SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, parent death, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE — May 28th
PART FOUR — June 1st
PART FIVE — June 4th
PART SIX — June 9th
More chapters TBD
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
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The first time you meet Jack Abbot, he’s elbow-deep in somebody’s chest cavity and calmly asking for more suction like he’s ordering coffee.
You are, unfortunately, staring.
Not because of the blood. You’ve worked at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for almost eight months now as a day shift ER nurse. Blood stopped bothering you sometime around your third week, somewhere between a ruptured spleen and a guy who lost a toe trying to deep fry a frozen turkey.
No.
You’re staring because Dr. Jack Abbot is unfairly composed.
Everything about him is controlled. Efficient. Quiet. Sharp around the edges in a way that makes people automatically move out of his path. His dark curls are damp with sweat beneath his surgical cap, his scrub top streaked with blood, and somehow he still looks put together.
“Clamp,” he says.
Someone hands it to him instantly.
“Pressure’s dropping.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t panic. Doesn’t flinch.
The room bends around him instead.
You’ve heard things about him, of course. Everyone has.
Brilliant doctor. Terrifying under pressure. Doesn’t sleep enough. Doesn’t date. Doesn’t smile much. Has impossible standards and an even more impossible success rate.
Also allegedly once made a resident cry with a single look.
You’d believed all of it.
Then he glances up from the operating table and catches you watching him through the observation window.
His eyes pin you in place.
You should look away.
Instead, you forget how breathing works.
One of the nurses beside you mutters, “Jesus. Good luck.”
“With what?”
“That.”
She points through the glass.
Dr. Jack Abbot.
And somehow, impossibly, he’s still looking at you.
Three weeks later, Jack learns your coffee order.
You don’t know this until he walks into the ER break room at six-thirty in the morning and silently sets an iced coffee down beside your charting station.
Extra caramel.
Oat milk.
Exactly right.
You blink up at him.
“…Thanks?”
He shrugs once. “You looked tired.”
“That obvious?”
“Yes.”
Then he walks away.
That’s it.
No flirting. No smile. No lingering conversation.
Just quiet observation and scary levels of attentiveness.
It should not affect you as much as it does.
Unfortunately, it affects you enormously.
“You have a crush on Dr. Abbot.”
“I do not.”
“You just watched him walk through the department like he’s the last man alive.”
You continue aggressively typing patient notes. “I was observing.”
“Mhmm.”
Your best friend and fellow nurse Carmen leans against the counter, entirely too amused.
“Sweetheart, you practically stopped blinking.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you want to climb that man like a tree.”
You choke on your coffee.
Across the ER, Jack glances over at the sound.
Your eyes meet.
You immediately look down.
Carmen wheezes with laughter.
“Oh my God, you’re down catastrophic.”
The problem with Jack Abbot is that once he notices you, he really notices you.
He notices when you skip lunch during double shifts.
Notices when your hands shake after pediatric traumas.
Notices you rubbing your left shoulder after moving patients all night.
Notices when you’re overwhelmed before you even say anything.
And worst of all?
He does something about it.
“You haven’t eaten.”
You look up from the trauma bay. “I had a granola bar.”
“That was nine hours ago.”
“You memorized when I ate a granola bar?”
“You’re getting irritable. It’s usually low blood sugar or sleep deprivation.”
“That is the least romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, one corner of his mouth twitches upward.
Your brain short-circuits.
Jack sets a sandwich beside you.
“Eat.”
“You can’t just command me around because you’re scary.”
“I’m not scary.”
You stare at him.
He stares back.
From across the nurses’ station, someone whispers, “He absolutely is.”
Jack ignores them.
You smile despite yourself.
And because you apparently enjoy making poor decisions, you say, “What if I refuse?”
Jack folds his arms.
“You won’t.”
God.
The confidence should be illegal.
You eat the sandwich.
The first time you see Jack genuinely angry, it’s because of you.
Not at you.
Because of you.
A patient’s drunk family member corners you near the ambulance bay at two in the morning.
He’s shouting. Too close. Aggressive.
You’re trying to de-escalate.
“Sir, I need you to lower your voice—”
“She doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about!”
His hand grabs your wrist.
Then suddenly—
Gone.
The man stumbles backward so fast he nearly falls.
Jack stands between you and the patient’s family member with terrifying stillness.
He doesn’t shove him.
Doesn’t yell.
Honestly, you think yelling would’ve been less frightening.
“Do not touch her again,” Jack says quietly.
The guy puffs up immediately. “Who the hell are you?”
“Attending physician.”
“That supposed to scare me?”
Jack steps forward once.
Just once.
The guy immediately retreats.
Security arrives seconds later, but honestly they’re unnecessary at that point.
The man’s already backing away.
Jack waits until he’s escorted out before turning toward you.
“Are you hurt?”
Your pulse is still racing.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
His jaw flexes hard enough to hurt.
Jack reaches for your wrist carefully, checking for bruising where the man grabbed you.
His touch is unbelievably gentle.
“I’m fine,” you say softly.
Jack exhales through his nose.
Then finally mutters, “Christ.”
Something in your chest flips over.
After that, things change.
Not officially.
Not verbally.
But everyone notices.
Jack starts appearing beside you like he’s magnetized to your location.
You find coffee waiting for you before shifts.
Protein bars shoved into your scrub pockets.
Your favorite muffins left in the break room without explanation.
Once, after a brutal twenty-hour stretch, he drapes his hoodie over your shoulders because you’re shivering.
You keep it for three weeks before giving it back.
It still smells like him.
Cedar soap. Coffee. Hospital sanitizer.
You nearly die over it.
“You know he’s in love with you, right?”
You nearly drop a patient chart.
Carmen doesn’t even look up from her computer.
“I’m serious.”
“He is not.”
“He stares at you like he’s trying to personally fight anyone who stresses you out.”
“That’s just his face.”
“No, babe. That’s yearning.”
You snort.
Then glance up automatically—
And find Jack already looking at you from across the department.
Not casual looking.
Not accidental looking.
Looking.
Warm. Focused. Intent.
Like the entire room narrows down to you.
Your stomach flips violently.
“Oh no,” you whisper.
Carmen grins.
“Oh, there it is.”
It happens slowly after that.
Long conversations during overnight shifts.
Shared coffees on the ambulance ramp at dawn.
Falling into step beside each other naturally.
You learn Jack hates cantaloupe.
He learns you sing under your breath while suturing.
He tells you he became a doctor because trauma surgery was the only thing loud enough to quiet his brain.
You tell him sometimes you’re scared you’ll never stop carrying the patients you lose.
Jack looks at you for a long time after that.
Then says quietly, “Good.”
You blink. “Good?”
“It means you still care.”
Nobody’s ever said it to you like that before.
Like caring is strength instead of weakness.
Like softness isn’t something to apologize for.
You think that might be the moment you start falling in love with him.
The first time Jack kisses you, he looks furious about it.
Not angry at you.
Angry at himself.
It’s after a brutal shift involving a multi-car pileup, two fatalities, and one pediatric trauma that nearly destroyed the entire department emotionally.
You’re sitting alone on the roof outside the hospital at three in the morning trying not to cry.
Jack finds you anyway.
Of course he does.
He sits beside you silently.
Doesn’t push.
Doesn’t ask questions.
Just stays.
Eventually you whisper, “I hate losing them.”
“I know.”
“I keep thinking if I’d moved faster—”
“You did everything right.”
“But it still wasn’t enough.”
Jack turns toward you then, eyes dark and exhausted and unbearably soft.
“You are not God.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
The words hit harder than they should.
Your eyes burn.
Jack watches you carefully like he’s trying to decide something impossible.
Then you say, very quietly, “I don’t know how you do this every day.”
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“You.”
Your breath catches.
“What?”
“You’re how.”
And then he kisses you.
Abrupt.
Desperate.
Like he’s been holding himself back for months and finally snapped.
His hand cups your jaw carefully, reverently, despite the intensity of the kiss.
You kiss him back instantly.
Because you’ve wanted this for so long it physically hurts.
Jack makes a rough sound against your mouth that nearly ruins you.
Then suddenly he pulls back.
Breathing hard.
Looking wrecked.
“This is a bad idea,” he mutters.
You stare at him in disbelief. “You literally kissed me.”
“I know.”
“And now you’re saying it’s a bad idea?”
“Yes.”
“Jack—”
“I don’t do this.”
You fold your arms. “Kiss women?”
His expression flickers despite himself.
“Relationships.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“You deserve someone less…” He exhales sharply. “Complicated.”
You look at him for a long moment.
Then step forward and kiss him again.
Jack freezes.
You pull back just enough to whisper, “That sounds like my decision.”
Something in his expression cracks wide open.
After that, he kisses you like he’s starving.
Dating Jack Abbot is strange.
Not bad strange.
Just… intensely Jack strange.
He never remembers anniversaries but memorizes your medication schedule.
He forgets to buy groceries but can identify your footsteps from down the hallway.
He falls asleep on the couch still wearing scrubs because he works too much.
You cover him with blankets and he sleepily reaches for your hand every single time.
The first time you stay at his apartment overnight, you discover three things:
He owns exactly one decorative pillow.
His fridge contains alarming amounts of cold brew.
He talks in his sleep.
You learn this because at four in the morning he mumbles, “Don’t let her skip meals.”
You blink awake beside him.
“…Jack?”
He’s dead asleep.
Five minutes later:
“She’s overworking.”
You stare at him.
Then burst into helpless laughter into his shoulder.
In the morning, when you tell him, he looks genuinely horrified.
“You heard that?”
“Oh, it gets worse, sweetheart.”
Jack groans and covers his face with a pillow.
You decide then and there you’re going to marry him someday.
It’s about a year into your relationship when things go wrong.
Not catastrophically.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
You’ve both been working impossible schedules for weeks.
Too many shifts.
Too little sleep.
Too many trauma cases.
Jack gets quieter when he’s exhausted. More withdrawn. Less communicative.
You get emotional when you’re overwhelmed.
It’s a terrible combination.
“You missed dinner again.”
Jack drops his keys onto the counter. “I got called into a case.”
“You could’ve texted.”
“I forgot.”
“You always forget lately.”
His shoulders tense immediately.
“I’m trying.”
“I know, but I barely see you anymore.”
“I’m literally here right now.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Jack rubs a hand over his face, exhausted. “Can we not do this tonight?”
And there it is.
That tiny sentence.
Small.
Careless.
But it lands wrong.
You go quiet immediately.
Jack notices too late.
“Hey.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“It’s not what I meant.”
“You’re tired.”
“So are you.”
Something in your chest aches.
Because you know he loves you.
But sometimes loving Jack feels like trying to hold onto someone who keeps drifting out to sea.
You sleep facing opposite directions that night.
It’s awful.
The next three days are worse.
Not fighting.
Jack doesn’t really fight.
He retreats.
And you hate it.
By day three, you’re charting in the ER with a headache building behind your eyes when Carmen appears beside you.
“You look homicidal.”
“I’m considering violence.”
“Jack?”
You glare at your computer.
Carmen sighs. “That man loves you so much he looks physically ill when you’re upset.”
“Well maybe he should try speaking words.”
As if summoned by irritation alone, Jack walks into the department.
He looks exhausted.
And the second he sees you, his entire focus sharpens.
You refuse to look at him.
Unfortunately, your body betrays you by noticing everything anyway.
The tired slump of his shoulders.
The coffee stain on his scrub sleeve.
The fact that he hasn’t shaved.
He crosses the ER slowly.
Stops beside you.
“Can we talk?”
You continue typing. “Busy.”
A beat.
Then quietly:
“You’re still angry.”
“You vanished for three days.”
“I was working.”
“You were avoiding me.”
Jack goes silent.
Which is basically confirmation.
Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
God, you hate this.
“I need five minutes,” he says softly.
You finally look at him then.
And immediately regret it.
Because he looks awful.
Not angry.
Not irritated.
Worried.
“You look terrible,” you mutter automatically.
Something warm flickers in his eyes.
“You too.”
You hate that you almost smile.
Carmen physically walks away muttering, “I cannot keep watching this foreplay.”
Jack corners you on the hospital roof during your break.
The city glows beneath the night sky, ambulance sirens echoing faintly below.
Jack stands in front of you looking deeply uncomfortable.
Which, weirdly, scares you more than ER-Jack ever has.
“I’m bad at this,” he says finally.
“At communication?”
“At needing people.”
Your anger softens immediately.
Jack looks away toward the city.
“My father used to disappear for days at a time when things got difficult. My mother called it giving people space.” His jaw tightens. “I think maybe I learned the wrong lesson.”
Your chest aches.
“Jack…”
“When I feel like I’m failing someone, I pull away first.”
“You’re not failing me.”
“But I could.” His voice roughens. “And that scares the hell out of me.”
The honesty in that sentence nearly breaks you.
You step closer slowly.
“You know what scares me?”
His eyes lift to yours.
“Losing you because you think you have to handle everything alone.”
Jack goes very still.
Then quietly says, “I don’t know how to do this correctly.”
“You don’t have to do it perfectly.”
A long silence.
Then finally, softly:
“I missed you.”
You smile despite yourself. “Yeah?”
His hand slides around your waist carefully.
“Felt like somebody removed an organ.”
You laugh helplessly.
Jack’s forehead drops against yours in relief.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
And because you know how hard that apology was for him to say, you kiss him before he can retreat again.
Two years after your first kiss, everybody at the hospital assumes you’re already married.
Mostly because Jack behaves like a husband accidentally.
He keeps spare hair ties in his locker for you.
Knows your coffee order better than his own.
Once threatened a resident for making you cry.
(Technically he said, “Fix your attitude or transfer departments,” but the intent was there.)
You move into his apartment eventually.
Then slowly it becomes your apartment too.
Your books on his shelves.
Your skin care products invading his bathroom.
Your socks everywhere.
Jack pretends to hate it.
He absolutely does not.
One night, after a sixteen-hour shift, you find him asleep on the couch waiting for you.
Still sitting upright.
TV on mute.
Dinner cold on the table.
Your heart hurts looking at him.
You kneel beside him carefully and brush curls off his forehead.
Jack wakes instantly because apparently doctors never fully sleep.
“You’re home.”
“I’m home.”
His hand reaches for your face automatically.
Thumb brushing beneath your eye gently.
“You okay?”
“You fell asleep waiting for me.”
A shrug. “Wanted to eat together.”
God.
That’s the thing about Jack.
He loves quietly.
Steadily.
In all the little ways that matter most.
The proposal happens after the worst shift of your life.
Mass casualty incident.
Bus accident.
Twelve straight hours of chaos and blood and screaming.
By the end of it, you’re exhausted down to your bones.
You’re sitting on the floor in an empty supply closet because it’s the only quiet place left in the hospital.
Your head is tipped back against the wall.
Eyes closed.
You don’t hear Jack come in until he crouches in front of you.
“You disappeared.”
“I’m hiding.”
“Fair.”
His hand slides into yours immediately.
Warm. Familiar.
Safe.
For a minute neither of you speaks.
Then Jack suddenly says, “I’m going to need you to marry me.”
Your eyes snap open.
“…What?”
Jack looks oddly calm for a man who just dropped a grenade into the conversation.
“You heard me.”
“You cannot possibly think that was a normal way to propose.”
“I didn’t plan it.”
“You definitely didn’t.”
“I had a speech.”
You stare at him. “You had a speech?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“I forgot it.”
Despite everything — the exhaustion, the grief of the shift, the emotional whiplash — you start laughing.
Jack watches you with so much fondness it almost hurts.
“You’re laughing.”
“You proposed in a supply closet.”
“It was the nearest available room.”
“Oh my God.”
Jack’s mouth twitches.
Then he reaches into his scrub pocket and pulls out a ring box that’s slightly crushed.
You gasp.
“You had that on you during a trauma?!”
“I’ve had it on me for three weeks.”
“Jack!”
“I was waiting for the right moment.”
“And this was the right moment?”
“No,” he admits. “But you looked exhausted and sad and I wanted…” He exhales shakily. “I wanted you to know there’s going to be a future after days like this.”
Your eyes immediately fill with tears.
Jack notices and instantly looks alarmed.
“Don’t cry.”
“You literally proposed to me!”
“You’re making this seem emotional.”
You laugh through your tears.
He opens the ring box finally.
Simple. Elegant. Perfect.
Entirely him.
Your voice shakes. “You really want to marry me?”
Jack looks at you like the question itself is absurd.
“There has literally never been another option.”
That does it.
You start crying harder.
Jack mutters, “Christ,” and wipes your tears with both hands.
“You’re supposed to say yes or no,” he says softly.
“Yes.”
Immediate answer.
No hesitation whatsoever.
“Yes, Jack.”
The relief that crosses his face is so raw it steals your breath.
Then he kisses you.
Slowly this time.
Tenderly.
Like he’s sealing something sacred between you.
When he slides the ring onto your finger, his hands are shaking slightly.
You notice.
So does he.
“You’re nervous,” you whisper.
“You’re terrifying.”
You grin.
“Good.”
Jack huffs out a laugh against your mouth before kissing you again.
You get married six months later on a cloudy autumn afternoon.
Small ceremony.
Close friends.
Hospital staff taking over half the guest list because apparently trauma bonding is real.
Carmen cries through the entire ceremony.
Jack pretends not to notice while visibly emotional himself.
You catch him staring at you during the vows like he still can’t believe this is real.
Like he’s waiting for someone to wake him up.
When it’s his turn to speak, his voice goes rough immediately.
“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says simply.
Dead silence.
Half the audience crying instantly.
Jack keeps looking only at you.
“I spent most of my life believing love was something temporary. Conditional.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles carefully. “Then you walked into the ER and ruined my entire personality.”
Laughter breaks through the tears.
You’re crying too hard to care.
Jack smiles softly.
First at you.
Always at you.
“You make every terrible day survivable,” he says quietly. “And every good day better.” His eyes shine. “I would choose you in every lifetime I get.”
By the time you kiss him, half the room is openly sobbing.
Including, horrifyingly, several surgeons.
Jack never lets go of your hand afterward.
Not during the reception.
Not during the dancing.
Not during the drive home.
And years later, after impossible shifts and ordinary mornings and grief and joy and long nights tangled together in bed, he still reaches for you first thing every morning like he’s checking you’re real.
Like loving you remains the easiest decision he’s ever made.
synopsis: you’d grown up on your fathers farm, prancing around in the open fields like you owned them. your town was small and everyone knew your father due to the fact a lot of the produce came from the farm. then there was you. the towns it girl. pretty smiles and polite laughs. getting around town and catching everyone’s eyes. but no one ever truly saw you. until a man named joel miller.
pae speaks ~ hi! just wanted to say that this series is inspired by the song ‘fuck me eyes’ by ethel cain. if you want to be on the tag list, let me know! enjoy <3
part 1 — get around — 4.5k | angst | age gap
living on a farm never gave you the full opportunity to be a normal girl. but your mother wouldn’t let that happen. you got around, being who everyone wanted you to be. the perfect girl living the perfect life. not that anyone cared how lonely you were. then, at a club you weren’t supposed to be at, you met him.
part 2 — along for the ride — 3.7k | angst | age gap
after trying and failing to escape from your fathers “perfect” household for a night, you were back to square one; be the girl everyone wanted you to be. now putting on fake smiles at his stand at the annual farmers market, you’d rather be anywhere else. even if that meant getting away with joel miller.
part 3 — take her out — 4.2k | angst | age gap
your hunger for attention (love) was starting to eat you alive. after the farmers market disaster, you never wanted to show your face in public again. but when joel shows you what it’s like to be taken care of, it should’ve been enough. if only you knew the difference between being taken out and taken home.
part 4 — feel good — 3.7k | angst | age gap
you just wanted to feel good again, even if it was only for a moment. it should’ve been easy just like all the times before but it wasn’t. not when all you wanted to do was run right back into the only arms that felt safe.
part 5 — take her home — 6.9k | fluff | age gap
you had a crush on joel. it was obvious now. which was why when your fathers work began pushing you closer together, you were grateful for the opportunity to be closer to him. even if that meant going on a little road trip with him.
Quite An Impression - jack abbot x marine biologist!reader
Pairings: jack abbot x marine biologist!reader
Summary: when a jellyfish sting at work leads you to the ED, an unsuspecting Jack finds himself more and more interested in the pretty marine biologist that invites him for a tour of the aquarium she works at.
Warnings: minor injuries, talks of ER/ED, explicit language, injured animals (it all ends good), age-gap, slow burn, pinning, mentions of widower jack, yearning/longing, probably some scientific & medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 5k+
Author’s Note: part 1 is FINALLY here !! i’m so excited to get this out to you all, it’s been a long time coming !! i hope it lives up to expectations !! (am i gonna use sabrina references for each title ?? it’s possible…) bonus: uncle!jack content !! <3
“Jack”, Robby popped his head into the break room; “Come here, you’re gonna wanna see this, brother.”
Jack was bent halfway at his knees, inches from finally, finally, sitting down for the first time in hours and letting the weight off his prosthetic when Robby interrupted him. He didn’t even bother to suppress the groan that left his mouth as he pushed himself back to his full height.
He’d feel the soft couch cushions under him after this, he promised himself that much.
Jack followed Robby out, swinging his stethoscope back around his neck and holding both end of it in his hands.
“What do we got?”, Jack asked, inhaling the same way he always did during a long shift; the kind that made his back arch a little and his chest puff out.
“Female, late twenties to early thirties, jellyfish sting on the left arm and hand”, Robby read out the chart in his hands.
Jack almost stopped walking, a surprised look on his face that turned almost into a smirk.
“You serious?”
Robby laughed; “Hell yeah, figured you’d want in on it.”
Jack scoffed in the way he did when he found something funny; “Hell yeah I want in on it”
He grabs the chart from Robby’s hands flicking through the pages as he reads; “Haven’t seen anything like that since med school.”
“You and me both, brother.”
Robby turned and pushed open the exam room door with his back, sliding on a pair of gloves as he wheeled over on the swivel chair.
You looked up from the bed, eyes bright and not at all like you were in pain. Jack stopped in his tracks at the sight of you.
He realized then he wasn’t expecting someone so…pretty.
So lively and bright.
“Hi i’m Doctor Robbinavitch, this is my fellow attending Doctor Abbot, we’re gonna check you out today”, Robby says, offering a small and professional smile.
“At least buy me dinner first”, You jut back with a laugh.
Oh. Jack wanted to make that laugh leave your lips over and over again.
Robby got to work, carefully inspecting your sting, gloves fingers pressing gently into the raised red skin.
“So jellyfish sting, huh?”, Robby asks, motioning to Jack for a syringe off the tray next to him.
Jack hesitates for a moment, but his brain eventually follows, letting his eyes wander away from you for a moment.
Your hair was clipped back in a claw similar to Dana’s, a few strands falling loosely around your face and ears. A pair of black leggings and a Pittsburg Aquarium shirt. Even in the simplicity of it all, you looked so pretty. Jack swallowed hard.
“Yeah, comes with the job”, You say with an easy shrug, like it’s nothing new.
Robby pauses; “Oh yeah?”
“Yup. Marine Biologist at the aquarium. Little guy snuck up on me today.”
Robby chuckles; “Happen often?”
“More than you think. Not my first sting, won’t be my last.”
Your eyes wander over Jack, who’s still standing slightly off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. You lean a little closer to Robby.
“He always hover like that?”, You ask.
The noise that leaves Robby’s nose makes you laugh.
“Only when he’s working.”
You nod, eying Jack up and down. His silver curls and broad shoulders. The stubble that decorated his jawline. His dark hazel eyes that seem to get darker each time his eyes land on you.
“So often then?”
Robby looks up and tilts his head; “How’d you know?”
“I read people”, You shrug; “He seems like the type.”
Robby bites his cheek from saying something that’ll have Jack kicking him later, shooting him a look. You’re so accurate at reading him, it makes Robby gloat.
“Hey Doctor Abbot”, You nod your chin at him; “You ever sleep or blink or do you just…hover?”
Jack’s eyes flick back to you, the tiniest twitch of a curve at the corner of his lips as he adjusts his weight, shifting on his feet; “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
You snort, covering your mouth.
Oh you’re adorable, Jack thinks.
Robby’s still examining your sting, taking pictures on his phone cause who knows when he’ll ever see one again.
“Been meaning to visit the aquarium”, Robby says, not looking up, “My daughter likes fish.”
You light up instantly, eyes flicking between the two men, clocking Jack’s jaw twitching like he’s fighting internally on whether or not he wants to say what’s on the tip of his tongue. He eventually decides against it.
“How old is she?”, You ask.
Robby’s smile softens; “Almost two.”
You hum in response; “Fun age, usually very curious.”
Robby laughs like he couldn’t contain it; “Oh she’s very curious.”
You turn back to Jack, just as Dana pops her head into the room.
“Robby, when you’re done pawning over the jellyfish sting—trauma one needs you”, She says it with a smirk, a witty sarcastic tone with no heat behind it. Just enough to agitate him.
“Cmon Dana, this is so cool.”
Dana rolls her eyes, pointing two fingers at him; “Trauma one, now.”
She’s gone as quickly as she appeared, a sigh leaving Robby as he bows his head with a laugh, snapping his gloves off.
“That’s my cue”, He says, wheeling back in the chair and standing; “Doctor Abbot here will finish up. Get you some topical steroids and something for the pain and you’ll be good as new.”
You don’t see the wink Robby sends Jack’s way as he leaves the room, following the same path Dana had just taken.
Jack pushes off the wall, pulling a pair of gloves out and setting up everything he’ll need on the steel tray in front of him.
“I’m going to deactivate the area with some acetic acid, it’ll stop the stinging”, He begins, pulling on his gloves with a quiet smack.
“Acid?”, You ask, furrowing your brows.
Jack hums with a nod; “Don’t worry, it’s basically just vinegar. Shouldn’t hurt too much.”
You watch as he dumps the liquid carefully over your arm and hand, whatever stinging was there slowly began to dissipate, leaving behind a dull ache and general soreness.
“I’m gonna check to see if there’s any tentacles that need removed. Then we’ll get you all set up with some antihistamines and a topical corticosteroid”, He explains each step as he’s preparing it—whether it’s to ease the nerves he can sense off of you or to reassure himself—you find yourself appreciating it.
You can’t help swinging your legs a little as you watch him slide a pair of glasses onto his nose, a new pair of gloves on his hands as he grabs a pair of tweezers.
“Let me know if anything hurts”, He says.
But you’re too busy watching him.
The way he leans in close, the overhead lamp he brought over casting a slight golden hue to his curls, making them shine like silver. His features look more prominent this close up—aged in a rugged and handsome way that shows he has years of experience and stories behind him. Steady hands that hover. Sharp eyes that train on whatever he’s looking at. His brows furrow a little as he concentrates, his lips parted just slightly as he works.
“So you always pick fights with jellyfish or do you rotate through sea creatures?”, Jack asks, eyes flicking up to your face for a brief moment before returning to your arm.
You try to suppress a laugh—it doesn’t work.
“Nah, new animal each week. They’re usually pretty nice though…think that jellyfish had it out for me.”
Jack’s lip quirks at the corner of his mouth.
“What’d you do to it?”
“God nothing, they don’t have brains to know if I even did.”
Jack hums softly in response, letting you talk as he works. Committing everything you’re telling him to memory.
He lets a beat or two pass before speaking again; “Which one’s your favorite?”
You tilt your head; “My favorite what?”
“Animal, sea creature, whatever you call it.”
You can’t help the smile creeping onto your lips; “Beluga whale…name’s Arlo. He was brought in as a baby with an injured flipper about a year into me working there. I’ve pretty much helped raise him.”
Jack’s chest softens.
“He ok now?”
“Oh yeah!”, You say waving with your other hand, “He’s doing amazing! Just safer to keep him than set him out into the wild. I honestly don’t know how well he’d do with his flipper being permanently damaged.”
Jack finds himself nodding along as you talk, not realizing how long it’s been until he’s almost done tending to your arm. But he doesn’t really want to stop, or for this to end. He could listen to you talk all day.
So he lets you.
He listens intently as you talk about your job; which animals are your favorite, which ones are learning new commands and tricks, what shows you get to put on for guests. The conservation jobs you’ve been on. He watches your free hand move about as you talk—the many faces you make when—each full of passion. He finds himself enthralled by all of it.
“We also do two tours a day for guests to take them around some behind the scenes stuff, meet some of the animals”, You explain.
Jack lifts his head up, eyebrows raised at that; “Yeah? That sounds kind of interesting.”
Without a beat, you respond;
“Yeah? You should come. I’ve got tickets for this weekend you can have.”
Jack falters for a moment, forcing his brain to slow down and his breathing to continue.
“Oh that’s really thoughtful, but I’d hate to just take them, let me do something in return-“
“You’re patching me up, I think that’s enough.”
He stares at you, really stares. The unwavering look of certainty on your face, that small, smug smile at the corner of your mouth that was already doing things to him.
Then finally, he lets his shoulders drop with a sigh; “Ok.”
You perk back up instantly; “Yeah? Great!”
Jack smirks to himself as he pulls off his gloves, wheeling over to the computer stand and tossing the blue latex out. You find yourself staring a moment too long at the way his biceps flex under his scrub top—black material pulled taught against his skin and across his chest—littered with freckles; each different and unique in their own way. You’d be perfectly content counting and tracing each one.
“Think I’ll live, doc?”, You ask.
Jack’s lips twitch again; “Keep your arms away from jellyfish and I think your chances are pretty high.”
You let yourself smile, not caring how ridiculous and enthralled in him it makes you look. He was interesting.
You listen as Jack explains your discharge instructions, hands you a paper with them on it and a number to call if you need it.
“Come back if it gets really painful or infected. Keep using the topical cream I gave you and it should heal up good in no time.”
“Thank you, Doctor Abbot”, You say softly, sliding off the exam bed and letting him guide you out the door.
You don’t miss the way his hand hovers at your lower back, not quite touching, but the ghost of his warmth is there.
He nods once, head jutting towards the exit doors; “Know your way out from here?”
Like he’s offering to walk you.
“Yeah, thanks”, You smile; “Well hey, hope we can talk again sometime.”
His lips quirk; “Hopefully on better terms than this.”
“That’d be nice”, You say, knowing full well it won’t be the last time you walk through those hospital doors; “Maybe this weekend?”
Jack stills for a moment, the wheels in his brain turning before he offers a movement that’s almost a nod.
“Yeah”, He says it like he’s thinking, “Yeah, we’ll see.”
With that you’re heading towards the door with a thanking squeeze to his bicep that makes him feel like he’s a teenager again, watching as you stop and turn back towards him again.
“See you around, Doctor Abbot.”
Jesus, he was in fucking trouble.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Jack finds Robby in the break room later, hovering over a pot of hospital coffee.
“You free this weekend?”, Jack asks.
Robby quirks a brow; “What’re you asking me out?”
Jack bites his tongue, his eyes squeezing shut to compose himself; “No, I was gonna offer you these tickets I got.”
“What tickets?”
Jack sits down at the small round table with Robby in tow, passing him a steaming cup as he does.
“Remember the patient with the jellyfish sting from earlier?”, Jack asks.
Robby’s already smirking; “You mean the one that was flirting with you?”
“She wasn’t flirting-“
“Jack”, Robby chuckles; “You’re geriatric not stupid.”
“You’re geriatric and still older than me.”
Robby can feel the glare Jack shoots his way burning into the side of his head.
“What about her?”, Robby asks.
Jack sighs into his coffee; “She offered me tickets for some tour of the aquarium this weekend…they’re already in my inbox. Figured maybe you and Noelle would wanna take Nora.”
Robby shakes his head; “Nah she offered them to you man, you take them.”
“And do what? Stand around like a creep?”
“I don’t know…go?”, Robby says it like it’s obvious; “She offered you these tickets. Not me. You have to go.”
Jack doesn’t answer, just sipping on his coffee that’s starting to taste more and more like dirt with each passing day.
“She obviously likes you brother, or she wouldn’t have said anything”, Robby says.
Damn it, Jack really hated when Robby was right.
The older man sits up in his seat.
“Listen, Noelle’s out of town this weekend so it’s just me and Nora. Why don’t we go with you?”, Robby offers.
For some reason, that makes Jack relax a little.
“Careful”, Jack says with an arched brow, already clocking Robby’s enthusiasm; “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you actually like me, brother”,
“God don’t make me regret this”, Robby says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What else am I here to do?”
Jack stands to lean against the counter, stirring his coffee and tracing the rim of the cup.
“You’d seriously go?”, He finally asks, shoulders closing in a little.
“Yeah, why not?”, Robby shrugs; “Nora loves seeing the fish and for some reason you. Plus I can play matchmaker if i’m there.”
Jack groans; “And there it is.”
“What?”
“Your ulterior motive.”
“Gotta entertain myself somehow, brother”, Robby says, smacking a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
It takes everything in him not to smack Robby right then and there.
“I hate you.”
Secretly though? Jack’s grateful and almost relieved at Robby’s offer. But he’d never live down the day he tells him that.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
“Unca ‘Ack! Unca ‘Ack! Phish!”, Nora’s little voice shrieks as she bounces it Jack’s arms, pointing to the floor to ceiling cylindrical fish tank.
They’d made it exactly five steps in from the front entrance, and Nora was already amazed. Her wide brown eyes stared at the fluorescent colors—her tiny hand pressed up against the glass—the tank lights reflecting off her face.
“Papa! Phish!”, She called out for Robby, turning her entire body abruptly in Jack’s arms, making him readjust his grip.
“Careful, Peanut”, Jack warned softly, his own eyes wide as he watched her, willing his hold on her to keep up.
“I see the fish, Munchkin”, Robby says, stepping in next to them and smiling up at the fish that swim by.
The sound of people bustles around them, other families being drug along by their own toddlers seeing something across the room. A group of teenagers off in the distance.
It smells like seawater—not in the gross dead fish way, but salty and soft—wafting through the air. It’s slightly cool inside, overhead fans and misters in certain spots with signs that say ‘Feel the Ocean!’
Jack has no doubt that kids would be absolutely sucked in by all of it.
“What time is it?”, Robby asks, eyeing his watch.
Jack beats him to it; “10:30, tour starts at noon.”
He’d looked at the schedule, of course he had.
Robby smirks knowingly; “What should we go see first?”
They find themselves in the underwater viewing tunnels—polar bears and elephant seals swimming overhead—light reflecting off the water.
Nora’s eyes are wide, pointing at each animal that swims by. Making sure Robby sees, and then Jack.
The ‘Dory tank’ quickly becomes her favorite, running as fast as her small and chubby legs will carry her almost two year old body—pulling Jack by wrapping her entire hand around two of his fingers.
He grunts in surprise, struggling to catch up for a moment before he’s laughing; “Peanut you’re gonna take me out.”
Robby claps him on the shoulder, quickly adjusting the backpack slung over his shoulders; “Don’t worry, I know CPR.”
Jack shoots him a glare; “You’re so lucky the kid’s here.”
Nora’s hands are pressed up against the glass, face as close as she can get it without actually touching it—Robby and Jack had both scolded her twice already about the germs—her small mouth falling open with a grin as big as her face.
By the time 11:30 rolled around, Jack was leading the way towards the Penguin exhibit where the tour would start. Nora was now in Robby’s arms, giving Jack’s back a break. She weighed almost nothing to him, but the constant pulling on his neck and shoulders each time she bounced or lean towards something made him a little sore.
Robby set Nora down, letting her walk over to the giant tank in front of her, Penguins swimming around at her height as they dove in and out of the water.
“Nora, smile for mommy!”, Robby called out, kneeling down.
Nora grinned as wide as she could, a penguin swimming past her just as Robby captured the photo.
“I see?”, Nora asked, already climbing into Robby’s lap where he was crouched down.
“See? Very cute, huh?”
Nora giggled, eyes on Robby’s phone before she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Mommy see?”, Nora asked.
Robby nodded; “Mommy will love it, it’s a keeper. Think it should go on the fridge when we get home?”
Nora clapped happily at the idea of that.
Meanwhile, Jack noticed the employees starting to make their way out onto the landing from the doorway to the side. Then his world froze when his eyes landed on you.
Clad in your wetsuit, a ponytail braid down your back that swished back and forth as you walked. Clinging to you perfectly. Water shoes squeaking faintly, clearly slightly wet. His heart hammered against his rib cage. He didn’t notice Robby slide in beside him, Nora still in his arms.
It didn’t take long for you to find him, and once your eyes settled on his frame, your cheeks turned pink.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Starting a tour was absolutely second nature to you now. But you’d had nerves all day. Hell, you’d had nerves since earlier in the week when you met Jack. He’d been rattling around your brain ever since like he lived there.
When you followed your coworkers out onto the Penguin landing exhibit, you couldn’t help but let your eyes scan the group of people waiting. As soon as your eyes met his, you felt the blush creeping up your neck. Seeing the way he reacted the same, eyes unwavering and hovering over you—looking you up and down—had you biting your bottom lip in a last ditch effort to suppress a smile.
It didn’t quite work.
You offered him a wave that came off slightly shyer than you would’ve liked; but he didn’t seem to notice, and offered a wave back.
You could see the man you remembered as Robby nudging him with his elbow, eyes now trained on you as well—the little girl in his arms bouncing as she watched the Penguins.
After a quick introduction, it was your turn to talk, forcing you to finally pull your attention away and stand closer to the front.
You introduced yourself to the crowd; “But you can call me Skipper, I’ll be leading you on your tour today. Are you ready to see some animals?”
The response from families and kids around you was instant, but all you could see was Jack from the corner of your eyes; expression soft and gaze determined not to miss a thing. So the staring was an outside of work thing too, huh?
You didn’t mind. His eyes were soft in the way they were when he’d tended to your wound—like he was taking in every word you said and cataloging it for later—the same way he did with a patient’s information or a SWAT mission log.
God, you were screwed.
The tour went on smoothly, and as you talked, Jack found himself sinking deeper and deeper; like the ocean had opened up and swallowed him whole in the most peaceful and sunlit way.
He committed each fact you said to memory like his life depended on it; Octopuses have three hearts, the ocean produces 50% of earth’s oxygen, Angelfish choose one partner for life, a Blue Whale’s tongue is heavier than an entire Elephant, Dolphins are sleepwalkers, 50-80% of all life on earth is found under the ocean’s surface—he desperately wanted to seem like he knew something about your work.
You showed off starfish, turtles, dolphins. Jack watched with a childlike awe as you used simple hand signals for the dolphin, who happily obliged and did tricks for fish. He had no idea so much went into all of it.
His favorite though? Was finally getting to see Arlo the Beluga you talked so fondly about. He was huge to say the least. A permanent smile almost etched on his face.
Nora laughed when a spray of water from Arlo’s blow hole misted her face, clapping and bouncing where she was perched on Robby’s shoulder’s.
“‘Gain! ‘Gain!”
Jack—who was normally so enthused with his niece, only spared a quick smile at her before he was drawn back to you.
You with your bright smile and eyes to match as you held out different shells and artifacts. You who knew quick facts and talked so passionately about your work, you who kept glancing at him each time your eyes swept over the group of visitors in front of you.
Your heart stuttered in your chest each time you looked up to find his eyes already on you, like they never left in the first place.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
By the time the tour ended in the stingray room, you were a little smug to say the least. Eyes flicking to where Jack stood each chance you got as you spoke with other guests. Taking in how he stood carefully behind Nora who was pressed up against the glass again, watching stingray’s swim by. Protective and oh so gentle.
Jack’s hand was carefully on the tot’s back as he crouched down next to her, dipping his face close to talk softly in her ear. Like he was making sure she knew all his attention was on her.
Eventually most of the guests cleared out, only a few staggering behind to check out other animals in the room. You quickly made your way over to the two doctor’s at the big tank—Jack already rising to his feet as he saw you approaching, taking Nora’s tiny hand in his.
“Well look who came”, You breathe out, smile engulfing your cheeks.
“Wouldn’t miss it”, Jack spoke.
His voice was softer than it had been in the ED, more relaxed and mellow. Like he belonged here standing with you.
“I hope it lived up to its expectations.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Jack’s smile didn’t waver, a comfortable silence drifting over the room as you both looked each other over. You in your wetsuit, Jack looking so mundane and domestic out of scrubs it hurt. His hair a little more messy than usual, no doubt from Nora playing with it.
Robby cleared his throat.
“Papa! Up!”
The small voice and noise beside you snapped you both out of your gaze, eyes flicking to the brunette man as he lifted Nora up into his arms.
“Nice to see you again, Robby”, You say, offering a small nod; “Who’s this lil girly?”
“This is Nora”, Robby beams, tucking his head more to her level; “Nor, can you say hi?”
Nora offers you a small wave, hiding her face in the crook of Robby’s neck.
“Hi Nora, I heard you like fish?”
She perks up a bit at that; “Phish?”
“Mhm”, You nod, “Wanna meet one of my friends?”
Nora’s already nodding enthusiastically as you lead them back to Arlo’s tank. He’s already hovering close to the edge, head peeking out and still smiling.
“It’s almost Arlo’s feeding time, he’ll be so happy to see us”, You speak out loud, not really sure if it’s more towards Nora or yourself.
You climb onto the landing at the edge of the tank, pulling a bucket of fish over with you, snapping a pair of gloves on.
“These are his favorite.”
Almost on cue, Arlo’s halfway out of the water, looking almost like he could clap as he opens his mouth for the fish you throw him. The water splashes, Nora giggles in Robby’s arms.
“Do ‘gain!”, She shrieks.
All three of you laugh as you happily toss another fish Arlo’s way before turning back to Nora; “Wanna pet him?”
Nora’s eyes grow so wide there’s almost no iris left, looking up to Robby like she’s asking for permission.
“Cmere, I’ll show you how”, You explain how to be gentle, guiding Robby over so they’re both close enough.
You take Nora’s tiny hand and press it flat against Arlo’s nose, letting her pat it gently. Another squeal from her tiny body, now almost vibrating with excitement.
“He’s a little slimy, isn’t he?”, You beam, nose slightly crinkled as you look between the two.
Then you look up at Jack, who’s standing with his legs wide and arms folded across his chest, so similar to the way he had been when you first met him. A small twitch at the corner of his mouth. But his eyes gave him away. His love for Nora and seeing you with her practically pouring out onto the landing, and a hint of something else entirely that you couldn’t quite place as he looked back at you.
“Mommy, ‘icture?”, Nora asks.
“Sounds like a good idea to me”, Robby says, “Do you mind?”
He’s holding his phone out to you.
“Not at all.”
You switch spots with him, letting them stand against the tank in front of Arlo, raising the phone to take the picture when Robby cuts in again.
“Jack, get in here brother.”
He hesitates for a moment, before ultimately standing on the other side of him, squishing Nora comfortably between them. Both of her arms wrap around the back of their necks as he smiles crookedly, her few tiny teeth poking out.
“Smile!”
You take a few, pausing at the one where Jack and Nora are looking at each other—bright goofy smiles that make your heart ache. You wanted to burn it into your memory. Instead you hand Robby his phone back, watching as he walks off with Nora as his phone begins to ring, leaving you alone with Jack.
He’s rocking on his feet, back on his heels as he shoves his hands in his pockets.
“So Skipper, huh?”, He’s right back to teasing.
You groan; “Coworkers gave it to me when I started, not my first choice.”
Jack shrugs; “It’s on theme. Better than fruitcake.”
You quirk a brow; “Fruitcake?”
“One of our frequent fliers gave that one to Robby.”
Jack’s small smile turns a little mischievous.
“Oh i’m never forgetting that”, You laugh.
Jack laughs too, like the whole thing is so easy.
A beat of comfortable silence passes before he speaks again;
“Thank you for inviting us, really”, He says, rubbing the back of his neck; “Nora loved it.”
You don’t hesitate; “And you?”
Jack’s mouth parts at your forwardness, that stupid little smirk twitching again.
“I thought it was…nice.”
“Nice?”
“What? Nice is good!”
“Nice is what you say when something is boring but you don’t want to say it.”
“Trust me, I wasn’t bored.”
“Could’ve fooled me, Mr. ‘it was nice’.”
Jack sighs, shaking his head as he smiles at his shoes, rocking on his heels again.
“Fine. It was really interesting. I had a good time”, He sighs, but there’s no real heat behind it, rather amusement.
“See? Was that so hard?”
“You’re trouble”, He juts, eyebrows almost in his hairline.
You bite your lip, watching as he traces your face with his eyes, his own demeanor suddenly falling serious again.
“But seriously”, He says, “Thank you for having us. I really did enjoy it.”
You nod in return; “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.”
Jack looks over to where Robby’s standing with Nora, talking away on the phone with Noelle; a softness taking over his features again.
“You really love her, don’t you?”, You ask, following his gaze.
“Yeah”, He says; “I’d do anything for her. She’s good for him too.”
He lets a beat pass.
“Don’t tell Robby that, I’ll be out a pony.”
“A pony, huh?”
“Secret side business.”
You snort at that, desperately trying to cover your mouth but the noise had already slipped out. You except him to cringe, but instead he looks, amused? Content? Happy?
Reveling in the fact that he finally got to hear it again.
Inside Jack’s heart did a flip at the noise. Wondering how many things he could say to make you laugh like that again.
“How’s your arm?”, He asks.
You flick your gaze down to your bandage.
“Pretty good. Doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Jack nods; “That’s good. I’d hate to see you still hurt.”
Your heart stutters.
“How can I repay you…for all this?”, He asks, gesturing around.
You wave him off.
“Again, patching me up was plenty. Thank you, Doctor Abbot.”
“Jack”, He says once, “You can call me Jack.”
“Ok, Jack.”
You test it out, tongue tingling at the shape of his name. Already liking the way it sounded. Yeah, that seemed perfect. Jack.
“There’s gotta be someway I can repay you. This couldn’t have been easy to set up.”
“Really it’s fine, Jack. My treat-“
“How about dinner?”
You freeze, mouth still parted and eyes wide as he continues with a smirk;
“My treat.”
You need an excuse, something believable, because if you’re honest with yourself—you’re already falling for him; and that seems dangerous.
But you don’t find one. Secretly? You’re relieved you don’t.
“Dinner sounds perfect”, You say, and then; “Just no seafood places. Too close to work.”
“Noted”, Jack smiles, nodding gently; “How’s next Friday?”
“Friday’s perfect.”
Suddenly you’re exchanging numbers with him, watching as he saves his name in your phone and you do the same to his. Then he’s saying goodbye all too soon, walking off to join Robby and Nora again; leaving the air around you too cold and lingering of his warmth and cologne.
You wave to them as they go, smiling down at your phone, breathing hitching as the new contact name staring back up at you.
The writers have been sprinkling in hints throughout the season that Langdon isn't fully accepting responsibility for the harm he caused. Him getting upset and accusing Robby of punishing him when he was put in triage after not working for 10 months. Lying to Mel about "It never affected my work", despite him stealing and diluting medication necessary for patient care. The way he was told multiple times by two separate people that trying to talk to Robby would just upset him. Santos making it obvious that she doesn't want to interact with him, but he kept trying to force his way back into a teaching role. His sarcastic and condescending remarks during the teaching case. And then the half-lie he gave Al-Hashimi about "Well I was kinda an asshole to her once :(", instead of "She caught me stealing drugs and I tried to get her fired".
The writers were never going to get us the sickly sweet moment where Langdon thanks Santos for saving him from addiction.
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Jack Abbot finds himself feeling oddly protective over the new night shift attending.
He tells himself it's natural.
You were the young widow of a Marine, a military spouse who brought the greatest sacrifice for her country - your husband.
He watched you push on with gritted teeth, haunted by your own demons and trauma, all for the little girl depending on you.
It was only natural.
Any serviceman would feel an obligation towards your well-being.
Any serviceman would want to know you were safe... happy...
So how come, he can't help but feel like he is stealing another man's life?
Ao3
Current total word count: 7,8k
No use of y/n
Tag/Content: 18+, slow burn sexually explicit content, older man/younger (29 y/o) woman, grief, loss, ptsd, yearning, Jack Abbot would be a great girl dad and you can't change my mind, reader is an alt!girly with tats and piercings (more tags to follow as I work on the fic)
a fellowship application and a shared cigarette lead to a friendship, a situationship, a relationship with dr. robby.
how you pick me up, pull 'em down, turn me 'round /oh, it just makes sense/how you talk so sweet when you're doing bad things/that's bed chem
cw 18+ mdni. song fic. strangers to friends to long-distance something to lovers. porn with way more plot than originally intended. fingering, handjobs, squirting, oral (f & m receiving), a lil 69, unprotectedish piv. reader calls robby different first names as flirting. sharin’ ciggies. a lil angst as a treat. implied sexting/phone sex. goes a little off song but oh well. they’re in love and it’s disgusting. medical inaccuracies. kingdon for a second if you read between the lines. author knows nothing of lake erie & real trauma center locations, and chooses to ignore how fellows are assigned shhhh
wc: 10.8k (5.2k is just smut i have no excuse)
———
the heat of late summer in pittsburgh sends beads of sweat down your spine, the satin material of your dress clinging to you beneath your blazer, the september breeze doing little to help.
stepping out of the restaurant, you pull a cigarette and lighter out of your purse, shrugging off your jacket and throwing it over your bag.
you peek back through the window at the dinner still going on—what kind of hospital, supposedly financially unable to keep entire floors staffed, shells out the funds to host fourth year residents from all over the county for a weekend of wining and dining, trying to entice that year’s best and brightest into applying for available fellowship and attending slots?
the night’s dinner was the last hurrah, preluded with tours of the pittsburgh trauma medical center, shadowing of cases from each department, a luncheon conference with presentations by each department chief waxing poetic about their stats and advantages and research—some doctors notably less into it than others.
while they had reached out to you willingly, their emergency medicine fellowship was one you’d been eyeing since your time as an r2, and your application submitted soon after applications opened a month ago. hell, you had applied for a residency slot at ptmc, only letting yourself be disappointed in secret when you didn’t match. no sane person accepted into one of the most prestigious emergency medicine programs on the west coast should feel bad about missing out on a struggling hospital in almost-nowhere pennsylvania—that’s what you told yourself at least.
trying to light your cigarette with your dying bic, you hear a voice next to you.
“those things’ll kill you, y’know,” the man says.
cigarette still between your lips, you reply with a sarcastic, “never heard that one before—oh! dr. robinavitch, sorry, i didn’t realize it was you,” quickly pulling the unlit cigarette from you lips and hiding it behind your back when you turn to him.
“relax, kid. i’m just giving you shit,” he chuckles. “but really, quit while you’re young. trying and failing to every three months when you get old isn’t fun,” he says, contradictorily pulling a lighter out of his own pocket. he holds it up behind a large palm and lights, nodding down to your poorly hidden hand.
you bring the cigarette back to your lips, your hand cupping against his as you inhale, mumbling a thanks as you hold the smoke in your chest.
“i’m planning on quitting by end of residency, trying to ween myself off,” you add as you exhale. you hold the cigarette out to him, an offer, “you smoke half and it’ll only kill us half as quick, dr. robinavitch. for our health.”
he smirks but takes it, fingers brushing yours. as he lifts it to his mouth, he says, “robby.”
“what?”
“you can call me robby,” he says on exhale, smoke billowing from his nose.
“your parents named you robby robinavitch? wow, they musta hated you,” you tease dryly.
giving you a look and passing the cigarette back, he answers, “they named me michael. med school pedes rotations and a residency in the deep south named me robby.”
he begins rolling up the sleeves of his green button down, fighting off the humid breeze, revealing his forearms—hairy, thick, the kind you’d like to wear as a necklace.
quickly taking another drag, you shake that thought from you mind.
“so i gotta ask,” robby says, turning to lean one shoulder against the brick of the building, “why the hell did you apply for my fellowship?”
a cough of smoke came from your lungs, “excuse me?!”
robby reaches his hand back out for the cigarette, casual, and shrugs, “i saw your application. your transcripts, the letters of recommendation, it’s impressive. the research you’ve been doing more so. you could land an attending spot anywhere, somewhere that could actually afford to help fund your research. so yeah, why a fellowship in the pitt?”
he had called the emergency department “the pitt” in his presentation the day prior, too—overcrowded, understaffed, located in the basement of the hospital—a member of the admin staff had audibly groaned at that.
he finally took a long inhale of the cigarette before passing it back.
you took one last drag before throwing it to the ground and stomping it out with the toe of your heels.
“when i was in high school, my family took a vacation to lake erie. my dad and i were on a jet ski that got capsized while driving under a bridge, and we ran into a pillar,” you began. it wasn’t your favorite thing to recount, but it was what made you want to be a doctor.
“we got life-flighted to ptmc. my dad was driving and took the brunt of the impact. compound fracture of the ulna and severance of the nerve, broken clavicle, skull and rib fractures. a punctured lung. they had to shock and intubate him in the helicopter.
“when we got in, i was taken one way and dad the other. i don’t remember who treated me, i just had a gnarly broken ankle,” you lift your leg up, showing off the scar adorning the side of your fibula.
“but my dad,” you continue, “he had people all over his room. they spent an hour stabilizing him before he got carted off to surgery. thought he hit an artery the way he was bleeding internally. his doctor, dr. adamson, came in after and sat with me until my mom and brother arrived.” you saw robby shift out the corner of your eye, standing straighter. “i asked him all kinds of questions about what happened and he happily answered. i always kinda wanted to be a doctor, but dr. adamson made me want to be an er one,” you finish with a small smile, turning back to face robby from where your back was leaned against the wall.
you were surprised to find his eyes a little watery, but with a small smiled of his own.
“woah, did i say something wrong? i know i rambled a little there but—“
you were cut off my a shake of his head. “no,” he let out a breath, “i just…didn’t expect to ever hear someone say adamson inspired them again. it’s been a while.” he had a distant look in his eyes, an almost bittersweet smile.
you furrow your brow slightly, “really? i mean i figured he’d be at least semi-retired by now, but still working.”
robby looks back to you, back into the here and now. “he, uh, he passed away back in 2020. covid.”
“oh…oh, i’m so sorry. i didn’t know…” you want to say more, to offer some comfort, to say you understood, but you didn’t, not truly.
you’d only been in your first year of medical school in 2020. never experienced the chaos that haunted the hospital, the specter of death lessening, but never quite disappearing from the shoulders of those who had.
and you could tell robby didn’t want to speak about it, how his demeanor had shifted from curious and playful, to something sorrowful.
after a beat, you decide to redirect, not quite ready to break the conversation, finding yourself enjoying it despite the sudden shift.
“y’know,” you said, leaning over toward him, “i’ve read a lot of your publications. i really liked the op-ed about the treatment of homelessness in the ed from a few years ago. it ruffled quite a few feathers in my hospital. imagine, treating the unhoused like people. the gall!” you end sarcastically, him finally looking back to you with nearly imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.
“yeah, that wasn’t universally well-received. it did get us some grant money for our street team though, so i—wait, if you’ve read my stuff then you knew my name wasn’t fuckin’ robby robinavitch,” the playful tone returning.
the banter continues, you both not disengaging until the sound of people leaving the restaurant breaks the bubble, fellow residents and ptmc staff filing out.
“oh shit, looks like party’s over,” you say. you hadn’t realized you’d been standing outside with robby for so long, only meaning to have gone out for a smoke. but something in a distant part of your lizard brain liked that you had taken up so much of his attention.
after calling an uber, you take your blazer from your purse, pushing it into robby’s arms with a hold this—that earned you a small chuckle.
digging through your purse, you produced a pen. taking your jacket again, you spun so you were between robby’s arms, right shoulder briefly bumping his chest in the movement, before grabbing his exposed right forearm.
“here,” you say as you begin writing your phone number just above the tattoo on his wrist. “text me sometime—i won’t pick up if you call until i have your number.”
clicking the pen closed, you turn back to him with an impish smile, “about doctoring, of course.”
he pauses, then, “about…doctoring?”
grin growing, “y’know, research and science. or a cat you saw or…whatever.” anything, everything, nothing—just keep talking to me.
your uber chose then to arrive. turning and walking backward, you say, “goodnight, robert!” before climbing into the car.
robby doesn’t get a chance to reply, just shakes his head with a incredulous smile, watching until the car is out of sight.
———
it’s been nearly five weeks since you left pittsburgh. five weeks of balancing senior residency, attending and fellowship interviews, your roommate breaking up with their girlfriend again—five weeks with a schedule filled to the brim. so why was your first thought always on the fact that robby hadn’t reached out?
you thought you had gotten along well, really well. you hadn’t meant giving him your number in a flirtatious way—okay, maybe not only in a flirtatious way. but you had genuinely enjoyed talking with robby that night, him meeting your wit and sarcasm without missing a beat.
you almost gave up hope of ever hearing from him as week six drew near, but then—
unknown number:
saw this article and thought about your research.[link attached]
this is robby by the way.
you:
well hello robert long time no speak
robby robinavitch:
still not my name.
it starts slow, a text here and there. an article from him, an interesting case from you—doctoring. never more than a few moments of time, but you begin to cherish those moments.
texts about clinical work turn into strange patients, funny moments in the chaos of your respective ers. talk of work turn into tidbits from your daily lives, a new fancy restaurant you tried and hated, the cat he walks by every morning on the way to work—he actually sent you a picture of a cat.
you:
roberto look at this pile’o’seals i saw on my hot girl walk [photo attached]
robby robinavitch:
what the hell is a hot girl walk?
as the texts grew more frequent, they became phone calls, easier on his old man eyes and arthritic fingers, you would joke.
“ohhoho you just think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” he asks on the other side of the line.
“the pinnacle of comedy,” you reply. “hey, guess what kind of halloween lawn prop i pulled outta guy today.”
“halloween lawn prop? it’s almost thanksgiving…”
you took to calling each other a few times a week, usually during your commute home, the time difference typically having him home and getting ready for bed by then. every so often if your schedules aligned, you spend your days off talking for hours—about anything, everything, nothing. it quickly becomes something you treasure.
you:
guess who got their interview date for a certain fellowship at a certain hospital?
robby robinavitch:
about time, that was emailed hours ago.
you:
5am pacific time is far too early for emails rupert
robby robinavitch:
are these even actual variations of robert at this point?
effortless, innate, like you’d known the other forever, instead of only three months.
you:
happy holidays, bobbie
robby robinavitch:
happy holidays.
brat.
like maybe it wasn’t all in your head.
———
as the new year comes and goes, pittsburgh welcomes you back with a slap of bitter january air, sweetened with the prospects of your fellowship interview—and maybe a little a lot of seeing robby again.
returning to ptmc, you ascend the elevator to the administrative floor—the ivory tower, robby had called it. isengard, you’d suggested. he called you a nerd with a laugh.
other candidates sat on the benches lining the hall of the 12th floor, waiting for their own interviews in one of the many conference rooms. checking in, you joined them, foot bouncing with nerves—robby had refused to help you practice for your interview, even just as a sounding board offering no real feedback, said it wouldn’t be fair as he’d be on the selection committee, leaving you to rely on your own attendings and colleagues for help. it was fair, smart even, you knew that, but you couldn’t help but crave the feedback, to be told you did good, from someone you’d grown so close to.
the fellowship selection committee consisted of the program director, a couple of administrators, a board member, the current fellow, another senior ed attending, and robby, chief of emergency medicine.
over the next hour, your nerves dissipate, the interview going better than you could have hoped. your cv spoke for itself, but your personality keeps everyone’s attention. you even managed a laugh, quickly disguised as a cough, from the other attending, dr. abbot, when an honest answer seemed to peeve the board member. the current fellow, dr. ellis, was mostly on night shift with him, would stay there for her second fellowship year, leaving the dayshift spot open.
once the interview finished, after shaking everyone’s hands, you quickly got a text.
robby robinavitch:
you were our last interview before lunch. wait for me in the lobby.
you:
aye aye boris 🫡
after ten minutes of waiting in the marbled first floor, robby finally appeares.
“hey, sorry about that,” he says, arms beginning to raise, before he shoves them into the pockets of his fleece—was he about to go in for a hug?—“apparently lunch was code for having a meeting while eating lunch, so i gotta head back up.”
you hadn’t thought he wanted to take his lunch with you, not that you would have minded, figured it was just going to be a informal hello.
“no problem, dr. robinavitch,” you reply.
“back to formal titles, are we? i was starting to think you’d actually forgotten my name,” he smiles back, “so maybe—“
the elevator dings open, dr. abbot stepping halfway out, “robby, gloria requests your presence.” robby turns and gave a quick god, one second, before quickly looking back to you.
“i’m off at 7, meet me at o’donnell’s on middle st. 8:30? we’ll catch up then?” he asks, slowly walking away backward toward the elevator.
was your friend slash possible future attending slash crush asking you for drinks? or drink drinks? only one way to find out. “it’s a date,” you smiled back at him, “just don’t bring saruman.”
that earned you a loud ha!, followed by a very fond, “you fuckin’ nerd.”
“you love it!” you stage whispered as he entered the elevator, you both still smiling, neither noticing dr. abbot’s eyebrows raised practically off his forehead.
———
you arrive at o’donnell’s right at 8:30, stepping into the warmth of the pub, shrugging off your jacket which did little to cut the cold pennsylvania night. while smoothing down your powdery blue blouse—still in the outfit from your interview, you had only packed it and comfy travel clothing, not expecting to be invited out—you look around the bar, no robby yet.
after ordering a drink, you find a square high top table out of the way, taking a sip of the cocktail—a little liquid courage, more of a placebo with as small of a drink you took.
after a few minutes, the pub’s door opens once more, letting in a small burst of chilly air—and robby. looking around, he spots you, and walks to the table smiling, removing his carhatt.
“hey.”
“hello again, reuben,” you reply, smiling with the cocktail straw between your teeth.
“do you just carry a list of these names around?” robby chuckles. you didn’t expect him to rub one hand across your back, shoulder to shoulder, giving the far one a squeeze, before sliding back off the other—not really a hug, but the most physical contact you two ever shared. it makes you dizzier than any alcohol you had drank could.
“sooo,” you start, “how’d the rest of the interviews go?”
moving the other chair from across the table to directly next to you, robby replies, “now you know damn well i can’t answer that.”
you put on a fake pout, “come on! who am i gonna tell?”
he turns to a waiter walking by and orders bottle of beer before looking back to you, miming turning a lock over his lips, tossing the imaginary key over his shoulder.
you let out a huff with a roll of your eyes, “fine. but now i’ll just have to recount the thrilling tale of the old woman i sat next to on my flight. so she—“
you two spent the next two and a half hours together, bantering, catching up, much like your long calls, but so much better. hearing robby through the phone was one thing, but sitting next to him, close enough to count his freckles, smell is cologne, notice every curl of his lips, crinkle of his eyes—an easy camaraderie, intrinsic—was intoxicating.
you want him to ask you home, you realize, you unable to blame the alcohol for your thought. you’d spent more time chewing at the cocktail straw than drinking, robby’s own beer just halfway gone.
seemingly reading your thoughts, robby flags down the waiter to pay the bill—my treat he said when you tried to pull out cash—adding that he had to work in the morning.
stepping back out into the night, the air didn’t seem as sharp, a warmth in your chest you couldn’t cite to your cocktail spreading to your belly.
“your hotel far?” he asks, watching as you pull out a cigarette and lighter from your bag.
“nope,” you answer after taking a drag, “just a couple of blocks.” you hold the cigarette out to him, much like the first time, the only time, you had shared one.
“not even a month in and you’re tryna make me break my new year’s resolution,” he mock scolds, taking it in hand. “i’ll walk you back. for safety,” he continues with a nod, signaling you to lead the way.
you roll you eyes, “drunk ciggies don’t count, rochambeau. that’s all i’m smoking nowadays, anyway.”
he huffs out a incredulous rochambeau? as he exhales, before coming to a stop, “wait are you drunk?”
“not even buzzed,” you answer—a half truth, you were buzzing, but not from the alcohol. “you?”
“nope,” he answers.
you walk in silence back to your hotel, breaths coming out in puffs of air from the cold and puffs of smoke from the shared cigarette. after crossing a street, robby maneuvers you to the inside of the sidewalk with a large hand on the small of your back—he leaves it there for the remainder of the walk, feels scalding even through your jacket.
“this is me,” you say as you stop in front of the hotel, rocking back on your heels. robby only nods, looking up at the brick facade and ornate windows, hands in his pockets.
feeling brave, feeling the lingering heat from his palm on your back, the taste of your indirect kiss, you ask, “you…wanna come up?”
he turns back to you and says, “yes.”
———
your back hit the hotel room door with a thud the second it was closed, robby’s large hands on either side of your face, lips crashing into yours. the kiss wasn’t messy, it wasn’t necessarily chaste, but it was deep, full of longing, full of months—god it’s only been months of knowing each other—of unspoken truths, slowly circling around the feelings you both shared.
unzipping his coat, you reach up his stomach to his shoulders, pushing it off, causing his hands to fall from your face. he uses them then to push off your own jacket, reaching back out with one hand around your waist, the other to the side of your neck, to lead you further into the room, lips never parting until you where fully inside.
as you kick off your shoes, you flick on the bedside lamp, filling the room with a soft warm glow. in the dim light, you could see robby’s cheeks glow warm, him struggling to kick off his final boot. cute, you think.
meeting each other’s gaze again, he stood back to full height, stepping closer to you, chest to chest, mouths not touching, but close enough to share air.
he hesitates, hands hovering at the side of your waist. “tell me you want this,” he rumbles, his gaze moving between your eyes and lips.
you inch closer, lips brushing, and whisper, “i want this.”
that’s all it took to make his crash back into you, hands gripping tightly to your waist, rucking your blouse up from out of your slacks, your palms gripping at his solid chest. he begins blindly unbuttoning the top, quickly get frustrated with the delicate buttons.
“don’t rip it, i stole it from my roommate’s girlfriend,” you say against his mouth, replacing his hands to make swift work of the buttons.
“i thought you said they broke up,” he says, now mouthing at your neck. you wondered what his beard would feel like between your thighs.
“they’re in the on-again era,” you say breathily, shrugging off the top, suddenly realizing you’re wearing an old bralette—pink and lacy, but visibly well worn, not doing much more than a sports bra for your tits. robby didn’t seem to mind though, mouth trailing lower to bite at the top of each breast.
pulling his head back up for a kiss, his hands glide up from your waist, finders brushing up under the band of your bralette, one thumb swiping gently at the fullness. he then moves the bralette up, revealing your tits, before pulling it over your head, your raised arms landing on the tops of his wide shoulders.
robby takes half a step back, taking in the view—soft and supple, goosebumps rising where his fingers skim over the swell of one breast, nipples hardening in the exposed air. he bends down again, palming at one boob, mouth latching onto the other, sucking hard at your nipple.
you let out a gasp at his ministrations continue, tongue swirling around the nipple in this mouth, fingers tweaking the other.
“alright, alright,” you let out a breathy laugh, tapping at his arm. “your turn, big guy. tit-for-tat. get this off,” you joke, reaching down at the hem of his shirt, knuckles brushing over the coarse hairs trailing down his belly.
he stands up with amusement in his eyes before pulling the back of his henley up over his head in one smooth movement.
now it was your turn to stare. wide shoulders connect to thick arms and a solid chest, dark hair dusting his pecs, a gold chain with a star of david pendant lays between them. the hair trails further down to his soft stomach, hair thickening under his belly button, leading down into his waistband. you want to eat him alive—so you try. you step forward and bite at the meat of a pec, nails sinking into the softness of his belly, scratching up and down, fingertips just barley dipping into his pants.
“this is what gets you goin’, huh?” he chuckles, the baritone vibrations rattle your teeth.
you release your mouth, laving your tongue over the intentions your teeth left, sealing it with a kiss in the middle. “you have no idea,” you smile back up, your pupils blown wide, shining in the dim light.
robby brings you in for another kiss, this one now messy, desperate, tongue reaching into your mouth to lick every inch. his hands reach for your slacks, undoing the clasps, you helping him shimmy them down your legs. large palms squeeze at the meat of your ass, kneading and pulling hard enough to leave bruises where his fingertips lay.
breaking the kiss to look down at you, he chuckles, “these are cute,” before reaching his index finger into one leg hole and snapping the elastic. you look down—oh god, simple cotton bikini briefs, green with a little ladybug pattern.
“oh my god!” you say half embarrassed, half amused, “they’re comfy, okay! it’s not like i planned on anyone seeing them, otherwise i woulda packed something sexy.”
he brought his hands back down to your ass, sliding below to your thighs, before picking you up. your legs wrap around his waist as you let your a surprised squeal.
walking to the bed he sits at the head, bringing you down with him to straddle his lap. “mmm? these are sexy,” he chuckles, thumbs trailing underneath the leg seams again.
“this what gets you goin’?” you shoot his earlier words back to him.
leaning forward with a smile, he mumbles, “you have no idea,” before capturing your mouth again.
as your tongues meet, you begin grinding your hips down on to his, his hardness evident even though his jeans. you fumble with his belt and button, reaching your hand into his jeans, palming him through his boxers. you stand up suddenly, breaking your kissing, with a take ‘em off. you get an amused yes, ma’am in return.
robby sits fully back down on the bed with his back up against the headboard, reaching a hand out to you, pulling you back on top of him by your hips. a wet spot appears at the top of his cock, where he’s pushing hard against the fabric of his grey briefs.
you continue your ministrations, hands tugging at the hairs at the back of his neck, dry humping like a couple of teenagers, but god it felt too perfect to stop.
pulling out of the kiss, robby moves his mouth down your jaw, sucking and biting at your pulse.
you breath out, “i don’t have any condoms, you?”
robby slows momentarily, before replying, “wasn’t plannin’ on doing anything we’d need protection for,” before reattaching his mouth to your throat. as much as you were enjoying this, you wondered what he meant. yeah, maybe responsible doctors shouldn’t fuck raw on the first date—date? you’d never actually confirmed that’s what this is—but how far was he actually wanting to take this?
“i can hear you thinking,” he say, eyes returning to yours, hands solid on your hips. “i just wanna make you feel good, yeah?” he reaches up to one of your hands at his shoulder, lacing your fingers together, pressing a kiss to your palm.
you nod, taken a little aback by the sweet and intimate gesture.
he smiles then, “turn over, back against me,” he punctuates with a painless smack to your butt.
you shoot him a warning look, less threatening with the smile accompanying it, but oblige. he pulls your ass flush against his cock, one palm moves to your chest to get you to lean fully into him. as he kisses at the back of your neck, the hand not groping your breast trails down your stomach, fingertips ghosting over your skin. when he reaches your panties, he cups your cunt with large his hand.
“je-esus,” he groans into your ear, giving the shell a bite. “already soaked through. you’re drownin’ the poor ladybugs,” he adds with a teasing tone.
you slap a hairy thigh bracketing your own, ready to bite back, but are stopped with his fingers press down, hard, against your clit. your back arches and legs try closing tighter, letting out a small moan, but robby gives a quick uh-uh in your ear. he tugs at the waist of your panties, pushing them down as far as he could from behind you, you kicking them off the rest of the way.
leaning back you can feel the wetness on his underwear pressing against your ass, giving it small grind. pulling you back into his chest, robby throws his left leg over yours, pulling in back, exposing more of your dripping cunt to the air. the opposite leg bends away, his hand on your inner thigh, guiding it to rest along side his.
hand trailing down, he finally touches were you need him, fingers gliding against you slit, collecting the wetness. you try arching up again, but robby’s left forearm moves and locks around your waist, pinning you to him.
“be good and hold still, sweetheart. i’ll make you feel good, i promise,” he whispers in your ear.
sliding his wet fingers back up, he teases circles around your clit, brushes against the slides of the nub with a feather light touch, never making full contact.
a whine escapes you, nails of your left hand digging into the meat of the forearm around you. “please,” you breath, “i’ll be good, just touch me, please.”
“well when you ask so nice,” biting at the side of your neck, he obliges you. fingers finally making contact with your clit. he rubs steady circles around the nub, his thumb reaching up to your mound to pull up the hood, fully exposing it.
“ah—“ you give a shout, his fingers swiping across your exposed clit sending shocks through you. you could feel yourself grow close already. no one’s ever been to get you there that quickly, a testament to his skill or your feelings for him making you desperate, you didn’t care right now, not with the feeling of your slick running down your ass to the bedspread below.
“please, just like that i’m so close,” you pant, head thrown back against his left shoulder, moans escaping between breaths.
leaving an sloppy kiss to you jaw, robby speeds his fingers, adding pressure, grunting praise into your ear—y’sound so pretty, so beautiful, c’mon, come f’r me, such a good girl.
“oooh, michael—“ you come with a moan, toes curling, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing.
robby continues his pace, his left arm coming off your waist to shuffle your head on his right shoulder. his left hand squeezes around your cheeks, forcing you to meet his gaze, eyes bouncing back and forth between your two. his pupils blown wide, he tells you, “say it again, say my name.”
you give the best smile you could with his hands gripping your cheeks, “michael.”
that’s all it took for his to crash his mouth into yours, all tongue and spit and groans and beard burn.
the hand between your legs moves from your overstimulated clit to your slit, plunging two thick fingers into you without resistance, the aftershocks of orgasm still making you flutter. you moan into his mouth as he curls his fingers up, hitting the spongy spot inside you.
releasing you from the messy kiss, he groans into your mouth, “y’hear that? hear how wet you are f’r me? s’good.” he emphasizes by driving his hand harder against your cunt, squelches becoming louder. the heel of his palm presses down against your sensitive clit, his fingers rubbing at your g-spot.
you pant out, “michael—fuck, please, ah, i need more, add another one.”
he leans away from your face a little, locking eyes, seeing nothing but blown pupils and sweaty baby hairs, brows raised in the middle, mouth open trying to chase his—fucking perfect.
you move your own hand down between your legs to rest over his, pressing against the knuckle of his index finger, urging him to add it along side his middle and ring fingers. the stretch rips a moan out of your chest, open mouthed against robby’s bearded cheek, the fullness tugging at something else beyond your orgasm.
your hand moves atop his, bracing against the bend of his wrist. you use the flat of your fingers to angle his hand how you want, making the heel of his palm press firmer on to your clit. with added pressure, you begin grinding your cunt against his palm, his fingers curling up inside you simultaneously. robby can only look down at you with wide eyes, the movements of your grinding adding an extra pressure to his clothed cocked between you—he was fully going to come in his pants if you kept this up.
focusing his attention back to you, he sat up slightly, setting a brutal pace against your walls, more pressure from his palm.
“c’mon, you got one more, don’tcha? need you t’come for me, baby,” robby breathes into your ear, hot pants joined by hot tongue.
your second orgasm quickly approaching, you feel another pressure rush ahead. “mi—mmmichael, wait i’m gonna—“
“do it, let go,” he cuts you off.
you feel hot liquid gush out of you, around his fingers, down your thighs and ass, your orgasm rushing quickly behind. you see stars behind your eyelids, hearing only the blood rushing through your ears, the unbelievable release of pressure from your belly.
you come to with robby slowly pulling his fingers from your used cunt, the other hand smoothing softly down the side of your head.
“i think you vagled there for a sec,” robby chuckles when your eyes open to meet his. you lean up and give him a soft kiss, sweet, chaste in every way compared to what just happened. he hums in to the kiss, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek.
after a few moments, he pulls away. “c’mon, you need a shower,” he says softly.
having regained the ability to speak and sit up, you turn to face him. “but you’re still hard,” you say, palm sliding up his inner thigh.
his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you before you even reach the leg of his briefs.
“this isn’t about me,” he says. “i wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”
you meet his eyes with a small pout, “you did. i do. but i also really wanna make you feel good.” you shift closer, fingers gently curled into the fabric on this thigh. “please?”
he looks up to the ceiling, blowing a long breath out of his mouth. he starts, “i just…i don’t want you to think…” you gently reach at his bearded jaw, moving his head so he’s looking into your eyes again, waiting for him to continue. “i don’t want you to think i’m some dirty old man pressuring you into getting him off so he’ll give the the fellowship,” he lets out in a breath, eyes glancing away self consciously.
you take a beat—you don’t know what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.
“hey,” you lean your head to chase his gaze. “michael,” that gets his attention—until tonight you had never called him that, you barely called him robby—his eyes rejoining yours.
“is this about whether or not i get the fellowship?” you ask bluntly.
he hurriedly sits up more, “no! no, of course not! that’s what—“ he’s cut off by a peck on his lips.
“i know. it’s not about that for me either,” you reassure him, fingers scratching through his beard. “i like you, really like you. so if that’s your only reservation, then i’d really like to get you off,” you end with a playful smirk.
robby huffs out a laugh, but looks back at you with a soft fondness, “yeah? okay then.”
you bring him back in for a kiss, you both palming at his underwear to pull them down and off his legs. now, finally, completely bare, you look to take him in. he’s flushed red down his chest, body hair curled and matted down with sweat all the way down, down to his leaking cock. long and thick like the rest of him, flushed as red as his face under your focus, tip a painful shade of maroon, pool of precum beading at the tip—your mouth waters. balls lay heavy beneath his cock, hairy and full. you start to bend forward to take him into your mouth, but robby stops you.
“if you even breath on me right now i am going to come,” he says.
you smile impishly, “mmm? that so? well—“ you move to straddle one of his thighs, “i won’t breath on ya, then.” lifting yourself slightly, you run the length of your hand through the slick mess between your thighs, gathering your wetness. you bring your glossy hand to robby’s cock, slowly gliding your slick up and down his aching length, mixing with the beads of precum previously fallen.
“jesus fucking christ, you’re gonna kill me,” he chokes out, eyes locked on your movements.
“but whatta way to go,” you smile, sitting back down against his thigh, the coarse hairs rubbing against your overstimulated cunt, leaving him covered in slick.
you incrementally increase the pressure of your fist, the speed of your wrist. watching his chest rise and fall, his brows furrow up, eyes close in pleasure.
panting now, robby pulls you in by the back of your neck, mouths once again meeting, kisses interrupted by his moans.
“thought you’d come if i breathed on ya,” you tease.
“close,” is all he manages to reply.
kissing the corner of his mouth, you reach your other hand down to fondle his balls, feeling them tighten up in his impending orgasm. “michael, baby, then come for me,” you speak into his mouth. and he does. ropes of cum spray up his stomach and chest, down your fist still working him through it. once his orgasm subsides, you two stay there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, sharing air.
“now we both need a shower,” he breaks the moment with.
you giggle, opening your eyes to meet his, already looking softly at you, “and a new comforter.”
looking over your shoulder, he flushes that the sight of the wet material.
you give him a peck, “you start the shower, i’ll call down to the front desk about that bedspread.”
you two make quick work in the shower—“no funny business,” he said, “i am not going to the er with a skull fracture from shower sex.”
the hotel clerk delivers the new comforter—“so sorry! i spilled pop all over mine,” you lie lyingly like a liar, “i’ll pay for the cleaning!”— just after you both are dried off, you into your baggy pj shirt, robby with a towel hanging low on his hips.
robby helps you strip the soiled bedding and remake the bed, before reaching down for his jeans.
“stay,” you say quickly, afraid he’s about to get dressed and leave. “i know you have to be up in a few hours, but…stay, please.”
he walks to you and drops a kiss to your forehead, “i was just grabbing my phone to set an earlier alarm. i’m staying.”
laying in bed—head on robby’s chest, hand playing with his chest hair and chain, legs tangled together, sleep pulling at your eyes—you ask, “you promise this really won’t affect my application, good or bad?”
he exhales a mmm from his chest, “no. i don’t get final say anyway and the program director doesn’t listen t’me,” he pulls you in closer sleepily. “besides, the interview was just a formality. you had the slot before applications were even closed.”
“what!?”
———
you didn’t receive your formal offer letter from ptmc until the beginning of march. you had received other offers prior to its arrival, attending and fellowship slots alike, from some of the best facilities in the country.
robby couldn’t understand why you’d still be considering his dumb fellowship—his words—with what you were being offered.
your normal—and now flirty, occasionally explicit—texts and calls turning more into debates and arguments
“the research grants they can provide, i mean, christ! you could publish before you’ve even been there a year! fast track to a lasker award,” he argued to you one night during your phone call.
“yeah, it’d be great on the research side, but it’d only be research! i want to practice medicine! i want to help people, materially, not just in some hypothetical future innovation way!” you argued back. and after a beat, added softly, “besides, you’re not there.”
“honey, please,” he said, a soft desperation in his voice, “you cannot base your future on me. i can’t let you hold yourself back just to be near me, i wouldn’t forgive myself. adamson was the reason ptmc is even on your radar, but he’s gone.”
you blinked back tears, suddenly glad you were on the other side of the county, not looking into his eyes. “and he left the best parts of himself within you,” you said hanging up the call.
you and robby didn’t speak for two weeks, the longest you’d gone since the first time he texted you.
deep down you knew the point he was making was right, but you also knew what you wanted, what kind of doctor you wanted to be—not sitting in a lab for the rest of your career; not buying your third vacation home and spending your afternoons golfing, willfully ignorant to the plights of the sick; but the kind that sits and explains procedures to terrified but curious teenagers; the kind that treats unhoused patients willingly, fully, and tells the whole medical world they should too.
you tell robby as much when he calls you at the end of those two silent weeks, an abnormal facetime call coming through. he looks miserable, says he feels just as well, his therapist having himself kicking his own ass up and down the street. what he didn’t tell you, though, was about the session that truly shook him—him, ranting at his therapist, “i mean, yeah i’d love for her to be here, not only as a doctor, but…here, with me! but i can’t! if you love something, let it go—“ yeah, he realized then, slapped with the obviousness of it, i love her.
things got better then, slowly, you both realizing in the other’s absence that it really does make the heart grow fonder.
in mid april, you accept the fellowship position at ptmc; robby understanding now that it was truly the place you wished to be—and having some old man eye candy was just a bonus, you joked.
you:
robinette guess what i’m doing to celebrate my acceptance?
robby robinavitch:
bungee jumping.
what are actually you doing?
you:
enjoying my empty apartment
just me
and my ladybug panties
and some goodies from my bedside drawer
[photo attached]
suddenly, an incoming call from robby robinavitch comes through—contact photo the selfie he sent you back in february, all awkward angled and big grinned, with the beautiful view from his cabin behind him; you loved it.
“miiichael,” you answer, coy and falsely nonchalant, hands already trailing down your torso.
“sweetheart,” he warns, exhaling.
that night you two had another abnormal facetime call, one that ended in sticky sheets and heaving chests and a quiet i wish you were here.
———
ending your residency at the end of may and starting your fellowship on july 1st, you had decided to dedicate the month of june to your move to pittsburgh. time enough to pack and drive the thousands of miles across the county to your new home—miles and miles and miles through desert and mountains and so many cornfields—
robby robinavitch:
please just let me hire movers and buy you a plane ticket, sweetheart.
i don’t like the idea of you driving cross county alone in a u-haul.
you:
i’ve done it before rasputin
three times!!!
the ominous hell is real signs thrill me
robby robinavitch:
that one’s just not even fair.
send me pictures.
“there’s no robert at your new hospital, not in the er at least,” your roommate said, making you look up from your phone.
you step into your closet where they were supposed to be helping to box up your clothes, instead finding them on the floor, on your laptop, scrolling the ptmc staff page.
“i wanna see the boyfriend. it’s only fair, you’re leaving me for him,” they say peering up with an exaggerated pout.
“he’s not—“ my boyfriend, you start. you knew you were ass over elbow in love with robby, but you two had never actually labeled anything, never used the l-word—it’s on the move-in checklist: number 7, the what are we? talk. “he’s not a robert,” you say instead, “i’ve told you it’s a joke. his last name is robinavitch.”
as you step back into your bedroom, you hear them shout, “dr. daddy boba eyes over here? okay, girl. and gasp! chief of emergency medicine, you dirty minx!”
———
knocking at the front door interrupts your unpacking with a start. glancing at the clock on the stove, you were tempted to grab your cast iron skillet as a weapon, but made your way toward the door empty handed. robby had told you this was a good apartment in a safe neighborhood when he helped you house hunt, but who the hell would be knocking at your door at 9:57 at night if not an ax murderer?
slowly peering through the peephole, you see who—robby, one hand on the strap of his backpack, the other holding a plastic takeout bag, rocking back and forth on his heels.
you fling the door open. “sorry sir, i’ve already witnessed jehovah and he got a restraining order,” you deadpan.
“so sorry, ma’am. i’ll just take this food and be on my way,” he jests back, turning to leave. before he makes it a full step, you grab him by the front of his shirt and yank him into you for a bruising kiss. he quickly drops the bags to the ground, wrapping his arms around your middle, lifting you off your feet.
“hi,” he says once you break the kiss for air, smiling.
“hi,” you reply as he sets you back down and kicks the door shut, a small smile joining his. six months with only phone calls and facetimes and texts, you didn’t realize you missed him this much, not until he was standing in front of you, despite you talking nearly every day.
feeling tears sting in your eyes, you bury your face in his chest—still solid, still warm—wrapping your arms tightly around his middle—still soft, still biteable. he wraps his arms around you then, cheek resting atop your head.
“i missed you,” you mumble into his shirt.
“i missed you, too. i brought food,” he says, neither of you moving from your position.
“thought you were an ax murderer,” you add.
he chuckles—still rumbles deep in his chest where your head lays, “why the hell would an ax murderer knock and politely wait for you to answer the door?”
you pinch at his love handle, earning you a laugh. “for the element of surprise,” you step back to look at him again, “who the hell doesn’t text before showing up to a lady’s house in the middle of the night?”
he chuckles at the scowl on your face, reaching up to smooth the furrow between your brows with his thumb. “it’s 10,” he starts, hands moving to rest on your jaw, thumbing at the apples of your cheek. “and a guy whose shift ran over, showered at the hospital, sped to the restaurant to pick up food before they closed, and forgot to text because he was so embarrassingly excited to see his beautiful girlfriend who he hasn’t gotten to touch in six months, that’s who.”
you felt your cheeks heat—girlfriend. “that’s not playing fair, michael,” you whine, grabbing each of his wrists in your hands, tearing your gaze from his.
“ohhoho, you callin’ me michael before we’ve eaten dinner? that’s not playing fair, sweetheart,” he teases, head tilting to meet your eyes again.
when he does, you confess, “you called me your girlfriend. i didn’t—you’ve never done that.”
“is that…not what we’ve been doing? is that not what you want?” you feel his hands start to retreat.
“no!” you say, keeping his hands on your cheeks with your grip on his wrist. “i mean, yes! yes, that’s what i want. we just never talked about it and i didn’t want to assume but i also figured—“ you cut your own rambling.
robby’s eyes soften, pulling your forehead to his. “i will never understand modern dating etiquette,” he chuckles.
“times have changed since the paleolithic era, old man, get used to it,” you tease, finally releasing your grip on this wrists.
“i think you’re gonna have to get used to it,” he says, hands moving to your waist, kissing your forehead, “because you’re mine,” your eyelid, “i’m yours,” your cheek, “we’re together,” your jaw, “so you’re stuck with me,” ending on your mouth, just a soft press of his lips to yours.
———
a trail discarded of clothing leads from the front door, down the hall, and into your bedroom—the only thing set up being your bed, still pulling clean clothes from boxes in the corner. the moonlight streaming in from the large windows is the only source of light as you lead robby backward to the bed.
the backs of his knees hitting the side, robby sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you into his lap, mouths never parting. you hold him by his shoulders, lips trailing down his beard to his neck, licking and biting in their wake. you slide off his lap, nipping at his collarbone, his nipple, his lower belly, before landing on your knees on the floor below him. your mouth moves to his thick thighs, peppering slippery kisses as you move from knee to groin, biting at the flesh at his inner thigh, soothing the sting with your tongue after his flinches.
looking up at robby, you ask, “can i use my mouth?”
robby, ruddy-cheeked even in the pale light, gives a quick nod accompanied by a shaky exhale.
hand wrapping the base of his cock—still long and thick, still flushing hot in your hand—you gather saliva in our mouth. not breaking eye contact, you let the glob of spit fall from your lips, landing at the tip of robby’s cock, hand working his length to coat it. a grunted fucking hell escaping robby’s lips.
coated to your satisfaction, you lean in to kitten lick the tip, swirling your tongue slowly around his head before pushing it into his slit. bringing robby into your mouth, suckling the head, you look back up at him with wide eyes, his mouth pressed tightly shut as to not let any noise escape.
pulling off his cock, you say, “don’t be quiet. please, let me hear you.” not a demand, but not a request either. robby thinks this may be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—you, wide-eyed with spit-slicked lips, bathed in silvery moonlight, sweet voice like a melody in his ears.
sinking back down around him, you take robby as far into your mouth as you can, hand wrapping around what you can’t. hollowing your cheeks, you slowly, tortuously slow, pull up his length, the vacuum heat of your mouth causing robby to finally let out a chesty groan. repeating the ministration a few more times, you feel robby’s hand on your head. but instead of guiding your head down around his cock, he grabs your hair and pulls you up and off of him.
“i was doin’ somethin’ here,” you say.
you get a filthy kiss in return, hand still knotted in your hair. “wanna taste you,” robby grunts. his hands move under your armpits to guide you to stand, spinning you to lay further up the bed.
settling on his stomach, he begins kissing up your thighs—beard burning just as deliciously as you’d imagined. looking up at you with a mischievous look in his eye, he takes the fat of your inner thigh and sucks a biting bruise into it—fair, you think as you yelp.
throwing one of your thighs over his shoulder, finally, finally, his focus turns to you aching cunt, hot and wet and dripping for his attention. closing his eyes, robby puts his nose against your slit, inhaling your scent—it was filthy and only make you slicker.
the flat of his tongue runs slow from your hole to your clit, swirling his tongue around the nub once he reaches it.
“michael, please,” you gasp, hips grinding into his mouth.
he splays one large hand over your lower belly, steadying you, the other against the inner thigh of the leg not around his neck, holding you open.
robby eats you like a man possessed, like he’s drinking the nectar of the gods, like he could do this forever and never tire of it. he alternates steady licks with powerful sucks to your clit, nose rubbing the at nub when he dips to fuck your hole with his tongue.
eventually you feel your belly grow tight, unabashed moans escaping your mouth. you reach to intertwine your fingers with robby’s on your belly. “clo-close,” is all you manage to pant out. looking down at him, you can see his hips moving, grinding down into the mattress—hot, you think.
looking up at you, he lets out a mmm that vibrates through you. he speeds the licking at your clit, pulling you impossibly closer. holding your gaze, he sucks hard at you, sending your orgasm crashing though your body. you’re unable to hold his gaze as your back arches off the mattress, head thrown back with a shout.
robby’s licking never stops, only slows, working you through your orgasm and the aftershocks. the heat of his tongue and scratch of his beard boarder on painful in your overstimulation.
sitting up slightly you reach your hand into his hair and tug, him pulling his mouth off you. he looks up at you, beard soaked with your slick, pussy-drunk smile on his face. you can’t help but smile back. he leans down to reattach his lips to your cunt, but you pull his hair again, harder, keeping him from where he wants to go.
“‘m not finished,” he grunts, if not pouts.
you blow out a shaky laugh. “well you interrupted me earlier. let me suck you off, michael,” shoot back.
he concedes, placing a kiss to your hip, “well since you asked so nicely.” he moves up to hover his body over yours, leaning in for a sloppy kiss, all tongue and his spit and your slick. he pulls away just enough to meet your eyes and says, “but only if you sit on my face while you do it.”
blood instantly rushes to your face at his words, at how casually he said them. you were no blushing virgin, but him wanting that made you dizzy.
sensing your hesitation, he spoke softly, “hey, you don’t have to—“
you cut him off with a fierce shake of your head, eyes starting up into his. “nope, my soul just left my body for a minute, i’m all good now.”
he chuckles with a shake of his head and rolls over, laying flat on his back, head on your pillow. following his movements, you turn, looking back as you swing one leg over his head, caging him in. you hesitate to do more than hover over him, but robby pulls you down onto him with two large hands gripped into the meat of your ass. you let out a gasp, catching yourself with a hand braces against robby’s stomach as you jerk forward.
robby keeps his grip on you tight as he begins devouring you once more, sloppy and filthy, grunting into your cunt.
as you bend down to take his cock in your hand, you nuzzle against his pubes, rubbing your cheek against the coarse hair like a cat. trailing open mouthed kisses up his length, wetting him once more, you gently suckle at his cock. the moans he pulls from you while licking into your slit cause vibrations to wrap around him in your mouth, precum and drool leaking from the corner. you increase your suction, hand jerking steadily at what you haven’t swallowed.
you feel robby pull his mouth from your cunt. “baby,” he pants, hand sliding as far as it could up your hip from his position to get your attention, “if you want me to fuck you, you’re gonna have to stop that.”
pulling off him with a pop, you place a final peck to his tip before turning around to face him.
smiling down at him, you tease, “gettin’ tired, old man?” it comes out sweeter than planned, the softness in your eyes matching robby’s own.
sitting up against the headboard, he reaches to grip your hips, pulling you in to straddle him once more. “don’t wanna come until i’m inside your pussy,” he answers, expression too fond for words so vulgar.
you smile again, kissing him passionately, trying to say what little was left unsaid between you two.
reaching down between you, you grab robby’s cock, swiping the head through your slick folds, and begin to line him up with your cunt. robby interrupts the kiss, “wait, baby, condom,” holding you by your hips to keep you from moving.
opening and closing your mouth once, you ask, “you’re clean, right?” he nods. “i’m clean. i’ve got an iud. i want…i just want to feel as close to you as i can. i want to feel all of you, michael.” i want to crawl into your skin and live there, you think.
robby reaches one hand to your face, brushing a rouge hair from your forehead. “i want to feel all of you, too,” he punctuates with a kiss below your eye. “just didn’t wanna be presumptuous,” he adds, teasing.
“you callin’ me presumptuous, you dirty old man?” you shoot back. “wantin’ to fill me up, fuck me raw on the second date?” you add, lining robby up to you once more.
he barks out a laugh that turns into a moan as you sink down onto him. the stretch, eased by your previous orgasm and robby’s tongue, still burned, splitting you open and reshaping you perfect for just him.
fully seated, you and robby pant into each other’s mouths, eyes pinched shut, foreheads touching. finally, you began to move, rolling your hips against his, feeling his fullness suffocate you.
speeding, you felt robby’s hands return to your hips, fingertips leaving bruises in your flesh, assisting the movement of your hips. opening your eyes, you saw him already looking at you, cheeks flushed, sweat beading down his temple. you leaned forward and lick it, kissing his cheekbone, under his eye, across his nose.
robby pants your name like it was holy, one hand moving down your body, thumb finding your clit, making you cry out.
neither of you were going to last, both close to the edge before even starting, desperate to feel the other completely.
hand gripping tightly to your hip, thumb working fast at your clit, robby grunts out, “where do you want it?”
“inside michael, shit— inside, please please, inside,” you whine, orgasm closing in.
robby chokes out a fuck, before moving the hand from you hip to the bed, using it as leverage to fuck up into you from below. “fuck, baby, i’m close, shit! god, i lo—“ robby shuts his lips tight, breathes coming heavier from his nose. did he just— was he about to—
you reach both hands to his beard, tugging so you can lock your gaze with his. “what were you going to say? please, say it,” you keen, so close now.
he releases the seal on his mouth with a heavy exhale, “i love you. i—fuck, shit— i love you so fucking much.”
that’s enough to send you over the finish line, cunt clamping down hard on robby’s length, thighs trembling from exertion and ecstasy. one hand falling down to robby’s still playing with your clit, nails biting into his wrist—to keep him going or to stop him, you didn’t know, brain foggy with overstimulation and oxytocin.
the hand still in his beard tugs at the short hairs, eyes opening again to meet his. “i love you too, michael. so fucking much, i love you,” crashing your lips back into his.
a few more thrusts and he’s coming, hot ropes of cum filling every inch of you, marking you as his, his rumbling moan spilling down your throat.
you two bask in the afterglow, trading breathless laughter and panting i love yous as the moon drifted further into the sky. kissing forming bruises and soothing over lingering scratches. drifting to sleep in a tangle of sheets and sweat and limbs, content now having the other in arm’s reach.
———
as june came to a close, filled with unpacking, exploring, and making up for six months of distance, july 1st quickly arrives, time for your fellowship to begin.
arriving at ptmc, you make your way to the ed—the pitt—arriving half an hour early, determined to both settle into your locker and settle your nerves before shift change at 7. you manage to find the staff area without being stopped, everyone seemingly too tired to notice the unfamiliar face in familiar black scrubs.
exiting the break room, a gruff voice comes from the north nurse’s station. “you’re here early,” the voice says.
“oh! hi dr. abbott,” you say once you turn. never listen to jack, robby had joked. “just didn’t wanna be late on my first day, y’know. how are you?”
ignoring your question, dr. abbot asks his own, “robby here, too?”
keeping your best poker face—it’s bad—you reply, “what? oh! uh, i don’t—i wouldn’t—“
dr. abbot continues his staring, unimpressed or unbelieving, you couldn’t deduce.
“i, uh, haven’t seen him! but i’ll let him know you’re looking for him if i do!” you end with a fake cheer.
face unchanged, dr. abbot huffs out his nose, “got me excited, thought i was gonna get outta here before 8 today.” he looks up with a smirk, “next time just come in together, save me the heartbreak.”
never listen to jack. always listen to dr. abbot, but never jack.
laughing nervously, you gave a small gotta go do something before walking away. not a complete lie.
you had briefly seen the memorial wall during your tour all those months ago, photos of ptmc staff who had passed. it was the second place you wanted to to visit before the start of your first day. looking up at dr. adamson’s photo, you smile as if he was actually here, seeing the curious teen now grown into a real doctor.
making your way toward the main nurses station, you see an excited doctor talking animatedly with her hands—something about an amazing! case the evening before—to a prettyboy doctor, who had a smitten look on his face, seeming to be hanging on her every word.
two more doctors walk in from the ambulance bay then. the woman one smirks at the pretty boy and says getta room! with a teasing tone. prettyboy just flips her off, attention never straying from excited girl. the victorian orphan looking boy just pushes sarcastic girl further into the pitt as she cackles.
leaning against the counter, you hear footsteps stop next to you. “doctor,” the voice—robby—says in faux seriousness.
“doctor,” you echo.
as senior doctors gather at the nurses station, introductions are made by robby—you can’t remember another time he’d ever called you by your title and full name.
“you remember dr. abbot and dr. ellis from your interview,” dr. ellis gives a up-nod, dr. abbot an all-knowing half-smile. robby introduces two senior residents, one being sarcastic girl—dr. santos. “and our junior attending, dr. langdon, who isn’t scheduled til noon, yet is already here,” robby ends, turning his attention to dr. langdon—prettyboy.
he shrugs, “had to switch out cars, figured i’d stay. i’ll survive.”
“say that to shen in 18 hours,” dr. abbot smirks.
the day proceeds quickly. a thorough tour, more introductions, a few traumas. it was overwhelming and exciting and real—didn’t hurt that your tour guide was your piece of old man eye candy.
midafternoon, the announcement of an incoming multi-car, multi-trauma pileup rang through the intercom.
“from downtown,” the charge nurse, dana, added off-speaker.
“okay, y’all, how many furries?” one of the med assistants asked loudly. post-it notes and cash flew his way between staff setting up for protocol.
“furries?” you ask putting on your trauma gown.
“furries,” dr. whitaker—victorian orphan—confirms. “there’s a convention every fourth of july weekend and we always end up with at least a dozen of ‘em. some bet on how many, what reason, how wild,” he ends up a shrug.
you just nod, a little confused but hey, every hospital has their thing—the pitt’s seemed to be betting on anything.
you worked the trauma event with efficiency and precision, leading some cases with junior residents, working other cases along side robby or dr. langdon. the cases with robby were something else; a choreographed dance neither of you knew you had learned, an easy rhythm uninterrupted by the urgency of the situation, the other right where they were needed when they were needed.
as the final patient was stabilized and wheeled off to surgery, you pushed your disheveled hair out of your face, giving an amazed laugh to robby from across the trauma bay. he returned the smile with a soft good job, closer now, audible only to anyone actively trying to listen in.
(there were 11 furries in a 15-passenger van. one threatened to sue as his fur suit was cut off. a nurse named jesse won the pool.)
as the shift drew to a close, you sat at central finishing your charting. from the corner of your eye, you saw two nurses—princess and perlah—turned toward you, talking openly in tagalog? you’re pretty sure? smiling nervously as you turn to look at them, they smile back, giving small waves.
“they’re talking about you, you know?” dr. santos says as she leans across from you, elbows on the counter, hands clasped together loosely.
looking from the nurses, you joke, “only scandalous things, i hope.”
dr. santos smirks, “they’re plotting to start a betting pool. how long before you and robby start fucking and or dating each other?” you let out an incredulous breath before she continues, “my bet is that you already are. am i close? i need a win, i lost a lotta money today.”
if it were about anything else—anybody else—you would have laughed it up with dr. santos. instead, you felt your hands grow sweaty and face hot, fumbling out, “i don’t know what—i mean—nooo…robby? noooo.”
“‘noooo robby,’ what?” the man asks himself, walking up to return a tablet. dr. santos excuses herself with a light oh, nothing.
robby turns to you with raised brows.
“your staff is betting on when we’ll get together, michael,” you answer. the hr papers were already turned in. technically it was out there. just needed the right question to be asked to the right admin staffer by the right person.
robby leans on the counter, mirroring dr. santos’ previous stance. “well then, would you like to go to dinner sometime?”
you smile rolling your eyes.
“are you free next week?”
———
and then princess and perlah my chismosa queens overheard and rigged the bet and won so much money amen
also no one cares but i know ellis would be 2 not 1 year post residency and mel 1 year with this timeline but i wanted them in here so pretend they did/are doing a 5th year as chief resident or s/t shhhh also i fully believe langdon and santos will eventually end up being bickering-siblings-coded in canon thank you goodnight
Also is it just me or did Santos just command that episode? It's a strange little thing but she felt so naturally like the most stable presence in the room every time she was onscreen, like she's settled in and feels safer in her surroundings and is now just so much more steady and well-adjusted than the people around her, who are coming more unglued by the day. Robby is teetering on the edge of a cliff, Langdon is powered only by the frantic energy of nerves and shame, Mel is trying not to lose it, Mohan is dealing with Decisions at home, and generally everyone feels more unhinged and damaged than ever...and then there's Santos. A rock, pointy and sharp still, but a rock nonetheless, who holds together all of her carefully-glued traumas for the sake of a suffering little girl and does not fray.
I absolutely fucking love how well they're handling Robby's character. he's not overtly sad/slow anything like that— in fact, he seems almost cheerful. laughing and grinning, much lighter this episode than the season one pilot. why? because he already has plans. because he knows after this shift, it's over. it's the fucking warnings for suicide. if a depressed person suddenly seems "happier"... you check in on them.
it's reminiscent of s1, his interaction with Dana— "the hairier it gets, the funnier you get, and you are on fire today." he's not going to be obvious about it. the only reason he's a bit more settled is because there's 'an end in sight' of sorts. Robby please get help
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A bunch of people in twt / X thinks they're the smartest ppl in the room with all the discourse & essays they write about certain topics. And im telling you, that's not how you show your intelligence babe.
a long rant about the culture on the pitt twitter, the early season 2 discourse, and the state of the pitt fandom in general.
it genuinely saddens me that a show like the pitt, one that's so needed right now in a country that's currently quite literally systematically reversing course on every progressive reform that's been made for decades and decades, is being torn to shreds regularly on social media by people who ignore all of the things it's doing right. it's never woke enough, it never addresses everything perfectly, no one can sit down and watch more than one episode before jumping online to complain about all the ways they feel like the show has already fucked up, or complain about the ways they're so sure it will fuck up in the weeks to come.
part of the reason why twitter has become so unbearable to me lately is because there are a few accounts on there that absolutely hate this show. they hate it, they think everyone involved in making it is evil, they take every possible opportunity to speak critically about it, they only amplify negative press, and for some reason they continue watching the show.
whether that's to feel morally superior to the people that enjoy it, to hate "ethically" by having full knowledge of what's happening, or (most likely) because consuming it weekly it gives them additional fuel for their complaints, they keep watching. they insist they want nothing to do with this show and it's constantly disappointing them, but they remain some of the loudest people in the entire fandom.
i have no issue with media i enjoy being criticized, and i don't feel guilty for enjoying the work of quote-unquote problematic artists. the issue for me is when it crosses into the realm of what feels like a hate campaign. some of the accusations i've seen leveled at noah wyle, at john wells, at the writers of this show in general are deeply, incredibly over-the-top.
using tracy ifeachor's departure from the show (something we know absolutely nothing about the circumstances of) to accuse the people making the show of being racist and anti-black; alleging that this show was made so that the people at the top could continue years of abuse of their power (something that quite literally no one has claimed); claiming a behind-the-scenes conspiracy to use women of color in order to get people interested in the show and then systematically write them off...
i'm barely even scratching the surface.
to get into the amount of absolutely baseless and insane claims that have circulated would take weeks, and i've genuinely given up hope of ever being able to dismantle all of them. i saw a tweet yesterday that called noah wyle "the most racist man alive." i've seen quote-unquote "fans" of this show writing practical dissertations that read like they hope the women of color on this set are being mistreated so they have additional evidence for their twitter threads. i've seen people saying they "can't wait for the documentary about all of this to come out", and i read that and think... all of what?
the way the pitt was cast means so much amazing, young, diverse undiscovered talent got to be put in the spotlight (people who don't work in the industry may not realize, but it is unbelievably rare for a show to invest so much faith and time and material in new talent). the writer's room includes several women of color whose skill allow the show to feel like it's actually representative of the demographics of the people that make up the healthcare industry. the pitt was the first production to finalize a union contract with their production assistants, a historically underpaid and overworked on-set position. because of the show's format, it employees the same background actors across the entire season, giving background talent months of consistent paid work. so many people involved in the production have raved about the set feeling non-hierarchical, feeling like being part of a theatre troupe, feeling like a place where they're supported both personally and in the work.
and outside of any of that, there's the work of the show itself. i don't believe any art should be above critique even (and especially) if it's portraying current events and systemic issues, but the pitt has made a measurable impact outside of its viewership. healthcare workers say this show has made it easier for their families to understand the work that they do and the way that it stays with them. people have attested that it's opened up conversations for them about things like end-of-life planning and organ donation (a study by USC found individuals were 27% more likely to seek out information about becoming an organ donor after watching this show, and that the impact was particularly great among black audiences, who are historically overrepresented on transplant lists and underrepresented in terms of donors). noah wyle and his mother joined nurses to speak to congress this summer about mental health support for healthcare workers. some of the protocols that were portrayed during the mass-casualty event in season 1 are now being implemented in actual hospital emergency rooms.
at its heart, this is a show about imperfect people doing their best, made by imperfect people doing their best. i desperately, desperately wish for all of us to recognize that none of us are perfect either. none of us are without bias, none of us are free of mistakes, none of us have always acted in ways we're proud of. i see that reflected in the doctors and nurses and patients on this show, and i wish i could see it reflected more often in this fandom as well.
i've been dogpiled plenty on twitter in the past few months for expressing the above, and i'm not naive enough to think that that's not going to happen here as well. i've been called every name in the book, insulted in turns of phrase i've quite literally never heard before in my life, and sent actual death threats. i'm sure the people that have been harassing me relentlessly for months will have an absolute field day with this post as well, but i am at my core a lawyer's daughter who was raised to argue at the dinner table and i don't want to let the the loudest, meanest people control the experience of being a fan of this show.
i think the pitt is important. i think it's important for television and it's important for hollywood and it has the potential to be important for the country, and i would like to see it continue to succeed, and hopefully find an audience that's less obsessed with turning the entire fandom into a war zone & more open to understanding.
"You saved his life. I'm asking you to help him keep it."
Joel Miller x Doctor Reader
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Summary: After Joel's suffering at the hands of Abby, he survives. You, a new resident of Jackson, are tasked with healing him, bringing him back to life in more ways than one.
Warnings: alternating pov, injury, eventual smut, mutual pining, fluff, domesticity in the apocalypse, joel survives, medical jargon, blood, sponge baths
Chapters will have individual warnings.
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Widower Joel Miller needs a live-in nanny. His daughters, bless their little hearts, are the light of his life and the bane of the existence of four different ex-nannies. When he finds himself out of options, Joel hires the young woman that knocks on his door one afternoon with impossibly high heels and a résumé hastily written in glittery gel pen.
He never expected her to turn his life upside down— In the best way possible.
story warnings: modern setting / no oubreak, playing fast and loose with the timeline, nanny!au, contractor!joel, miscommunications, dual pov, age gap (reader's mid/late 20s and joel's mid 50s), sarah is joel's bio daughter and ellie's adopted, tommy is my version of niles, fluff, eventual smut, no y/n, slice of life, slow burn.
rating: +18.
fox says: hello friends! so this is the first long-term fic i'll be posting directly on tumblr and i'm still getting the hang on formatting and whatnot so please bear with me! this is heavily inspired by the 90s sitcom the nanny so expect lots of fluff, lots of yearnings and lots of shenanigans. as always, feedback is welcome & appreciated! if you want to be tagged whenever i update this pls just send me an ask, dm or comment on this post! <3
staus: on going.
main divider by @/carestuff, other graphics by me.
Summary: Working as a personal assistant for the most eligible bachelor in New York City has its perks: above average pay, expensive goody bags from parties, traveling to exotic locations, dining at exclusive restaurants. It's a dream job that practically fell into your lap. The downside? You've been hopelessly in love with him for years and he has no clue. Even if he did, he isn't willing to give up his playboy lifestyle for a steady relationship. That is, until he meets Lucy, and everything changes.
Warnings: slow burn, power imbalance (boss/employee), language, food and alcohol consumption, some minor physical trauma, hurt/comfort, mention of SA (the part from the movie), eventual smut (18+ MDNI), angst, minor infidelity, so much fucking pining and yearning, more warnings to be stated each chapter
Status: coming soon
dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Chapters:
please notice - posting Sept 27
there is a light that never goes out - posting Oct 4
thin line - posting Oct 11
there's no way - posting Oct 18
potential - posting Oct 25
bruises - posting Nov 1
head over feet - posting Nov 8
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