All the stones and kings of old

It was innocent. Or at least you believed it was. Your crush on one of your father's closest friends, Dr.Abbot. 

It felt innocent when you first saw him those years back in that hospital, your dad introduced him as one of the best attendings he’s ever worked with and also one of the shittiest pool players, which earned a tight-lipped smile from Dr.Abbot that made your heart clench in your chest. 

“Your dad wouldn't have made it this far without me, sweetheart,” He offered back at you, voice deep and soft, eyes scanning and looking you over as he would his patients. 

His salted hair perfectly tussled back in little curls, spotted freckles up his neck with deep lines there to show his age and combat history. Handsome as ever. An astute observation, despite your youth. 

Once his eyes had landed on you, it was as if all the air was sucked from your lungs, barely being able to remember your own name when introducing yourself, hopeful you didn’t make yourself seem too incoherent, avoiding eye contact in fear of collapsing right in front of him. 

“Rob's been hidin’ you from us, it seems,” Jack’s brow raised at the accusation, challenging Robby on his chest of secrets, you being one of them. 

It wasn’t that your father hid you; your mother and he weren’t extremely fond of each other. You were the result of an impulsive one-night stand he had in his late 20s or early 30s. He wasn’t even present for the birth; he only found out you existed once your mother sued him for child support. 

This resulted in the school years spent with your mother & summers with your father. The courts decided he wouldn’t have as much time as a resident to provide the care and attention necessary. 

Sure, in your youth, you found yourself gravitating to your mother, having spent most of the year with her, including most major holidays. But, as you grew, your father grew on you too, becoming an attending offered him more freedom and more of a chance to make you his priority. 

Although the years in school took you away from him, abroad overseas as well, a local internship in Pittsburgh helped you find your way back to him. 

And also back to Dr.Abbot. 

“Her mom's fault,” Robby snorted, brows raising in a way they always did when he had to mention your mother or anything about her. You could see him tense up in his usual fashion, grasping the stethoscope around his neck to ease any tension pulsing through his body.

He would’ve regretted that night if it hadn’t brought him you. The reason he finds himself still breathing. 

Every summer, you’d see Dr.Abbot around, whether it was to drink and shoot the shit with your dad, or when your dad impulsively bought a new motorcycle and had to show it off to him. 

Every meeting seemed to be more difficult than the last, almost coughing on your spit every time he’d appear unexpectedly in your home.

Abbot was always kind, asked about school, work, and sometimes even boys or girls, mentioning that he’s “hip” and down for the cause. 

Your father would plug his ears and say, “La, La, La, not listening.” 

It pained you a little to shut him down dryly after every conversation, refusing to show him how ditzy he makes you, how weak you feel under his direct gaze. How you’d give anything to know what aftershave he wears so you could have your current boyfriend use it and dream of being had by him when your boyfriend was inside you. 

From then on, you distracted yourself from Dr.Abbot, pushing him further from your mind, understanding that it would be wildly inappropriate for you to pursue a relationship with your father’s closest work friend, especially at your young age. 

It didn’t work. Never did. Every interaction you had with Dr.Abbot only left you drifting further in your own desire. 

When you’d drop food off for your dad, Dr.Abbot was there, focused on some medical emergency where he was in his element, brows knit, focused, and shouting orders while delicately instructing. 

When he’d spot you near the nurses' station, he’d tease, leaning in so close you could feel his breath on your ear, “What’s a guy gotta do around here to get a sandwich too?” 

You didn’t know how to respond, falling back into a blushing state and a shrug, attempting to think of some witty response before he was pulled away to another emergency. 

It carried on like this, little remarks here and there, you assumed any of your father's friends would make to poke fun at his daughter, to create some sort of friendly bond. 

However, your feelings were never solely friendly, and it made you feel a bit perverted to think about the ways he could have you every time you caught a glimpse of him. 

Your feelings progressed into a state of complete avoidance. Keeping your distance from him to the best of your ability, refusing to become a silly schoolgirl in his presence, which you often found yourself reduced to whenever he was near. 

Luckily, college eventually took you far away, taking internship jobs over the summer as well. Bummed that you would spend so much time away from your father, except when he visited on family weekend or dropped in to surprise you. A large part of you was relieved, however, to not have to face Dr.Abbot for some time. 

Once you returned, after graduation, purposefully taking a job to bring you back to Pittsburgh after years of your father's pleading, you were able to avoid him. Not greeting him when he came over, often saying you didn’t feel well. Or Ubering food to your father's work so you could still show your love and not have the chance of seeing Dr.Abbot in fear for what not seeing that man in years could do to you..

It went well for months, your feelings tended to subside until you saw him, Dr.Abbot, on your front porch with your father, sharing a pack of beers. 

“Fuck,” You whisper under your breath, clenching the bag over your shoulders, digging your nails into the leather material, sucking in deep lungfuls of breath, attempting not to do or say anything stupid in front of Dr.Abbot. 

Dr.Abbot, who’s a war vet. Dr.Abbot, who helps the police from time to time. Dr.Abbot, who consistently saves lives. Dr.Abbot, who has defended a nurse or two against physical attacks from patients. Dr.Abbot, who, despite being closer to your father's age, was someone who drove you insane with desire. 

It was hard not to be stupid in front of him. Feels like your default state. 

Your footsteps gain their attention as they turn their heads to the right to see you approaching them, a tight smile on your face to hide your embarrassment, hoping you can get inside with just a hello, knowing it's rude not to greet the man you haven’t seen in years, but it might kill you.

“Thought your shift ended at 4?” Your dad checks his watch, worn every day, visibly beaten up by another hell of a shift. 

“It does, went out with a few co-workers,” You nervously bite at your lip, knowing it’s well past 4 and you wouldn’t have an issue with this conversation if it wasn’t in front of the most intimidating and attractive man you’ve ever seen in your life, one who you’ve refused to look at since you’ve approached. 

“Well, you should text and let me know. Also, shouldn’t be walking home alone at night, especially after a drink or two,” He continues, seeing through your facade to look as sober as possible. 

“I like walking,” You shrug, trying to ignore the way Dr.Abbots eyes burn into your side, always forming eye contact as if he’s programmed to. You can’t do it back, you’ll imagine you’ll melt. 

“Well, I like it when my daughter’s returned to me in one piece, crazy people out there- just today I saw-”

“I know, got it, I’ll make sure to use your card to Uber next time,” You respond a little sassily, earning a chuff from your dad, who blocks the entrance to your home with Dr.Abbot. 

He gestures over with his head to Dr.Abbot, instructing you silently to greet him. Noticing your hesitancy. 

Truth be told, he noticed your hesitancy a month or two ago after your 15th excuse to not see Abbot and confronted you on it. Asking if anything was wrong with Jack, which you immediately shut down. Mentioning you just tend to be shy, grateful that the answer was accepted. Not wanting your father to know the reality of the situation, quite accustomed to your father's temper. 

“Hi, Dr.Abbot.” You turn to him, taking calculated breaths to control your breathing, eyes connecting right where his were staring at you, locking there. It’s hard to ignore how they seem to take in your full appearance, not necessarily knowing if he’s judging you or not. 

“The prodigal daughter returns,” He takes a sip of his beer, holding eye contact there as you realize you aren’t breathing, heart on absolute fire - still to this day not knowing how to match his wit, watching as he throws his hand up, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, and still with the Dr.Abbot?” His fingers flex around his beer, lip twitching up in a challenging, teasing manner, his default, it seems, as you try to gulp down a looming whimper. 

“Thought you worked nights?” You question, an attempt to match his tone, trying to gesture to your father to move so you can get out of this conversation. He doesn’t, knowing very well all you want is to go inside. 

“My day off, and your dad can’t seem to function without me either. Seem to be called in every time.” Jack turns his focus towards your father, grateful that you don’t have to be under his burning spotlight as he smiles towards your dad. 

“Ahh, not true. You’re an adrenaline junkie who practically begs me to call him in.” Your dad finishes the beer, moving to a new one, easily fitting into this routine conversation.  

“But you love it.” Jack brightens his smile, tilting his head before turning his attention back to you, right lid dropping down in a quick wink that almost sends you tumbling back. 

“Sure, I do.” Your dad shrugs with an eye roll, as if all three of you don’t know how important Jack is to him.  

“Hate to break up this love fest, but can I go and sleep now?” It’s a cry for help, desperate to be away from Dr.Abbot and his flirtatious winks, and how his bicep bulges from his shirt when he lifts his beer. You feel 13 again, just finding a new boy band to obsess over. 

“Go on, kid, sleep well.” Robby acquiesces, sliding over to give you some space as you eagerly pass him up the stairs towards the front door. 

“Night, Dad.” You sigh, opening the door to finally free yourself from this torment. 

“Am I chopped liver?” Jack's voice, graveled with a tinge of jealousy that you can’t make out, is real or not, stops you in your tracks, head whipping around to him as you can’t fight the heat flooding your cheeks. 

“Goodnight, Dr.Abbot.” It comes out in a puff of breath, hurrying inside so he doesn’t see your reaction, the door closing behind you, where their conversation continues. 

He’s good for your father. He needs friends, needs people to rely on, and it can’t always be you. You know he suffers silently, and it would be shitty of you to jeopardize that, but when you go upstairs, you do find yourself spreading your legs and touching yourself to the thought of something occurring with him, one day. 

-

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” You murmur outside of your home, the sun high above your head where it’s beating down on you. The mixture of the heat and brunch mimosas settling into confuse your hazy mind. 

Your keys were gone. Maybe left inside, maybe dropped in the street, they were gone, and you were exhausted. It was a co-worker's birthday, and you agreed to join a group for a boozy brunch, which led you outside of your shared home, calling your dad's phone. 

Of course, being the senior emergency attending physician meant he was rarely able to take your phone calls, which led to multiple texts about your current situation and a few voice notes complaining if he could hurry because it’s hot and you’re still drunk. 

Eventually, you settle on your porch step, drifting off into a sleep that you don’t awaken from until you hear your name being called out. 

“Ya?” you murmur back, less drunk than before but still buzzed, assuming it’s your father who snuck out on a break to scold you but also open the door. 

To your surprise, once you peel your lids back, you see him, Dr.Abbot, in front of you with a silly grin on his face, his body shielding you from the sun, creating a shadow over you as you imagine this was the worst-case scenario. 

“Why’re you here?” Is all you can get out, mortified by how you look on this porch, one heel off your foot, legs spread in the most unladylike manner in your brunch dress. You think you took your bra off and shoved it into your bag on the way home, too. You don’t remember. 

“Not the reaction I was expecting…” He chuckles, taking you all in, eyes roaming once more in a way that makes you feel judged, closing your legs in a hyper-aware manner, attempting to straighten yourself out. 

“I have a house key- being Rob's emergency contact means I get the duty of doin’ things like helping his daughter get in the house when she’s locked herself out.” He continues to look you over with a sly smile, brows going up where your strap has fallen off your shoulder. 

“Huh, funny, don’t you sleep during the day?” You’re a bit meaner than you intend to be, moreso angry at yourself for revealing yourself to him in this way, wishing you had reapplied your lip combination before this meeting. 

“Don’t sleep at all, I'm a vampire,” He hums dryly, reaching up past you to turn the key in the lock before pushing the door open with ease, granting you a whiff of his classic aftershave. 

“Bite me,” You mumble under your breath, grasping the wall to help you stand up, tripping a bit over your feet as one heel is on, giving you zero balance as you squeak out a giggle, dropping your purse with an oops. 

“Let me uh-”

“I got it,” You snap a bit back, trying to overcompensate for the fact that you probably look a mess and you don’t want him to see you looking more of a mess than you already do, reaching over to pick your purse before stumbling forward. 

His arms are around you in no time, fitting around your waist to hoist you up to him before plunging, in one motion, cradling you up to his muscled chest as you connect with the scent of him there, fear rising in your throat as you come to realize your predicament, reacting quickly before you can map out how his arms feel when he holds you that tight. 

“I can walk,” You push him away quickly, like a bratty 3-year-old,  legs fighting to find their place on the ground. 

“Then walk.” He grumbles irritably, voice gone low and hushed as he sets you firmly on your feet in front of him, placing his hands on his hips in an expectant way, insisting you walk since you’re clearly able to do so. 

You do walk, you walk one step then two until you’re falling over, forgetting to kick off your other heel as he grabs you once more, hoisting you up. 

“No- Dr.Abbot!” You whine like a toddler who doesn’t want to leave daycare as he skips the cradle hold and throws you into a fireman's carry, your stomach connecting with his shoulder as he holds your leg and arm firmly to him, mumbling about something as he treks up the stairs, your voice caught in your throat as your world is physically turned upside down. 

“As stubborn as your dad.” He huffs out, making it to the top in seconds as if he isn’t carrying a person, finding your room before throwing you onto your bed aggressively, back bouncing off of it as he does. 

“He just told you to let me in, didn’t say anything about this,” you challenge petulantly, a frown swirling on your face to distract from the desire brewing in your core, the last thing you desired being Jack Abbot in your room. Maybe the first thing you desired, you can’t tell. 

“Yeah, no, I’m sure if I left you on the porch, he’d have been just keen with me.” He snorts a bit, looking around your room curiously, making you hyper aware of the fact that you have Dr.Abbot in your fucking room. 

“Don’t have to take care of me, m’an adult,” You throw your hands over your eyes, rubbing them eagerly to wipe away any haze, feeling as if this is some sort of dream, trying not to slur your words. 

“Should act like one.” He speaks in a hushed tone, eyes falling on something on the floor.

“What's that supposed to mean?” You don’t care to look at what he’s staring at, curious as to what he could mean. 

“Been avoiding me.” His eyes dart to yours and focus in, as if he’s a bloodhound sniffing out the truth, your own eyes going wide as you come to understand you’re not as sneaky as you want to be. 

“I'm not-”

“Been avoiding me for years, you have, and you still are. Why?” He questions. You can’t sense if he’s irritated; his voice is soft with questioning, but his face tells another story, hard set on you, as if you lie, he’ll know. Somehow, like he knows you. 

“Can I have some water?” You turn your attention to your ceiling, not being able to take this line of questioning, preferring to play damsel in distress and send him on his way as quickly as possible. Maybe if you weren’t slightly drunk, you’d feel a lot better about any answers you have. Attribute your avoidance to anxiety or something. 

You hear him exit the room and go downstairs, grateful for some space that’ll clear your mind, but it isn’t long until he’s returned with an arm full of things, along with water, looking to your bedside table where he’s leaving coconut water, crackers, aspirin, and multiple water bottles. 

Eventually handing you the water first, you mutter a quick thanks ignoring how thick his fingers are before downing half of it, expecting him to get bored and see himself out. 

He doesn’t, still watching you in a way that makes you insecure, where you lie, “How are you feeling?”

It makes you wanna scream, every neuron remains on fire in your body, lit with desire for the man before you, who’s taken care of you in every way possible and seeks to help you more. 

“Really?” You gasp out a laugh, absolutely bewildered by him. The mix of desire, embarrassment, and drunkenness is a lot for this moment where he stands above you, next to you, trying to figure out if you need anything else. 

“Yes, really.” He pushes, clearly not leaving without some clarity on your well-being, which makes you burst then and there.

“I feel like I want to kiss you.” You shield your face with your hands, completely mortified once the words leave your mouth, overwhelmed by your newfound blunt nature, motivated by the alcohol in your system, not ready to hear his response. His rejection, you imagine. 

It’s quiet. You think he left, maybe hope he’s left, until you hear him break the silence on a cracked voice, “I know.”

“You know?” Your hands immediately drop from your face, tears welling in your eyes where you look to him to see he’s looking back to the same spot on your floor from earlier, not at all disturbed by your admission, his reaction similar to a reaction when you tell someone that their shoe is untied. He actually reacts less than that. 

“Can sense it. You get to my age, you can feel it…” His eyes hold there, a strange thing for him not to make eye contact with you, even stranger to not be baffled by your confession. 

“Also heard you touching yourself the other night when I was leaving, heard my name slipped in there a few times. You call me Jack when your fingers are inside you?” His eyes land back on you, brow raising in confusion. Not confusion that you’d masturbate to him, but confusion that you use his real name in your fantasies but not with him. 

You could die right now, you think, you wish the room would swallow you whole. You know, you probably look insane to him, eyes wide, color gone from your face, not knowing what to say when he holds your attention. 

His gaze softens on something, maybe your fear, you think when he starts up again, but you’re quick to interrupt him, not wanting to hear rejection or hear him let you down gently, “Please go- get out.”

You cover your face where tears have begun to spill from your eyes, a lump caught in your throat as you don’t hear movement or the door being opened and closed.

“Jack fucking go.” You curse, against your nature, needing him to not see you, how you’ve tried so hard to not be seen. 

There's a dip next to you in the bed, and you find yourself letting out a sob, keeping your face covered despite his presence, nauseated by this interaction.

“I think of kissing you, too.” He murmurs, sweetly as if he’s scared to scare you away, your fingers creating a slit for your eyes as you realize he’s looking down to where you’re crying, eyes focused on what he can see of your face.

“Y-you do?” You hiccup, still on edge. Not yet knowing if this is real. Could be just saying this so your dad doesn’t come home to find you in tears. 

“Uh-huh,” He hums, reaching for your hands, his large, warm, dry ones wrapping around yours to pull them off your face so he can see you there, eyes glistening as you look to him, seemingly showing zero reaction, only a certain tenderness between his softly furrowed brows.

You imagine he’s probably faced more to warrant bigger reactions; a young girl saying she has a crush on him isn’t too high on his shocked list. 

“I want you, believe me, I do- fuckin’ jacked off outside your window once I heard you that night, swear I saw stars when I came, believe me, I want you.” He laughs a bit at himself, shaking his head despite you lying there in complete shock, his hands still gripping yours tightly. 

“Y-you can have me.” It's desperate, a little immature, you know that, but you’re far from being coy with Dr.Abbot; it’s all or nothing. Might as well. 

He laughs, dryly, as if you know why that would be silly, but you can’t think of why it would be. Two consenting adults, it wouldn’t be bad. 

“We can’t.” He insists, sternly, gripping your hand tighter as he clicks his tongue in his mouth, decidedly. 

“Why?”

“You know why.” His eyes set sternly on you, narrowing in to show you he’s serious about this, his head shaking no decidedly. 

“Do you know what you are to him?” He asks you, leaning over in the shared space, as you realize this is the closest you’ve ever been to him, eyes searching yours for some resolution you can’t give him.

“You’re everything to him, the reason he goes into work day in and day out. The reason he’s breathing…” He mutters, breaking eye contact as his eyes shut closed, “And I’m one of his closest friends- hell, more like a damn brother.” 

He releases your hands, his fingers pinching at his nasal root as his eyes scrunch together, deep in tense thought that you can’t quite meet in your inebriated position. 

You reach out to him instead, hands connecting on his thigh where he’s sat next to you, fingers swirling in a silly pattern as you shrug, “Jack?” 

His eyes shoot open to you, darkened with the fact that the only other time he’s heard it off your lips was when you were deep in the throes of pleasure, “Just once...please.”

“Fuck it.” He mumbles harshly, filling the space between your bodies with himself as he leans into you there without warning, your mouth opening on a gasp that allows him to waste no time slipping his tongue in as your lips connect on a starved kiss - your thirst quenched after years and years of pining.

You moan, too loudly there, trying not to understand how your dreams came into fruition. His body weighing down on yours as he’s over you, chest pressed to yours when he deepens the kiss, arms snaking around your waist as he hoists you deeper to him, the kiss continuing as your lips glide against his. 

“Need you,” you mumble into his mouth, feeling his puffs of hot air slide into your mouth as your tongue wraps around his, feeding into your own pleasure, legs wrapping around his hips as you connect yourself to one another fully clothed. 

It’s hard to miss, that press that strains through his pants, his hard on that pokes where you’re covered in your underwear, a whine sliding out of your throat as your hips eagerly connect onto it, desperately trying to find it fit onto your nub between your legs. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” He chuckles out, a little thrown by your sudden forwardness, enjoying this different side to you as you press your body to him, your lips connecting with his chin where he’s stubbled and gray. 

He breaks away then, untangling himself from you as he stands, running his hands through his hair a little breathless as he smiles down to where you’re laid out expectantly, waiting. 

“What are you-”

“Touch yourself. Like you did that night.” He commands, nodding down to you, backing away until his back hits the wall, undoing his button to his pants. 

“Wh-what?” Your breath hitches in your throat, a little thrown as your eyes widen when he’s stuffing his hand in his pants. 

“Do it. Lemme see it,” His brows go up, a little impatient at the fact that he had to say it again. 

You’re hesitant at first, never having done this with someone watching, let alone Jack, but you do, at least try to remember what you did that had you moaning his name out of your bedroom window.

Your hand dips below your dress, where your legs are spread, sinking between your thighs to press three fingers over the material in a soft moan as they connect with your clit, rubbing them in a motion that has your hips rolling. 

You can hear his labored pants from here, hear how he’s vigorously clutching himself in his briefs, feeling his eyes burn where your fingers are pleasuring yourself, ushering a subtle ‘uh’ from you. 

Your other hand reaches up to grasp your chest, tweaking your nipple as you shudder, goosebumps forming as you squeeze yourself there, a cry leaving your mouth as you pick up the pace. 

You’re lost in your own pleasure once you feel his hands on you, roughly tugging the dress from your body, ripping at it in a way where you can feel the zipper break, your hands going up to allow him to take it off. 

“Get this off,” He murmurs harshly, tearing it from your body and flinging it to the side, leaving you sprawled out in just your underwear before he finds himself against the wall again, your hazed eyes making out that he’s fucking himself in his briefs again. 

You continue your motions, giving him a better view of how you cup your naked breast, his eyes stuck on your chest as he drools a bit animally, a smile forming on your face at having this sense of control over him. 

“Jesus, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me, what you’re turnin’ me into-” He breaks off on a deep, subtle moan that has you biting back a smile. 

It’s a sudden thought, but you find yourself slowly removing your underwear, starting with the hem, then tugging it over your knees, then ankles, throwing it to the side where you often throw your panties in the middle of the night when you wake up extra needy. 

You realize suddenly that’s what Jack had been looking at on the floor. Your pair of lacey panties from the night before, when you’d used your vibrator. 

It fills you with pools of desire that overflow as you spread your legs to him to reveal your glistening center, your hand sliding back down to offer him pleasure as he’s locked onto it from across you. 

He doesn’t seem like his usual cool, calm, and collected self. He’s hungry, practically snarling where he’s touching himself while eyeing your pussy, watching the way your fingers slide through the folds, up and down ever so sweetly. 

“Go on, baby, touch yourself, more,” He growls, spit on his lip where he’s salivating for you, pleasuring himself to you, pleasing yourself. 

You give him what he wants, placing your middle finger down down down until it catches on a hitch, sliding into you as your toes clench on a cry, throwing your head back to feel how your hole sucks at your own finger. 

“Fuck- do that to yourself again.” His voice is hoarse when he speaks, more animal than man, as he doesn’t make eye contact, completely focused on where his finger has disappeared into you. 

You pull out of yourself, before swirling your middle finger around your hole, pressing in once more as you both groan at the same time, feeling your pressure give to the intrusion easily as you lay your head back. 

He releases a sort of snarl-like growl once you hear him disrobe, hear the way his pants drop to the floor, and it soon happens in a whir. 

“Open,” He turns your head to the side, where you barely have a choice to register his cock in front of you before it’s pushed past your lips into your mouth, sliding against your tongue, hitting the back of your throat as you gag. 

It doesn’t take him long to find the back of your head, pushing himself down your throat with a jut of his hips and push from his hand which ushers out the deepest moan you’ve heard thus far, eyes blinkin back tears as you eyes focus on his greyed bush of hair at the base of his cock- large enough to have you desperate for air. 

He doesn’t give you much time before his other hand greedily slips between your legs, where they're still sprawled outwards, where he stands beside you, playing with your pussy as his fingers rub that sweet spot that has your legs clutching closed. 

“So shy, still so shy for me,” He mumbles in a teasing manner, your thighs not strong enough to cease his hand movements as he continues to rub you there, thrusting deeply into your throat until he’s had a nice test of your mouth, removing himself, leaving a trail of spit from his cock to your mouth.

You gasp and cough, not having expected him to be so rough when he had been so sweet earlier, fighting to catch your breath as he climbs over you into the bed, pressing your legs back as you try to understand what might be happening next. Feeling like a rag doll under his pleasure-filled might. 

He maneuvers you, pushing your legs back to your chest and out so he can fit in between them on his knees, hosting you up as the back of your thighs land on the front of his, your legs loosely hanging around his hips as you get a better view of his cock now, watching as it twithces furiously between his legs, glistening with your spit as he positions himself. 

“Won't hurt your leg?” You murmur concernedly, looking down to where his prosetheis is, wanting him to know you can take it slow if you need to. 

He laughs then, a sweet thing as if that’s the most juvenile thing you could’ve asked. “Worry bout yourself, baby.” 

He’s correct as his tip finds your notch, nudging there and pushing through without much time for you to adjust, filling the space with his mass as your core gives and gives to his pressure and hip push, finding his limit and yours as he buries himself in you, your head thrown back in a shuddering manner. 

“Oh- Oh fuck!” You cry as he finds a comfortable pace for himself, giving you zero time to adjust, hips fucking out his pleasure as he fills you repeatedly over and over and over with a jut of his hips, looking down to where you’re reaching up to claw at his arms, nails sinking into his bicep as they soon position on his shoulders where hes leaned over, eyes focused on where you’re connecting. 

“That’s it, let it out, sweetheart.” He smiles a bit, finding pleasure in your surprised nature as he thrusts deep into you, rolling his hips after every thrust to deepen himself so you can fully feel his girth as you grip onto it ever so tightly. 

“I-I can’t,” You cry out, legs gone like jelly as they hang loosely over him, your breasts bouncing lazily on your chest as tears spill from your eyes at the overwhelming pleasure granted. 

He leans over then, nuzzling his nose into your tear-stained cheek, “Yes, you can.” He mumbles back over your lips, kissing you there sweetly before burying his face in your chest, his hand connecting with your nub sweetly as he keeps his pace. 

It’s a brutal thing, your orgasms. You tend to live in a state of pent-up emotions, so when it happens, it’s intense, it’s blinding, and it’s why you insist on fucking with the light off often, too ashamed to see the mess you turn into. But it’s too late. 

“I-I-,” Is all you make out until your back arches on something unexplainable, a knot forming in your core that unfurls with every pump of himself in your tight, warm cunt that has you screaming out his name as your legs and hands grip him, certainly leaving marks where you’re fingernails dig in as the pleasure washes over you like waves onto shore. 

“That’s what I was lookin’ for, great job, baby.” He mumbles above you fucking out his last few thrusts that get you to your high before ceasing his motions. 

He didn’t finish. It makes you freeze, eyes peeling open to ask him why he’s stopped before he’s removing himself and flipping you, landing on your stomach as you screw your brows together. 

Your hips are grabbed and hoisted up as you land on your knees, the lower half of your body still sunk into your bed as you murmur confusedly, until you feel him poke you from behind, nuzzling into the same spot as before, as you give in to his pressure. 

 “Oh my god- Jack!” You cry into your pillow, feeling his hands tug at your hips to meet his brutal pace, realizing he was taking it easy earlier for your shared first time, that this is his natural pace.

The headboard of your bed pounds against the wall with each push, that has you screaming and crying, wondering how you’ll explain to your father how you put a crater into the wall. 

It’s brutal and unforgiving, the way his hips slap onto your ass with every thrust, your hands gripping at your comforter as you clench your teeth, grateful he had taken it easy on you at first, your poor cunt shuddering around his mass as it forces its way into you repeatedly. Twitching inside you. 

“Almost there, sweetheart,” He mutters behind you, pace quickening as you wonder if you’ll be able to walk the next day, feeling him dig into your depths with his mass, your hole clenching around him to mold against his cock that’s jittering with anticipation. 

Three big thrusts have your knees collapsing and him pressing his full weight onto your backside, hips nuzzling in as deep as they can go to bury himself in your sweetness.

He bites at your shoulder, teeth sinking in a claiming mark as he moans against your skin, fucking out his orgasm, shooting loads of his seed deep into your womb, coating you from the inside with him as his hips thrust out the last of his throws before rolling off of you, your head turning to face him. 

His chest is furiously rising up and down as he pants out the remainder of his pleasure, hands on his face, rubbing out his pleasure and exhaustion as he sighs out, cock going soft again, as you realize it’s not just him post-orgasm. He’s upset. 

“What’s wrong?” You question quietly, confused, wondering if you did something that made him feel so torn. 

“Fuck- this… this was not good.” He mumbles where his hands are placed over his face in distress, shaking his head no as he sighs out, your stomach dropping around ten stories. 

“This was bad?” Your voice cracks on horror at the fact that he didn’t enjoy fucking you, didn’t enjoy being with you. Which was worse than rejection. 

His eyes snap open at that, landing on where you’re shaking, staring at him, nude and vulnerable, eyes watering as he murmurs ‘no, no, no’, taking your face in his hand, swiping at a tear with your thumb. 

“Not this, baby, not this. This- was the best thing I’ve done in… shit, I can’t even remember.” He murmurs to you in the small shared space between your bodies, as if you’re the only girl in the world. 

“I just mean- I’m Rob’s friend, his brother. You’re his… prized possession. He gets crazy when it comes to you, and I mean, well fuck, I clearly get crazy when it comes to you.” He corrects himself, huffing out, eyes searching over your face for any hint of discomfort, it seems. 

“He won’t know… it’ll be a secret.” You shrug softly, a bit immature about the situation, but you need him to know you wouldn’t do that to him, jeopardize his relationship with your father. Never that. 

He opens his mouth to respond before his phone rings from his pile of clothes, rolling off the bed to grab it in his jeans, looking at the caller ID before looking back at you and answering.

“Hey Rob… yeah, no, she’s good, she’s in bed now…. Yeah, tucked her in myself.” He mumbles into the phone, earning a little giggle from you as you watch him pace around the room, a little exacerbated. 

“Yeah, I can head in, knew you missed me,” He mumbles into the line before hanging up, giving you eyes before slipping on his briefs, coming over where you're still nude in the bed, on your back now, looking up to him like he hung the moon. 

He’s sweet when he presses two kisses to your lips, short and lingering, knowing you just heard the conversation, not feeling the need to explain it anymore. 

“I’ll see you ‘round,” Jack mumbles making eye contact in a simple way, as to tell you he’s not trying to fuck and leave, slipping his pants on, looking around for his shirt. 

“Mhm, see you around, Dr.Abbot,” You tease, watching him get dressed like he’s a freshman in college, who just got laid. 

“No more Dr.Abbot,” his eyes narrow at you, as a warning, before placing his shirt on. 

You think for a moment, recalling his brotherly relationship with your father, “Okay, Uncle Jack.”

“Take two steps to your left,” Robby instructed.

You fixed him with an exasperated pout. Your stupid, no-good, annoying-as-hell big brother had decided, against all reason, that you needed a full concussion check, even though you’d only lightly smacked your head on the doorframe. It hadn’t even hurt.

Honestly, with your baby-kitten-level pain tolerance, the whole neighborhood would’ve heard about it if you’d actually hurt yourself in any serious way.

Nonetheless, you knew better than to argue with the brute, so you obediently took two steps to your left.

And really, it was just a matter of terrible timing. Your foot caught on the corner of the rug (yes, the same rug you’d been meaning to glue down for weeks, but hadn’t, because life) and you stumbled. Then stumbled some more, momentum pitching you forward, arms windmilling in a frankly useless attempt to save yourself.

It was a fruitless effort, and your forehead cracked straight into the edge of the stone surround framing the open fireplace in your brother’s living room.

“Ah, fuck!” Robby swore, lunging forward. He caught you before you could fully collapse, his hands clamping around your arms as you immediately burst into loud, indignant wailing.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow—” you keened, clutching at him as your vision fizzed and blurred.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Robby muttered, hauling you upright. “You alright? Where does it—hey, look at me.”

Your big brother in every sense of the word, including age (he was nudging into his mid-fifties, while you’d only just turned twenty-three)—held you steady, one hand firm under your elbow, the other tipping your chin up.

You gazed at him.

Most people assumed that Robby was your dad. You let them, because it was less awkward than having to explain that you’d been a Jewish miracle baby, and also because it was objectively hilarious, and you could never pass up a chance to call him old.

“Eyes on me,” he said, sharper now.

You blinked at him. Slowly. Maybe a little unevenly. You were wincing a bit against the bright light. Why did he have the big light on? You hated the big light. Lamp light was so much calmer.

“There you go,” he murmured, though the line between his brows didn’t ease. “How many fingers?”

He held up three. Or maybe four. They blurred a little in front of your face.

You squinted. “…Four?” you offered weakly.

Robby exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a suppressed groan. “Brilliant. Fantastic. Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

You were seeing stars; actual, honest-to-God stars bursting across your vision. And as much as you loved stargazing in the summer, lying on warm grass and pointing out constellations, it was November, and you were very much indoors.

Which meant that was definitely not a good thing.

“…okay,” you said after a moment, your voice small and wavering. You were pretty sure you were still crying. “Robby… my head hurts. A little,” you confessed.

“A little?” Robby echoed, incredulous. “Yeah, I bet it does. Ah, fuck. You’re bleeding,” he said, his grip tightening as he leaned in for a better look. He shook his head. “Right. We’re going to the Pitt. I’ll get Jack to take a look at you; pretty sure you’re going to need stitches.”

Your stomach lurched.

Then lurched again.

And then you threw up, in spectacular fashion, all over the rug. The same rug that had betrayed you. The same rug that, tragically, had never lived long enough to be glued down.

Robby made a noise somewhere between disgust and concern. “Brilliant. That’s just fantastic.”

“Sorry,” you croaked miserably, swaying where you stood. “’M sorry, Robby.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, already steering you toward the door. One hand stayed firm at your back, the other gripping your arm like a lifeline. “Just try and stay upright, yeah? One foot in front of the other.”

“Mm-hm,” you mumbled, though the floor felt suspiciously unreliable beneath you.

You made it exactly one step before your foot clipped the edge of the wall and your balance tipped dangerously sideways. Robby swore under his breath and caught you before you could go down again, hauling you upright with a sharp, steadying tug.

“Right. Nope. Not trusting you with stairs,” he muttered.

The next thing you knew, he was half-carrying you; your weight slung awkwardly against his side as he guided, dragged, and generally manhandled you toward the door.

“Sorry,” you whispered again, snuffling through a fresh wave of tears as your head throbbed.

“I said don’t apologize,” he shot back.

“But I am sorry!” you wailed. “I should’ve glued down the rug weeks ago, and I should’ve been more careful not to hit my head in the first place, and I should’ve made a nicer dinner, because you’re a doctor and you work so hard and I’m just a silly girl with no idea what to do with my life, and I spent all day sewing beads onto my new skirt instead of cleaning like I promised, and—“

“Hey. Hey, stop.” Robby’s voice cut through the spiral, sharp but not unkind. He stopped walking altogether, turning you to face him, hands firm on your shoulders to keep you upright. “None of that. Not one bit of that is relevant right now, do you understand me?”

You hiccuped, still crying, vision swimming.

“Good,” he muttered, as if that was progress. “Eyes on me.”

You tried. It was… difficult to keep them all the way open.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

You blinked at him. “Course I can,” you mumbled thickly. “Not that dumb.”

“Your name,” he repeated, patient but unyielding.

You sighed, then winced immediately at the way your head punished you for it. “I know my name,” you complained.

“Fantastic. Prove it.”

You squinted at him, deeply offended, before mumbling your name under your breath.

“There we go,” he said, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Right, come on. We might be able to miss the three a.m. rush.”

“Hm,” you mumbled, leaning heavily into him as he guided you forward. “Is Jack gonna be mad at me?” you asked, worry slurring slightly at the edges.

Robby snorted. “Jack’s not gonna be mad at you.”

“That’s what you said last time,” you pointed out weakly.

“Last time was your fault,” he said, opening the truck door and carefully guiding you inside. “Skateboarding was a stupid idea.”

“I was pretty good,” you protested.

“Yeah, until you fell, hit your head and broke your wrist in three places,” he replied, buckling you in with firm, efficient hands. “Sit still.”

You let your head fall back against the seat, eyes fluttering as the world kept trying to tilt sideways without asking permission.

“…sorry,” you whispered again, almost on instinct.

Robby paused with one hand on the doorframe.

Then he exhaled through his nose, soft this time. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

He shut the door, and the truck dipped slightly as he climbed in on the other side.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he said, starting the drive. “You just need to stay awake.”

Your eyelids drooped. “…trying,” you mumbled.

“Good,” he said. “Keep doing that.”

—

The first time you actually met Jack Abbot was on the night following your twentieth birthday.

You’d gone out to a club with the small group of friends from high school you’d managed to keep, under strict instructions to be home by two a.m. latest. Or would it be the earliest, since it would be morning?

Either way, you hadn’t been paying much attention to the clock until you stumbled out of the club and realised it was already five minutes past your curfew.

Tears were already tracking down your cheeks before you’d even reached the pavement. You slid down the brick wall, sniffing hard, and pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them like they could hold you together.

All you wanted was to snap your fingers and wake up in your bed and forget about this entire night.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Michael is calling.

You stared at the contact name as it flashed on your screen, a fresh wave of guilt tightening in your throat. You’d already managed to turn your birthday into a disaster, and now you’d broken the promise you’d made your big brother.

A hiccup slipped out before you could stop it.

You hesitated, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen as the call kept ringing, the guilt growing heavier with every second.

Then you answered.

“Where—”

“Could you come get me, Robby?” you cut in immediately, voice wobbling. “I haven’t had a very good time.” You sniffled, utterly pathetic and completely beyond caring. You’d apologise properly tomorrow; for the broken curfew, for making him worry, for everything.

Right then, you just wanted your big brother.

On the other end of the line, Robby exhaled. “I’m already on my way,” he said.

You could hear it then, the low rumble of his truck in the background if you listened closely enough. Relief loosened your tension.

“Are you using your phone while driving, Robby?” you asked, head lolling slightly as you tried, and failed, to sound stern.

“Course not,” he scoffed. “Got you on speaker. Jack’s holding the phone.”

“Oh,” you said. “Hi, Jack.”

A laugh crackled through the line, warm, easy, a little rough around the edges, and it made your eyelids feel heavier immediately. You’d heard plenty about Jack Abbot over the years through Robby, but you’d only recently moved to this side of the city to live with your brother while you figured out what you were doing with your life.

You were weirdly excited to actually meet him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said, his voice almost crooning. “Not having a very good birthday?”

You shook your head before remembering he couldn’t see you. “Nuh,” you mumbled instead. “Been shit.”

“Language,” Robby said.

Jack let out another laugh, “Ah, let the girl swear, brother. She’s obviously upset.” He paused. “You want to tell me his name, honey? I’ll fuck him up real good.”

A wet giggle slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Don’t want you to get in trouble,” you said, sniffling hard. Then your face crumpled again. “He’s stupid anyway. I caught him kissing one of the dancers. On my birthday.” Your voice broke on the last word. “He’s so… he’s so—”

“An asshole?” Jack supplied.

You made a strangled sound that was half sob, half agreement.

“Ah, kiddo,” Jack said, the humour fading out of his tone. “Don’t cry.” He said. “Michael,” he added, “tell her to stop crying.”

“She’s a crier,” Robby said in the background. “She’ll cry more if I tell her to stop.”

“S’true,” you agreed immediately. Then your face crumpled again. “I want a hug!” you announced, a bit too loudly.

A couple of people nearby glanced over.

Jack made a soft, amused sound through the phone. “That so?”

“I do,” you insisted, voice wobbling as you hugged your knees tighter. “I want a hug and I want my bed and I want to forget tonight ever happened.”

“We’re nearly there. Just stay where you are, yeah?” Robby instructed sternly. “No wandering off.”

“I won’t,” you said, offended on principle.

Jack’s voice came back in. “You got all your stuff with you, honey? Your purse, your coat?”

You nodded again before remembering the same problem as before. “Yeah,” you mumbled. “Got it all from the coat room before coming out.”

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s real good.”

Then Robby was speaking okay. “Alright kid,” he said. “You’re gonna see my ugly face in about, what, five minutes?”

“Ugh,” you said. “Did you shave again?”

“My face, my business,” he replied dryly.

Jack laughed.

You hugged your knees tighter, swaying slightly where you sat.

“I really want that hug,” you repeated.

“I know,” Robby said. “Three minutes away.”

And he was right. Three minutes later, a set of headlights cut through the end of the street, slowing as they found you slumped against the brick wall. The truck pulled in close, engine ticking as it settled.

The passenger door opened almost immediately.

“Alright,” The man, who you assumed was obviously Jack, called as he stepped out, phone still in hand. “Where are you?”

You lifted a shaky hand.

“Right there,” Robby’s voice came from inside the truck. He didn’t get out, just leaned slightly across the seat, watching through the open door.

Jack shut the distance in a few easy strides and crouched in front of you. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice dropping into something steady and calm. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

You tried to comply immediately, which mostly resulted in you swaying alarmingly and grabbing at his arm for balance.

“Whoa, easy,” Jack murmured, catching you without hesitation. One arm slid around your back, firm and controlled, the other steadying your elbow. “I’ve got you, baby.”

Up close, you registered that he smelt so good.

“Hi,” you said dumbly.

“Hi,” he echoed, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Come on. Up you get.”

“I don’t like gravity,” you informed him, as you struggled to stay upright.

“Slow steps,” he said.

With careful coordination, Jack got you on your feet and half-guided, half-carried you toward the truck. You made it exactly two steps before your balance tried to abandon you again, and his grip tightened instinctively.

Inside the truck, Robby watched the whole thing with a tight grip on the steering wheel.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jack called over his shoulder. “I’m helping you out, brother!”

“Ain’t gotta be so fucking touchy,” Robby said.

“Swear jar,” you mumbled.

“Fuck off,” he said.

Jack opened the back passenger door, but before he could help you in, you suddenly stopped, swaying in place.

“Wait,” you said.

“What?” Jack asked cautiously.

You turned your head toward him with intense, teary focus. “I need my hug,” you told him.

Jack blinked once.

Then he sighed and pulled you into a hug. It was solid and warm and smelled faintly like clean laundry and something medicinal, and you immediately melted into it.

“Oh,” you mumbled into his shoulder. “Nice hug. Good hug.”

“Yeah? Good honey,” he said. “Have as many as you want.”

From the truck, Robby made a strangled sound. “Alright,” he called. “Enough! Into the truck. Both of you.”

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, checking your face with a quick, professional scan. “C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s get you buckled in.”

And this time, when he guided you into the seat, you went without protest, still a little dazed, still swaying faintly as the world refused to settle properly.

Jack leaned in to buckle your seatbelt, efficient and careful, one hand steady at your shoulder so you didn’t tip sideways.

“You’re very handsome,” you whispered. His brows lifted. “Don’t,” you hiccuped, eyes wide and earnest. “Don’t tell Robby I said that. He’ll be so mad.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, warmth breaking through his calm expression. “Our little secret,” he whispered.

—

Jack Abbot has worn many titles over the course of his life.

He’s been a son, a brother; older and younger depending on who needed him the most at the time.

A recruit, standing in lines where individuality is heavily frowned upon, where you learn quickly that obedience isn’t an option.

He was a student. He studied tirelessly. He became a combat surgeon, one of the best in his battalion. He earned a Purple Heart and lost his leg in the process.

He came home a veteran. Got a prosthetic leg and relearned how to walk all over again, one painful step at a time.

He kept practising medicine. Before long, he itched for something more; so he became a SWAT medic alongside his attending duties.

It’s a hard balance. Maybe that’s why he likes it. If life isn’t a challenge, then it doesn’t feel real enough to him.

Sometimes, when the night shift runs long, Jack catches his reflection in a monitor or a stainless-steel tray and thinks about all the people he has been.

Son. Brother. Friend. Recruit. Surgeon. Veteran. SWAT medic.

And then, inevitably, he thinks about you.

You, twenty-three, all bright edges and soft optimism. The way you talk too much when you’re nervous and compliment him when you’re drunk. The way you apologise when you shouldn’t; again and again.

Thinking about you makes him wish he could be something more.

Something he's not allowed to be.

He wants and wants and wants.

He thinks about your soft hair and breathy giggles, and the way your pink sweaters always seem just a little too big, slipping off one shoulder like they don’t quite know how to sit on you.

Your endless collection of lip gloss. The faint trace of vanilla that follows you around. The way you smile; open, easy, completely unguarded.

He wants you.

Not in the careless way he’s wanted things before; it’s not a temporary obsession.

He wants to keep you. To belong somewhere with you. To come home and find you there, in his space, in his house.

He wants to be yours in whatever way you would allow it.

It’s sick and twisted and entirely forbidden. You’re near enough thirty years younger than him and he wants you in a carnal way that would make your brother seethe.

Jesus. He needs to pull himself together.

The ambulance bay doors slam open.

Jack’s head snaps up.

“Hey!” Robby shouts.

Jack is already moving before his brain fully catches up, his boots hitting the floor in sharp, decisive strides.

You’re limp against Robby’s chest, head tipped at the wrong angle, blood streaked down your temple, your face pale in a way that makes him feel physically sick.

“Head injury,” Robby says, his voice tight. “She tripped, hit the fireplace. Vomited twice, once at home and once in the truck. She’s—”

“Jack?” You cut your brother off with a weary voice, your eyes fluttering open to stare wide-eyed at the doctor. Those beautiful eyes immediately fill with tears, and he doesn’t think before stepping forward into Robby’s space.

“Trauma bay two. Now,” Jack says, already reaching for you as the team converges.

His hands are steady when they take your weight.

Your fingers weakly curl around Jack’s sleeve.

“I’m right here,” he says, voice low but steady, like nothing about this is affecting him at all. “Pupils?” he snaps, louder now, eyes flicking up as someone shines a penlight.

“Reactive, but sluggish.”

“BP dropping slightly.”

“Line’s in.”

“Good. Run fluids. I’ll keep her talking.” Jack leans in again despite himself, close enough that his voice doesn’t have to carry over the noise. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Sorry about the needles, honey. I know you don’t like ’em, but we can’t have you throwing up again, can we? You’ll only make it worse.”

“Hurts,” you repeat, sniffling, your voice small and frayed.

“I know,” he says. “I bet it does.”

You turn your head, slow and heavy, until your gaze lands on your brother. Your bottom lip trembles, eyes wide and glassy in a way that has always worked on him.

Robby’s expression tightens, something protective and sharp flashing behind his eyes, but he steps in anyway. His hand comes up to your hair, brushing it back from your face with careful fingers, despite the blood. “Hey kid,” he mutters. “You’re doing a great job.”

“Can you tell me where you are?” Jack asks, smoothly shifting back into assessment, even as your fingers remain curled into his sleeve like an anchor.

You hesitate. “Pitt?” you surmise.

“Correct,” he smiles down at you.

You try to mirror the smile, but your eyes flicker again, drifting.

“No, hey—“ Jack’s hand comes up, brushing your cheek, grounding, insistent. “Eyes, sweetheart. Come on, what did I say? You gotta stay awake.”

Behind him, Robby shifts.

And this time, the movement isn’t subtle.

Jack feels it before he sees it; the shift in the air. Robby’s gaze drops. Not to your face, not to the monitors, but to your hand.

Your hand, that is still curled tightly into Jack’s sleeve.

“CT’s ready,” Shen calls.

“Start moving,” Jack orders, gruff and impatient.

The gurney jolts into motion.

Robby falls into step alongside it, matching Jack stride for stride as they push through the swinging doors.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of wheels rattling over tile and your quiet mumbling; you’re singing, Jack thinks.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Robby mutters.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “Not the time,” he says evenly, eyes fixed ahead, one hand steady on the gurney rail while the other keeps you anchored in place. His jaw tightens, but his hands remain steady. “She needs a CT,” Jack continues, clinical, detached. “We can have whatever conversation you think we need to have after.”

“Oh, we’re going to have it,” Robby says. “Don’t worry about that.”

They round the corner.

The CT suite doors come into view.

Your fingers twitch weakly against Jack’s sleeve, still holding on.

Jack exhales slowly through his nose and prepares himself for a black eye and a broken nose.

—

You wake up slowly, and your bed feels all wrong. It’s too firm and flat and plain uncomfortable. And it doesn’t smell right; not like your pillow spray or laundry scent beads at all.

Robby calls your collection a pillow mountain. You like soft things, always have, and you’d taken full advantage of the fact that he let you hoard blankets and cushions to your hearts content.

You groan, shifting, already reaching instinctively toward where your phone should be on your nightstand—

A hand closes gently around your arm, stopping you.

“Easy,” Robby says.

Oh.

You blink, vision lagging a second behind reality, and take in the ceiling tiles.

You turn your head, slow and careful this time, and there he is; your brother, sitting close, watching you, one hand still wrapped gently around your arm.

Your arm. Which has a needle in it.

You gag immediately, recoiling on instinct.

“Hey—hey, don’t—” Robby leans in fast, voice low and steady as his other hand grabs a fold of the hospital sheet and pulls it up, covering the IV site before you can get a proper look. “Don’t look. Take a deep breath.”

You squeeze your eyes shut anyway. “You let them jab me,” you mumble miserably.

“I’m sorry," he says flatly, thumb brushing absently over your wrist.

You peek one eye open. “Is it still there?” you ask stupidly.

“Yes.” He says.

You make a distressed noise.

“Just don’t look at it. If you don’t look at it, it isn’t really there.”

“I don’t like that idea,” you frown at him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s the one we’re going with.”

You shift slightly, wincing as your head protests immediately, a dull, throbbing ache settling right behind your eyes. “Oh,” you breathe, voice small. “Ouch.”

Robby’s grip tightens just a fraction. “Yeah,” he says. “You gave us a bit of a scare.”

You frown, trying to piece things together through the fog. “I hit the fireplace,” you mumble.

“Yep.”

“I tripped on the rug,” you recall.

Stupid damn rug.

“You did.” Robby confirmed.

“…I threw up,” you remember, horrified.

“Twice,” he confirms.

You drag your free hand over your face. “I’m sorry.” You mumble.

“You’re concussed,” he informs you. “And you had to get a few stitches, but other than that, you’re okay.”

You lower your hand and squint at him. “Did Jack fix me?” you ask.

Your brother suddenly looks murderous, and you blink at him, concerned, but his expression smooths out. “Yeah,” he says evenly. “Jack took care of you.”

You relax a little at that, tension easing from your shoulders as much as it can. “Oh,” you murmur. “Okay. Good.”

—

“I could kill you right now, with my bare hands. God, I’m so fucking pissed at you,” Robby said.

Jack stood a few paces away on the roof, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his zip-up hoodie, shoulders set. “I wouldn’t stop you,” he replied. “Jesus. You think I feel good about it?” He laughed, self deprecating.

“You’re almost fifty, Jack,” Robby went on, pacing now, agitation bleeding back into every movement. “Fifty. You’ve lived a whole damn life already.”

“I know,” Jack said quietly.

“Do you?” Robby shot back. He pointed at him, frustrated, disbelieving. “She’s twenty-three years old. She’s still figuring herself out, what she wants, who she is, how the world works. And you—” he huffed out a sharp breath, shaking his head, “—fuck. You’re supposed to know better. Shit. And you’re my best friend,” Robby said. “Or you’re supposed to be. You’re the guy I trust to have my back. The guy I trust around my family.”

Jack’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I didn’t think I had to worry about you,” Robby said, quieter now, but no less intense. “Out of everyone, everyone, I never thought I’d have to look at you and wonder what the hell you’re thinking.”

“I’m not—” Jack started, then stopped himself. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar.

Robby laughed, short and humourless. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Wind dragged across the rooftop.

Robby stared at him. The anger didn’t disappear, but it seemed to shift. First anger, then calculation, then something almost like reluctant understanding. And then he dragged a hand down his face with a rough exhale. “Jesus,” he muttered. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this…”

Jack stood completely still.

“But I’m glad it’s you,” Robby said finally, the words gruff and reluctant. “At least I know you won’t—” he cut himself off, jaw tightening, then forced it out anyway, “—you won’t hurt her.”

“Never,” Jack said.

“She’ll be all in,” Robby said, after a long awkward stretch of silence. “That’s how she is. She doesn’t do things halfway.”

“I know,” Jack replied. He didn’t want to do anything halfway with you.

“And if she ends up hurt—” Robby’s voice dropped, dangerous again, “—I don’t care what you’ve done for me. I don’t care how long we’ve known each other.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Jack said. It felt like a vow.

With a sharp exhale, Robby looked away, out over the dark city instead of at Jack.

—

“Hi,” you whisper as Jack steps into your room.

The early morning light is just starting to creep in through the blinds, soft and pale, washing the harshness out of the hospital room. Somewhere out in the corridor, voices murmur. You’re pretty sure that it’s just the beginning of handover, the shift from night to day.

Your brother has disappeared on a mission to find coffee and your discharge paperwork—likely in that order.

Jack closes the door gently behind him, careful not to let it click too loudly, and keeps the lights low. “Hey, kiddo,” he murmurs back. “How’re you feeling?” he asks.

You shift slightly against the pillows. They feel wrong, still wrong, nothing like your pillow mountain, and wince. “Bad,” you mumble. “But better.”

A faint huff of amusement escapes him. He reaches out, almost without thinking, and adjusts the edge of your blanket where it’s slipped, the motion careful, absent-minded. “No more throwing yourself at fireplaces,” he says sternly.

“I didn’t,” you protest weakly. “It was… I just—”

“Tripped on the rug,” he supplies.

You let out a small, defeated sigh. “Stupid rug.”

“Robby’s due to start his shift soon,” Jack says after a moment. “I can take you home, but I doubt he’ll want you to be alone today.” He pauses, watching your face carefully. “You wanna go to your parents’ place? I don’t mind taking you.”

You blink at him. “Oh,” you say quietly. “Um… well…” Your gaze drops to the hospital sheet, fingers picking at the edge of it like it’s suddenly very interesting. “Well, the thing is,” you start, voice thinning a little, “I’m not really talking to my mom at the moment.”

He frowns at you.

“Robby doesn’t know, obviously, but we argued and she called me names and I just—” your throat tightens, and you swallow it down hard, “—I don’t want to go there.”

“Not your parents’ house, then,” he says gently.

You shake your head immediately. Too fast.

“No. No thank you,” you add, then force a breath that doesn’t quite steady you. “I’ll be fine on my own.” You glance up at him, and you hate it a little; how easily your face gives you away. How obvious it is that you’re not fine. That you’re tired, in pain, scared, and suddenly very aware of how much you do not want to be alone today.

Jack exhales through his nose, like he’s made a decision. “Robby’s right about one thing,” he says. Your eyes flick up. “You need someone with you today,” he continues. “Make sure you eat and drink and don’t get any secondary symptoms. You can come with me,” he says.

“…oh,” you manage. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure, baby.”

You feel your eyes water at the softness of the pet name, and he brushes his thumb under it to catch the tear.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

He sticks his thumb into his mouth to clean off your tear, and your eyes track the movement in awe.

“Gonna take you home,” he says, and you stare at him. “We’ll talk after you eat, okay? Got lots to talk about.” He says.

Your stomach suddenly feels warm. “I—we do?” You breathe.