them on the edge of the bed. He’d assumed you’d go into the bathroom to change.
Instead, he watches you reach for the hem of your top. His eyes widen slightly as you lift it, exposing your stomach. He turns around before it gets above your chest.
Jack’s meant to be a strong man, but the sight of your bare skin—skin that’s new to him—makes his heart stutter. Makes him weak.
“I have a spare toothbrush in the bathroom,” you tell him, prompting him to turn back around to find you now changed. “And I have some sweatpants if you want to change. They might not fit you, but-”
“I’m alright,” he says. Really, he’s thinking similarly to you. Thinking about a world where his toothbrush lives beside yours and he’s got a spare change of clothes here already.
And when you settle into bed after brushing your teeth, Jack’s prosthetic leaning against the nightstand, facing him with your cheek pressed into your pillow, that world doesn’t feel so far away.
“Thank you for coming,” you whisper, eyes fluttering sleepily.
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okay unfortunately i’m a sucker for hurt comfort and would love reader coming into the ED for like semi-minor injury (maybe like a broken arm or something) and Jack+PTMC found family just being so sweet and doting (pre-est. relationship?)
i was very focused on jack and forgot the PTMC found family part, but i hope u like it anyways 😣 | 0.8k of fluff mostly and a wrist injury (no blood involved!)
Your still-damp hair drips down your back as you walk through the PTMC waiting room doors, surely leaving a damp spot on the back of the t-shirt you’d thrown on.
It’s strange to be entering this way. Like a patient.
You walk up to the check-in desk, thankful that the line is only a couple of people long. You should be thankful to be waiting in a line at all—it’s what you tell your patients, anyway. You see cases based on severity, be glad you’re able to wait a little while. But your wrist is throbbing and swollen, and your shirt is sticking to your back uncontrollably, and you should be in bed right now. You shouldn’t be back at the ED and certainly not with an injury.
And yet, you are.
You walk up to the desk when it’s your turn, smiling at the clerk on shift. She asks you your name, what happened, hands you a form to fill out, and just as you’re about to take it from her with your good hand, someone calls your name.
Someone whose voice you’d recognize anywhere, gravelly and steady. Jack Abbot walks into the reception area at the perfect time.
“What’s going on?” he asks you, jerking his head towards the doors that separate the waiting room from the ED.
He bends to tell the clerk something, but you can’t quite make it out through the screens and the noise happening in the rest of the room. Even when it's nearly midnight, the waiting room is jammed.
You meet him by the doors, and he holds out a hand to guide you through, wrapping it loosely around your arm, just above your elbow, to guide you to a room.
“I think I broke my wrist,” you tell him, holding up the hand in question.
Jack leads you to one of the empty rooms, shutting the door and then the curtains as you sit down on the bed. It’s been a little bit since you’ve been on nights with him, but he still seems to know you. To remember that you don’t like to make a fuss, to be the centre of attention.
He grabs the rolling stool and sits down, placing himself just in front of you at the foot of the bed. Your knees knock against his. Yours bouncing with worry, his warm and still.
“What happened?”
You wince at the thought of telling him. It’s embarrassing and stupid, but you know that having the full picture helps—you’ve pulled it out of patients enough times yourself—that you say it anyways.
“I was in the shower and slipped. I tried to catch myself and landed on it funny.” Before he can respond, you continue, “I know we’re not supposed to, and we tell people that, but it happened so fast and I-”
“Hey,” he stops you with a warm hand on your knee. You hadn’t even been aware it was still bouncing until then. “It’s alright, it’s our instinct. Can I take a look?”
Jack’s hands are held palm-up, and you reach out and set your wrist in them. His fingertips are calloused, a little scratchy against your skin where he touches you, but they’re just as gentle.
He prods at your skin, explaining each step and smirking a little when you finish his sentences. You know the drill, after all. And it helps to occupy your mind, helps you hold in your pained noises.
When he presses one spot, though, a hiss slips out, and Jack immediately retreats. “‘M sorry, honey.”
The pet name is a painkiller in itself.
“It’s okay,” you practically whisper.
He tests your range of motion next, apologizing softly each time he can tell you’re uncomfortable or hurting, even when you don’t say anything. He can tell how you’re feeling by the catch in your breath, by the way you hold it or scrunch your nose.
Jack doesn’t let go of your hand even when he’s finished. “I don’t think it’s broken, but we’ll get you an X-ray to be sure. And some painkillers in the meantime.”
“I’m okay.”
“Advil, at least,” he encourages.
He only lets you go when you nod, leaving the room and coming back only a couple minutes later with a bottle of Advil and a cup of water. He sits down in front of you again, and you take them from him one at a time as he hands them to you.
Once you’ve taken both, you say, “You don’t have to stay with me. I’m sure you’ve got other patients. Better things to do.”
“I’m exactly where I need to be,” he tells you. He says it so simply that there isn’t really any room for you to argue.
“Well, thanks, Dr. Abbot. For taking care of me.”
“Just Jack. Please.”
“Okay. Thank you, Jack.”
It comes out quiet, unsure, but his knees are brushing yours again and his head is bent close to yours so he can keep his eyes on yours. You don’t miss the way they seem to soften when you say his name, like he’s never heard it spoken like that before.
“Anytime, honey.” He knocks his knee against yours more purposefully this time. Doesn’t pull it away. “Anytime.”
okay unfortunately i’m a sucker for hurt comfort and would love reader coming into the ED for like semi-minor injury (maybe like a broken arm or something) and Jack+PTMC found family just being so sweet and doting (pre-est. relationship?)
i was very focused on jack and forgot the PTMC found family part, but i hope u like it anyways 😣 | 0.8k of fluff mostly and a wrist injury (no blood involved!)
Your still-damp hair drips down your back as you walk through the PTMC waiting room doors, surely leaving a damp spot on the back of the t-shirt you’d thrown on.
It’s strange to be entering this way. Like a patient.
You walk up to the check-in desk, thankful that the line is only a couple of people long. You should be thankful to be waiting in a line at all—it’s what you tell your patients, anyway. You see cases based on severity, be glad you’re able to wait a little while. But your wrist is throbbing and swollen, and your shirt is sticking to your back uncontrollably, and you should be in bed right now. You shouldn’t be back at the ED and certainly not with an injury.
And yet, you are.
You walk up to the desk when it’s your turn, smiling at the clerk on shift. She asks you your name, what happened, hands you a form to fill out, and just as you’re about to take it from her with your good hand, someone calls your name.
Someone whose voice you’d recognize anywhere, gravelly and steady. Jack Abbot walks into the reception area at the perfect time.
“What’s going on?” he asks you, jerking his head towards the doors that separate the waiting room from the ED.
He bends to tell the clerk something, but you can’t quite make it out through the screens and the noise happening in the rest of the room. Even when it's nearly midnight, the waiting room is jammed.
You meet him by the doors, and he holds out a hand to guide you through, wrapping it loosely around your arm, just above your elbow, to guide you to a room.
“I think I broke my wrist,” you tell him, holding up the hand in question.
Jack leads you to one of the empty rooms, shutting the door and then the curtains as you sit down on the bed. It’s been a little bit since you’ve been on nights with him, but he still seems to know you. To remember that you don’t like to make a fuss, to be the centre of attention.
He grabs the rolling stool and sits down, placing himself just in front of you at the foot of the bed. Your knees knock against his. Yours bouncing with worry, his warm and still.
“What happened?”
You wince at the thought of telling him. It’s embarrassing and stupid, but you know that having the full picture helps—you’ve pulled it out of patients enough times yourself—that you say it anyways.
“I was in the shower and slipped. I tried to catch myself and landed on it funny.” Before he can respond, you continue, “I know we’re not supposed to, and we tell people that, but it happened so fast and I-”
“Hey,” he stops you with a warm hand on your knee. You hadn’t even been aware it was still bouncing until then. “It’s alright, it’s our instinct. Can I take a look?”
Jack’s hands are held palm-up, and you reach out and set your wrist in them. His fingertips are calloused, a little scratchy against your skin where he touches you, but they’re just as gentle.
He prods at your skin, explaining each step and smirking a little when you finish his sentences. You know the drill, after all. And it helps to occupy your mind, helps you hold in your pained noises.
When he presses one spot, though, a hiss slips out, and Jack immediately retreats. “‘M sorry, honey.”
The pet name is a painkiller in itself.
“It’s okay,” you practically whisper.
He tests your range of motion next, apologizing softly each time he can tell you’re uncomfortable or hurting, even when you don’t say anything. He can tell how you’re feeling by the catch in your breath, by the way you hold it or scrunch your nose.
Jack doesn’t let go of your hand even when he’s finished. “I don’t think it’s broken, but we’ll get you an X-ray to be sure. And some painkillers in the meantime.”
“I’m okay.”
“Advil, at least,” he encourages.
He only lets you go when you nod, leaving the room and coming back only a couple minutes later with a bottle of Advil and a cup of water. He sits down in front of you again, and you take them from him one at a time as he hands them to you.
Once you’ve taken both, you say, “You don’t have to stay with me. I’m sure you’ve got other patients. Better things to do.”
“I’m exactly where I need to be,” he tells you. He says it so simply that there isn’t really any room for you to argue.
“Well, thanks, Dr. Abbot. For taking care of me.”
“Just Jack. Please.”
“Okay. Thank you, Jack.”
It comes out quiet, unsure, but his knees are brushing yours again and his head is bent close to yours so he can keep his eyes on yours. You don’t miss the way they seem to soften when you say his name, like he’s never heard it spoken like that before.
“Anytime, honey.” He knocks his knee against yours more purposefully this time. Doesn’t pull it away. “Anytime.”
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