Z

Glancing up from your seat at the nurse’s station, you watch him move from South 15 to the curtain over- checking on patients. 

Your cheeks heat unprofessionally and unintentionally at the sight of him. A habit you needed to kick soon, for you worked with the man up to 4 nights a week. That, and your flustered appearance was becoming more and more obvious than you’d realized. 

Dr. Abbot has been your attending for over 2 years now. Starting as an intern on an emergency med rotation and thrown to the night shift due to scheduling conflicts- you found yourself working closely under the army vet. 

His dynamic teaching and advantageous reassurance drew you to the emergency department. Deadset on surgery, you completely pivoted after working with the doctor. Declaring your specialty, you were now well into your third year of residency in the pit. 

You felt confident when you worked under Abbot. He gave you the room to make decisions and he trusted your opinions- only stepping in to assist during especially challenging moments. 

He moved from the rooms, glancing at you as his eyes passed over the board above your head. You shifted your gaze away, crumbling under even the slightest look from him. 

This was new. This nervousness. You had always thought Abbot was absentmindedly attractive, harboring a small work crush, but he was your superior, and that was a boundary you would never feel comfortable crossing. 

Or so you thought. 

It happened 11 days ago. Not that you were counting. 

Your shifts had aligned that week to where you had three days off in a row, a rare occurrence. 

Since residency had put your social life on the back burner you took the opportunity to call up a couple of friends and go out.

By some means of the universe, you had ended up at the same bar as Jack that night. How you ended up in the back of his car was a blur. Skirt bunched around your waist, hips thrusting roughly into yours, hands pulling and grasping at anything they could touch, his mouth whispering dirty words and kissing soft desperate kisses against your skin. 

It was the heat of the moment. That’s what you kept telling yourself. It was a one-time thing. A mistake that wouldn’t happen again. Despite how much you secretly wanted it to. 

So you glanced away. You kept it professional. You avoided him like the plague and spent as little time as you could in his presence.  

You even traded a day shift with McKay to get a night away from him. You didn’t feel guilty or ashamed, you just didn’t want Jack to treat you differently. To see you differently. 

The calm of the ED was short-lived as the charge nurse shouted out, “Incoming ped versus vehicle. 3 minutes.”

You stood from the desk and Jack stepped out of the room he was in. You reached for gloves and moved much slower than you should’ve. 

The ambulance doors opened in a rush and the paramedics pushed in the patient on a stretcher. You were focused on snapping on your gloves. One tore as you pulled it on and you cursed under your breath, reaching for another. You listened to the paramedics as you grabbed a replacement. 

“Male. 64. Was hit by a driver. Multiple femoral fractures and a blood alcohol level higher than any I’ve ever seen,” The paramedic huffed and the patient slurred aggressively in response. 

You glanced up, approaching the stretcher, and your heart fell out of your chest. Your throat closed up on instinct. The patient was spewing nonsense but his demeanor was obvious. He was angry and drunk. And he was your father. 

Abbot calls out your last name, voice sharper than normal as he motions for your frozen self to come help. To do your job.

You don’t move. Your heart races uncomfortably. You hadn’t seen your dad in a few weeks. He was a drunk who had treated you like the biggest regret of his life from as far back as you could remember. 

You avoided him and only checked in on him every once and a while. Mostly to see if he was still alive. 

Even in his drunken state, your father recognized the last name Jack had spoken. The one you shared with him. 

Your father stopped squirming enough to glance up, directly at you. 

“Look who it is.” His sneer was exaggerated and he threw his head back on the gurney. 

Abbot’s brows furrowed and he looked between the man and you. 

“You know this guy?” He spoke as they moved the gurney to the trauma bay. 

The nurses tried to ask for his name and information but your father was shouting nonsense again- mostly about giving him drugs to stop the pain. 

You swallow harshly and follow into Trauma 2 timidly.

You feel like you’re in a dream. Watching your worst childhood memories clash with reality. 

“I need your help here.” Jack snaps at you, his eyes searching yours, and his voice firmer than normal. You avoid his gaze and stand dead on your feet.

They’re already working. Moving your dad to the bed, cutting his clothes. And you’re useless. Watching and trying not to break down.

Your dad shouts and you flinch involuntarily. He yells at the nurse for morphine. Jack is frustrated with your lack of help, but now, more so concerned about your behavior. 

Your dad’s head snaps up, and he glares right at you as the staff works to keep him down. “I’m talking to you! Give me something for the fucking pain-” His words are a loud drunken demand, causing you to somehow shrink even more in on yourself.

“Sir-” One nurse starts and your dad shouts over her. 

He keeps his head up, his gaze and words directed solely at you. 

“Do you know him?” Abbot repeats his question from earlier, harsher this time as he works over the chaos. 

Your dad answers for you unintentionally, shouting your name, “Give me something here. I’m your father for fuck’s sake!”

The room falls quiet for a beat and your stomach twists. 

“This is your dad?” Abbot’s eyebrows meet his forehead. 

“Is he an addict?” The nurse asks you. 

“Only alcohol. That I know of.” Your voice is a whisper. 

Abbot sighs harshly and the nurse moves to give your dad a stronger painkiller. 

“Right, get her out of here and send in Ellis, please.” Jack nods to another nurse. 

She grips your arm softly and you watch as your father finally stops shouting and lays his head back in a morphine-induced haze.

The nurse squeezes your arm and sits you in a chair before rushing off to get the other resident. 

You watch numbly as Ellis goes into the bay. You don’t know how long you stare at the wall for, your mind seeming to shut off. 

You hear Shen’s voice behind you and it sounds like he’s asking you a question but you’re not registering anything. 

Your stomach lurches violently and you stand, walking to the ambulance bay doors. 

They slide open and Shen calls out to you. 

You stagger to the bushes and the contents of your stomach come up. 

You cough and wipe your mouth, catching your breath. 

You grip the wall, needing something to stabilize your influx of emotions. 

His voice comes from behind you after a moment. 

“You okay?”

You turn to him and nod. 

He stands across the bay, hands on his hips. He’s unconvinced. 

He approaches you carefully, like a wounded animal, and you hate it. 

“I’m fine. I just need a minute.” You call back. 

You turn away from him and run a hand over your hair, gasping for a breath. 

His hand finds your elbow in a gentle grip and you glance his way. He doesn’t say anything. He just grabs your arm and slowly moves you to the curb outside the building. 

He sits you down and moves beside you, his knee brushing yours. 

Your eyes well up despite your best efforts. Your breath wracks and your head sags. 

You wipe at your tears as they begin to fall and try to hide your face in your shoulder. You feel his arm come around you, wrapping you in warmth. 

“You’re okay.” His voice is so steady and reassuring that you almost believe him. 

You nod, but the tears keep falling. 

“I’m sorry.”

You feel his head shake beside you. “Don’t apologize.”

Tears stream down your face and his arm squeezes you closer. You let your head fall to his shoulder and let his comfort consume you. 

Processing what just happened, you let Abbot ease your emotional toll. You feel his lips brush your hairline and your eyes squeeze shut. 

Sniffling, you sit upright again. Abbot’s hand stays on you, sliding down to rest on your back. 

“I didn’t know what to do. Or why I reacted like that. I didn’t- I wasn’t expecting to see him. Not here.” You wipe a stray tear away as you try to explain yourself. 

“From what I witnessed, your reaction tells me there’s a whole other story to your relationship with that man. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You’re a good doctor, but everyone has their limits. Things that hit close to home- or things that come from home.”

He sends you a sympathetic look and you nod at his words.

“I can’t have my best resident freezing up again. Or avoiding me. Which I know you’re doing by the way.” He raises a knowing brow.

The sigh that escapes you is full of embarrassment and nerves. 

“I don’t want to talk about it-”

“About the fact that we slept together or that your dad is an abusive drunk?”

“Jack.” 

“Either topic is up for debate.” His lips rise slightly and you can’t help but shake your head at his persistence. 

“I want to forget it ever happened. All of it.”

It’s silent for a moment and at his lack of response you turn your head to look at him. 

His words are quiet, “If that’s really what you want, I’ll never bring it up again. But if it’s not, I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care deeply for you. In a way that I definitely shouldn’t.”

His words are a punch to the gut. A reality check.

“You do?”

He nods, “Have for a while now.” 

He reaches up to brush a rouge hair off your forehead and you lean into the touch. 

“I do too. I care about you.”

His smile is small, “I figured.”

“Was it that obvious?” You cringe. 

He shakes his head, “You’re just easy to read sometimes.”

“It’s inappropriate. Us.” You state the obvious, though you know the words are a useless feat. 

“Very.” Jack huffs a laugh.

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. 

After a moment you speak up again, “Is my dad okay?”

“He will be. He needs surgery, but he’ll live.”

You nod. 

Jack runs his hand up your back, his lips meeting your head again. He stands slowly, reaching down to grasp your hand. He pulls you to your feet gently. 

“You don’t have to see him, but if you want to I can go with you.”

“Thank you.”

He nods and starts back towards the automatic doors. 

“Jack.” You call. 

He turns, eyebrows raised in question. 

You step closer to him and repeat the sentiment. 

“I’ll look after you.” He squeezes your hand and moves back inside. 

He drives you home that night. And many more nights after that. Your dynamic changes. While still supportive and professional, it’s deeper and fervent- your relationship building a whole new layer of trust. You loved him and it was easy. No more glancing away or avoidant behaviors. You let Jack into every aspect of your life and he cherished it- nurtured it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s sort of important, sir…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dammit…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine, Jack—”

“I can’t believe this—”

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

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

“What happened? Did you faint again?”

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

“I told you about the hot water—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My head…” you squeak out.

Jack huffs. “Here…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have got to be shitting me…”

7:43 am. PTMC. July 4th. 

“Where the hell is my resident?” Robby tossed his hands out as Dana walked by. 

“She no called no showed. That’s why I called Langdon in.” She gave Robby a look that appeared to say: ‘I’m sorry, but not really.’

“That’s very unlike her.” He argued in a sing-song voice. 

Dana shrugged and turned back towards the nurses’ station, not her problem. 

6:09 am. Pittsburgh neighborhood. July 4th. 

You were running late this morning. You yawned as you anxiously jogged towards the T train you rode to work. You lived farther from PTMC than ideal. And when your car broke down three months ago, it was your last priority to get it fixed as a broke resident. So, public transportation it was. 

You didn’t mind it, in fact the train ride normally helped calm your nerves on the way to work. A mindless ride where you didn’t have to focus on other drivers or endless city traffic. 

You shouldered your bag as the crosswalk lit up with the ‘walk’ symbol. Without a second thought, you crossed the street, your mind focused on not missing the next train. As you entered the striped crosswalk, an SUV took a right turn too hard, not noticing you in the soft morning light. You went down hard. 

Your ears were ringing and your vision blurred. You briefly recall reaching for your head and the slam of a car door before everything went black. 

You woke in the ambulance, the loud siren enhancing the pounding in your head. 

“Try not to move!” the paramedic shouted as she leaned over you. “Can you tell me your name?” Her brows were scrunched and you inhaled sharply at the overwhelming surroundings. 

You were in and out of consciousness the rest of the ride, your brain fuzzy and forgetful. 

6:56 am. Westbridge Hospital. July 4th. 

The hospital closest to your apartment was not your place of work. As they wheeled you in from the ambulance, you could barely stay awake. You groaned as they pushed you into the unfamiliar trauma room. 

“Ma’am? Ma’am, can you tell us your name?”

They moved you onto the table and your face scrunched in discomfort. You wanted to answer them, but your mind was too muddled. You heard the paramedic continue. “We didn’t see an ID or anything at the scene. She has scrubs on, does she work here?”

“I don’t recognize her. Scrubs could mean anything.” The doctor, you assume, answers. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. No ID? Where was your bag? Fuck, your hospital badge was in there. 

“Stay awake, sweetie. Open your eyes for me.” A softer voice was saying. Your eyes watered when you opened them again. 

“My bag-” You coughed. 

“What? What was that?” The nurse asked. 

You groaned. Your body felt hard and stiff, yet gelatin-like at the same time. You could recognize the assessments they were performing even in your disoriented state- assessments you performed on a daily basis. Your neck and airway were observed, vitals announced, a bright light was shone in your face, and a superficial glance for wounds. You felt the cold blade of scissors as your scrubs were cut. Your body was rolled, orders were shouted. 

You felt completely overwhelmed. You were having trouble understanding and processing what was going on, and you could feel blood dripping from your hairline. 

“Pulse is rising!” A new voice shouted. “BP dropping.”

“She’s in shock.” The doctor’s voice was loud. “Definitely have some internal bleeding in the left abdomen. Someone page surgery.”

“Does she need CT?”

“If we can stabilize her.”

Your blinking was hard and you felt your eyes flutter before you passed out. 

9:53 am. PTMC. July 4th. 

“We’re getting all Westbridge reroutes!” Dana’s voice sounded through the ER. 

A collective panic and disappointment filled the department, but the day moved on as it always did. 

11:41 pm. PTMC. Two weeks ago. 

You were covering a night shift for Ellis. Only catch, she couldn’t switch shifts. So, here you were working a double. You yawned as you caught up on some charting. An open cup of hot coffee landed next to your keyboard. 

You glanced up and smiled at the attending. “Thanks.” You took a sip. 

Jack smiled and gave you a small nod. “Night shift misses you.” He quirked. 

You rolled your eyes playfully. “I do not miss the all-nighters.” You tried to keep your focus on the screen in front of you. 

“Ah, they’re not that bad. You get used to them. You would have.” He nodded. 

You had switched to the day shift last month after a long year on the night shift rotation. You loved the night shift staff, and working under Abbot and Shen taught you a lot- but the constant overnight shifts were killing you. Along with the butterflies that filled your stomach when your boss was around. You started picking up day shifts, and with Langdon’s absence the past few months, Robby finally let you fill in for a few weeks full time. 

“Maybe.” You sigh and lean your head back to look at his form standing over you. “Why? You guys miss me down here?” You joke. 

“Some of us more than others.” He smirks, and you try to hide the immediate blush his words ignite. You shake your head. 

Abbot was fond of you and he knew it was apparent. He respected your character and your work ethic immensely. He was hard on you when you needed a push, but he held a strong soft spot for you. And he liked to throw out the occasional flirty line that sent your stomach spinning. 

He laughs quietly and moves on with a tap of his fist to the counter. You watch him retreat to a patient’s room, eyes trailing over his hard back. 

12:46 pm. PTMC. July 4th. 

Robby was pulled into the second motorcycle accident of the day. Beds were filling up and it was a great relief when Dr. Jack Abbot showed up early for his shift. He’d heard about the Westbridge closure and assumed the pitt would need all the help they could get. He’d taken a moment to change out of some of his tactical gear when Dana announced, “Incoming trauma from Westbridge! Car accident victim.” 

Dr. Al-Hashimi got up from her spot at the nurses’ station. She nodded for Joy to join her, grabbing gloves and heading for the ambulance bay. When they arrived, the paramedics were more frantic than she expected. 

“Car accident victim. Young female- looks to be late twenties, early thirties. She was awaiting surgery at Westbridge, but her vitals tanked on the way here. We had to bag her.” The paramedic squeezed the intubation bag as they walked speedily into the ER. Al-Hashimi nodded along. The paramedic continued, “Internal bleeding of the abdomen, possible TBI, vitals unstable. And she had no ID on her. Westbridge went into lockdown before they could search the system. We got a Jane Doe on our hands.” 

“Put her in Trauma Two!” Dana shouted without looking up from her chart. 

Jack glanced up from the computer he was working at as they pushed you down the hall. His brows furrowed and denial filled him as he registered who was on the stretcher. There was no way. His stomach sank. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” He shouted, jumping up from his seat. Eyes across the ER fell to his jogging form as he rushed over. “That’s not a Jane Doe! Fuck-” he glanced up.

Dana looked up at the scene and cursed. “That’s why she didn’t answer.” Her voice was worried under her breath as she hurried over to help. 

“Would someone like to explain to me what’s going on?” Al-Hashimi asked as you were pushed into Trauma Two, Jack right at your side now. Joy stepped back at the commotion, letting the attendings work. 

You were moved onto the table. Jack was pale, almost robotic as he worked. 

He spoke, “She’s a resident here. My resident. She- she’s not a Jane Doe.” He spoke your name with full assurance and glanced at your bruised face. 

Jesse pushed into the bay and sobered his features as he got to work. “Vitals all over the place still. She’s hypotensive. She came in from Westbridge?” 

“Yes.” Dana replied as you were rolled, her hand squeezing your arm in comfort even in your unconscious state. 

“Internal bleeding looks bad. Page surgery- now.” Jack swallowed as you were assessed all over again, at your place of work this time. 

He mumbled under his breath, “You’re okay.” Almost a reassurance to himself. 

“Pupil response is slow.” Al-Hashimi announced as she flashed her pen light. “Get neuro, too.”

“Someone get Robby in here!” Jack was sounding more impatient as your symptoms were uncovered. 

“He’s in with the motorcycle accident-" Dana started. 

Jack looked up from your limp form and into Trauma One. Robby was speaking to Santos over their patient. 

“Fuck.” He cursed again. He swallowed hard and tried not to let his gaze linger on your marked body. 

“Surgery’s sending someone.” Jesse announced. 

Abbot took the ultrasound wand and carefully moved it over the intense bruising on your side. “This internal bleeding is not good. Westbridge seriously couldn’t get her into the OR?” The frustration in his voice was evident. 

6:48 am. PTMC. Two weeks ago. Same shift. 

You were exhausted. The 24 hours in the ED were getting to you, and a nauseous feeling had been lingering in your stomach since around 4 am. You were handing off your patients to McKay and Mel, going over their stats and needs. As soon as the opportunity arose, you booked it to your locker. 

The bags under your eyes were harsh and defined. Your hair was tangled and frizzy. You grabbed your bag and slammed the locker shut. Just as relief filled you at the idea of getting home, your boss’s voice came from around the corner. “You driving home?” 

You shook your head. “My car broke down. I’ve been taking the train.”

Abbot looked at you for a moment before holding up a finger, a silent gesture for you to wait. You sighed and looked up at the ceiling, obeying. He returned a moment later with his bag over his shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll drive you.”

“Drive me? Home?”

He laughed under his breath. “Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

You sighed, and in that moment, accepted his help. “No.”

He nodded and gestured for you to follow him. He led you to his truck and held the door for you. The drive was quiet and you felt comfortable enough to lean your head back and close your eyes. 

“Here.” He spoke quietly when you arrived. 

You jolted up and blinked hard. “Thank you.” You yawned. 

“Anytime.” 

You grabbed your bag and hopped out. You paused at the curb, hand on the door. “I’ll think about it.”

His brows scrunched. “About what?”

“The night shift.” 

He smiled. “Please do.” 

You returned the smile, shyly, and thanked him again before shutting the door. 

12:57 pm. PTMC. July 4th. 

“Where the fuck is surgery?” Abbot’s calm demeanor was wavering. Al-Hashimi bit her tongue. You were apparently one of this department's resident doctors, and she understood the urgency in the matter. 

Robby finally caught Dana’s eye from Trauma One and his face flooded with confusion as he tried to read the distress on hers. He snapped his gloves off and left Santos in charge, stepping into the second trauma bay. His inhale was sharp and loud as he took in the scene before him. 

He grabbed new gloves and stepped in right beside Jack. “What the hell happened to her?”

Dana answered, “Car accident. She was at Westbridge- they transferred her here before surgery got to it.”

“That’s bullshit.” Robby worked beside his fellow attending. 

Al-Hashimi stepped back quietly. “I will page neuro again.” She spoke calmly before stepping out. 

“Neuro?” Robby asked. 

“Low pupil response.” Jesse answered. “Paramedics said possible TBI.” 

“Possible TBI, yet they decided to transfer her here? What the hell kind of show are they running at Westbridge?” Jack spat. 

The monitor spiked. “BP’s dropping again, quick.” Jesse announced. 

“She’s probably in shock.” Robby worked. 

Garcia finally pushed in. “What do we got?” She froze for a second. “Is that?”

“Yes.” Abbott snapped. 

Garcia closed her shocked mouth and stepped in. “What- what happened?” She assessed your form as she asked. 

“She was hit by a car.” Dana explained for what felt like the millionth time.

“Shit.” Garcia whispered. “I can’t take her to the OR in this shape. Has neuro seen her? Did she get a CT?”

“No and no.” Jack said. 

“She’s at risk of-”

“Okay, then get neuro in here.” He snapped, again. 

Garcia exhaled hard and pulled off her gloves. “Bring her to me when she’s been seen and stabilized. That internal bleeding needs to be taken care of.” She left. 

The next half an hour was full of waiting. Waiting for a neuro consult. Waiting for meds to kick in. Waiting for a CT scan. And Jack stayed by your side the whole time, even when he knew he should step back out and help others. 

Neuro cleared you with a grade three concussion and your CT confirmed what was obvious. Garcia admitted you to the OR, and only then did Jack make his way back down to the ED, where he was restless and irritable. 

“You sure you want to be down here?” Robby asked in passing. 

“I’m fine.”

“She’ll be okay. They’ll take care of her.” He squeezed Jack’s shoulder.

10:17 pm. Lucky’s Bar. Last week. 

You were out. You never went out. But it was an old friend's birthday, and you would feel too bad missing it. The night had been lively and fun, and the few drinks you’d had were feeling good in your system. 

You were leaning against the bar waiting for your refill. The bar was one you liked. A more lowkey, almost sports bar/pub feeling to it. You tapped your chipped nail against the counter when an all too familiar voice spoke up beside you. 

“So, this is why you don’t want to come back to the night shift?”

He was stepping up beside you, a half-drank beer in his hands. 

“Dr. Abbot.” You acknowledged with a smile.

He smirked and leaned against the bartop next to you. “You didn’t answer my question.”

You laugh, amused. “No, I did not leave the night shift so I could go to bars. It’s a friend’s birthday.”

He nods in understanding, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, you left because…? And don’t say exhaustion again.”

You scoff and stand from where you were leaning. “That is why!” You laugh. “I can’t do it anymore. Maybe I’m finally getting old.” 

“So, what does that make me?” He raised a brow. 

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “I don’t know how you do it.” 

His smile was genuine as he shook his head. “Just think about it some more. Coming back, that is. Robby has enough of you guys on his hands.”

The bartender placed your drink on the counter then. You thank him and Abbot clears his throat. 

“I won’t keep you. Have a good night, doctor.” 

You raised your glass and said goodnight. 

Your friends wanted to leave soon after that, and you were putting your jacket on when you met his eyes across the bar. He looked like he was with some friends, all standing around a pool table. You smiled and lifted your hand by your side to wave, a silent goodbye. He paused his conversation and crossed the room to you. 

“You leaving?”

You nod. “Yeah, my friends all called it a night.”

“Do you have a ride?”

“Um, the train again.” You laugh. 

He glances at his watch. “It’s late.”

“Not that late.” You shrug. “You don’t have to drive me home, Jack.” His name slips from your mouth like second nature, and you feel the heat of regret and embarrassment fill you. “Abbot. Dr. Abbot.”

He laughs softly. “Jack’s fine. And I don’t think you should be walking or taking the T alone.”

“I’m a big girl.”

He scoffs lightly. “Let’s go.” He carefully grabs your elbow and leads you outside to his car. He opens the door for you. The ride is filled with the soft radio and the occasional question to fill the air. 

When you arrive at your small apartment complex, you clear your throat. “Thank you. I, uh, I appreciate it.”

“Like I said, anytime.” 

You nod but don’t move. When you glance back at him your breath is quick. “Goodnight Jack.”

He speaks your name softly, like a whisper. 

You swallow hard and lean closer to him. A subtle movement, but he notices. He notices everything you do. How when you suture, you bite your bottom lip. Or how you used to always make a coffee at exactly 3:45 am on the night shifts. Or how you would fight Shen on charting, and him too at times. He noticed how your face flushed when he joked. Or how you’d inhale at his touch. 

He noticed. And he was waiting for the time when you’d finally notice he felt the same. 

His eyes fell to your lips and he could hear your breath intake. He moved towards you. A silent game of meeting in the middle. He could feel your breath on his lips now. Your eyes shut softly and when his mouth met yours, you melted into it. 

It was soft at first. A toe in the water. He cupped your face softly as he moved his mouth against yours. The kiss grew, along with the heat in your stomach. Your hand reached into his soft curls and you pulled him impossibly closer. 

He exhaled roughly at the touch and his tongue glided across your bottom lip. You opened your mouth to him and moaned at the growing sensation. His other hand came to meet the back of your head and you desperately wanted to climb across the car’s console then. But in that moment, a car alarm rang out and you pulled back, startled. 

Both of your breaths were ragged and Jack’s hand lingered softly on your neck. You licked your lips and swallowed hard as you met his eyes. 

“I should probably go.” You whispered. 

He cleared his throat and nodded. “Okay.”

You sat back and opened the door softly. “Thank you.”

He nodded again. 

“I’ll see you Monday?” You try to ask casually. 

“Yeah- yes.” He gives you a tight mouthed smile. 

You hop out of his truck. “Night, Jack.”

He returns the sentiment and waits until you’re inside of your apartment before driving off, a hand dragging over his face. 

4:33 pm. PTMC. July 4th. 

When Jack noticed Garcia walk into the pitt, his heart jumped. Her eyes landed on him and she moved to meet him. 

“She’s okay. She’s in the ICU. She’s been stabilized and they removed the intubation tube. She’ll wake up on her own.” Her voice was authoritative and she got the information out before he could question her. 

He nodded, hard. “Thank you.”

She went to share the update with Robby while Jack moved for the elevators. His foot tapped against the linoleum floor, his anxieties surfacing. He had jumped right back into the chaos of the ED after you’d been taken to the OR. He needed that distraction, a reason to keep his mind from freaking the fuck out. 

He walked down the ICU floor with a purpose. The charge nurse recognized him, “She’s in 614. She’s okay.” 

Abbot thanked her and when he reached your room, his heart sank a little. You were still asleep. Your head was bandaged, your form still, breathing deep and slow. He pulled the chair close to your bed and sat. 

6:09 pm. PTMC ICU. July 4th. 

You groaned harshly as the pounding in your head registered. You reached a wired hand to touch it when a voice rang out. 

“Hey, hey. Careful.” 

You groaned again as the IV in your hand tugged. 

It was when he spoke your name that you realized it was Jack’s voice. 

“Jack?” You cough and blink. 

“I’m here, yeah.” He reached for the water on the table to help you take a sip. 

You coughed again after, and glanced at him. “What happened?” 

He placed the cup down and sighed. “You were in an accident. A car hit you.” 

Your heart monitor spiked. “What?” 

Jack moved closer. “It’s okay. You’re okay now. You were taken to Westbridge, but they went into lockdown. You were transferred here.” He finally reached over and squeezed your hand. 

“What’s wrong with me? What happened?” Your voice shook. 

“You have a grade 3 concussion and Garcia took care of your internal injuries. You’re okay now, I promise. I know it’s a lot.” His voice was reassuring and gentle. 

A tear rolled down your cheek and he didn’t hesitate to catch it with the pad of his thumb. “You scared me.” He whispered. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumble. 

He shakes his head. “No, no. Honey, please don’t apologize.” 

You exhale at the term of endearment, a calm washing over you. 

“So, I’m okay?”

Jack nods. “You’re okay.”

You squeeze his hand back. 

He sits with you before meeting your eyes with determination. “This just- this is making me realize a lot of things.” He glances down before continuing. “I care a lot about you, and I want you to know that. I don’t- I don’t want to beat around the bush anymore.” 

You exhale shakily but nod, tears forming in your eyes. “I don’t either.” 

He smiles softly, his hand reaching to comfort you. “Come back to the night shift where I can keep an eye on you.”

You laugh but groan when your abdomen clenches. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He laughs softly. “Sorry.” He continues, “We can make this work. And you can stay on night shift. You’re a brilliant doctor, and I don’t want you to hide away from me anymore on the day shift. I’d like my resident back. And I also want to ask her on a proper date.”

You smile at his words and nod, teary. “Okay.”