~girl so in love ~

You had colorful scrubs. Yes, Jack couldn't stand the fact that your scrubs were the classic black with unicorns on them. Or sometimes blue cartoon whales. Hell, you even had color-coordinated green sneakers with the green four-leaf clovers dotting your black for St. Patrick's Day.

Jack kept to his black. The only variation he had was if the shirt underneath was long or short-sleeved, and that completely depended on Pittsburgh's weather. He hadn't thought about

He got jealous when kids with broken arms and bloody noses would gasp and touch your scrubs while you distracted them from whatever Perlah was doing. Jack never got that, the ease from kids or the attention from you.

You also made sure that you wore the most colorful clips in your hair. The plastic always gleamed and caught his eye, like a raven looking at something shiny. He wasn't the only one, though.

It had become your trademark. So much so that you had brought little colorful hair ties for everyone to wear. All color corrdinated on which color suited everyone.

You said it would, "Liven up everyone." After putting one on Dana, who huffed, but kept it on, "Why not at least pretend we're happy so the patients don't catch on."

Soon, everyone in the ED had a hair tie for themselves.

Everyone, except him.

He remembered it clear as day. He had just grabbed bagels from this new coffee place that had opened by his house. He strolled in a bit later than he normally did and was greeted by a long line of people in the ED's staff lounge.

Going inside, he spotted you at the table, multiple packets of those colorful hairties open and spread across the table. You implored everyone to take one, handing them out yourself.

Jack awkwardly stood there, grabbing one half of his bagel from the bag and putting the other one in the fridge. He watched, eyes trained on your smile and your scrubs—red dinosaurs today—not saying a word.

There were a couple of times when your eyes brushed up to meet his, but your eyebrows furrowed for half a second before dipping back to the person in front of you.

By the end of the line, you had barely any hair ties left. You had started cleaning up the packets, pulling up the plastic to throw away. And then promptly left the room without offering one.

Jack Abbot was the only one in that entire ED who didn't have a fucking hair tie on his wrist.

Even motherfucking "Park the Shark" got one. Your sunshine demeanor even extended to the grumpy attending of orthopedic surgery

What a nightmare.

So yeah, maybe being jealous of you personally putting on each hairtie and putting them on everyone's wrist wasn't healthy, but it was normal, right? He was being excluded! If he wanted to, he could make a big fuss out of it, but he was a mature, normal, emergency department attending with military background, a missing leg, and a dead wife.

Completely normal, so he would never complain about a hairtie.

His jealousy even extended to your personal life. Yes, he was so pathetic that he was thinking about you at home when you were probably miles away doing something better. How you had it all.

Jack learned about this the hard way. For once, you both were muttering something nice and meaningful to each other. You leaned over his right forearm, pointing at the iPad in both your hands.

"But I think I agree with you," You said, biting your soft bottom lip, "I think putting him on acetaminophen is way better than anything else. At least, before we find out what's wrong with him."

Jack had nodded along, pointing to the scrawl in the digital chart, "And look here; says he's got some sort of infection on the left medial porition of his thigh. Gotta be the cause of this pain."

"Maybe..." You hummed out, "But let's get labs on it, maybe try to do a—"

Out of nowhere, your name was called out. You and Jack both lifted your heads and looked around. No nurse was looking at you or any other resident, attending, or med student walking toward you.

Instead, there was a man, rushing through the ambulance bay doors, face dripping with sweat. His t-shirt was black and completely soaked through, like he had been running through sprinklers.

And in his arms... was a little girl.

Clutching onto him like her life depended on it.

Before Jack could comment, you had left him behind. Everything in your hands, your stethoscope, your pen, everything, was dropped to the floor with a clatter. If anyone wasn't looking, they were looking now as you ran to the duo, yelling and asking what was wrong, and clawing at the girl.

You screamed for a bed, hands hovering over her body as if trying to feel for the injury by your hands alone.

That was the day Jack learned you were married and had a nine-year-old daughter.

How did he not catch it? He didn't even notice you wore a small, thin gold band on your left finger. He watched you all the time, but now, was this the time he wasn't paying attention?

Jack felt utterly stupid. He felt even stupider when he would sit in his bed now, knowing he was thinking about a married woman. His late wife, on her deathbed, told him to look for love again, to live his life and not be stuck on her. But her ghost would be throttling him if she knew what depraved thoughts were rattling inside his head.

He was jealous of how much your husband calmed your worries, how you smiled small to him and hugged him tight. How your daughter clung to you the entire time after Lena told you to stay by her side. How you held her hand as—ironically—Jack was the one who told your little family she had only fractured her leg.

And worst of all, when you held your husband's hand and sighed in relief.

It made it worse when he thought about where this all had started. Simple, really. You had been lifting supplies during Pittfest. Of course, Jack could be the only man who had fallen deeply infatuated with a woman during a mass casualty event.

Simply wanting to speed things up, Jack took all of it from your hands and, with you, worked to distribute as many supplies as possible. He followed you like a puppy, while you did all the talking and handing everything off. By the time you and he had finished, gowns soaked in blood, you had taken his hand in yours and beamed up at him.

"Jack Abbot, you might be the greatest possible man in all the world right now."

Then, your fingers squeezed his, and you rushed to the nearest patient who needed you.

That was the first and last time you had smiled at him.

After that, things just soured. You had tried to be kind to him, but he couldn't take it. He wasn't used to it. He could have the best banter, the best conversations, the best jokes with everyone else, but for some reason, he faltered at you.

With everyone else, he could meet their gaze perfectly fine, even leaning in to catch it. But with you? He shifted his eyes away so that you couldn't catch how his pupils had blown out at the sight of you.

It could be because this was the first time since the death of his wife that his heart had started to race. It could be the fact that before you looked at him, he let himself come back to an empty home that was a tomb for his wife, because he couldn't move any of her stuff, even years later.

It could be that it felt like a betrayal. Not only to her, but to his own morals. He was a good man. His parents called him their "Golden Jackie," and his in-laws had given their full approval when he asked for their daughter's hand in marriage.

But what now? Now, he was a fifty-year-old man unable to talk to the woman who had been so nice, yet now couldn't bear to talk to him, all because he was inexperienced and anxious. Now, he was an old man staring daggers at your husband like he stole you from him, like he had any stake in you in the first place.

Now, he was a loser touching himself in the shower at the thought of you, seated on the marble seating and gripping the handlebars while his other fist jerked him off. Now, he was the fool who thought about you smiling and looking into his eyes, while he came in his fist with a groan, after being the hardest he had been in almost a decade.

Now, he knew he was damned for hell. Because you were married and he was not, and you were living the life he wanted.

A life he wanted with his late wife.

A life he wanted with you.

Those feelings continued into the surgery he was performing right now. A delicate one. Being him, he had decided now would be the best time to try a new technique he saw in an article in China.

Shen and Ellis surrounded him, working alongside him with short commands and indications. They worked well, like a good machine.

Except Jack's hands were the ones who were shaking. It was so noticeable when he picked up the scalpel, the light that reflected off it quivered against his scrubs. Why was he so nervous? What was shaking him up so badly?

What was wrong with him?

Was it because today was a shitty day, where the coffee shop he got those bagels from decided to not open today? Was it because today, when he walked in, Robby was going through his own shit, and Jack had to bring him back to earth? Was it because today, he treated a woman who had the same kind of cancer as his late wife, and she had four months to live?

"Hey, Shen, hey Parker. What do we have here?"

Well, they all went away when he heard your voice.

Turning his head, he saw you squirt hand sanitizer on your hand, rubbing it in well before dressing up. Your gown covered your black and pink scrubs. Next came your hair cap and glasses. He watched your gold band slip into a glove before you came to his side.

"Doctor Abbot," you said, coming beside him and peering at his work, "I think this is a new technique I haven't seen before. Care to share?"

He huffed out a shaky noise, cutting deeper into flesh, "Something new from China."

"Ah, I see."

"They've started developing a way to try and get to the lungs without leaving a huge, unnecessary scar. That way, it's also easier for the OR to manage. If only I could..." He tried to squeeze his fingers into the incision, but couldn't make it past the first band of flesh.

Jack cursed, shaking his head. Maybe he had to try another way, maybe he had to look at it from another angle. He tried to recount the steps, but they were all getting jumbled in his head.

His wife.

This cut.

You.

His wife

This cut

You.

His wife.

You.

His wife

You.

You.

You.

You—

"Why don't I help?" Your voice, soft and sweet, floated up to his ear. When he looked down at you, you were... you were smiling.

You were smiling at him.

You leaned in, opening your hand and asking Shen for another scalpel. With a soft push of your hips, you moved him out of the way. You sliced a bit more, opening it up. Jack held his breath the entire time.

"I heard about this one." You mused, putting the blade back into the tray, before looking back at him, "I'd been meaning to try this one. Would you like to be my second?"

For once, he didn't falter, "I'd love to."

He knew the next step. This time, it was big enough to stick his pointer and middle finger into the wound, palm up. Blood squelched around his gloved knuckles as he went through, trying to find the source...

When your own hand slipped over his, your own two fingers joined him into the wound.

Jack's nostrils flared, as he felt the hot muscles and fat around his hand, but the even more calming presence of your gloved fingers above his.

"What... what're you doing?" He asked, afraid to break the moment.

"Adding our own twist. Think outside the box. The reason why those cases struggle with the surgery is that they make the incision way too small. Sure, that's the whole point, but you can't have it all. We can, however, make it just big enough to grab what we need."

He was sick, then, finding happiness in the fact that you and his hand were connected once more, this time in blood, and as you and his four fingers disappeared and appeared over and over

Jack chose to let that feeling calm him, push away everything wrong with today. He also chose to let that feeling push away Shen and Parker's glances at the scene.

Afterwards, when the surgery was successful, and the patient was taken upstairs, was when he was only able to find a clock after throwing everything away in the waste bins. Seven-fifty A.M.

That meant his shift was over. He had no other patients to report back on—technically, that was Shen's patient, so charting was all on him—so he quietly said he goodbyes to everyone, choosing not to linger like he usually did, and made his way into the lockers.

Of course, you were there too. You were slipping on your jacket, your backpack still inside your locker. Your hair was down, pulled up by your colorful hair tie.

You noticed him standing close by, punching in the code. You waved to him, "Slipping out while you can."

"Could say the same to you."

You chuckled, "Well, my kid isn't exactly really fond of not having any breakfast. And I promised her I'd take her to IHOP, so I guess work doesn't stop for me."

Jack shook his head, getting his backpack, "What's your order?"

You told him, shutting your locker and leaning against it. Your head was resting on it as well, "But I still steal some pancake bites from my daughter. She loves feeding me even though I tell her I'm full."

"Sounds like a kid."

"The best kid."

"And your husband? What does he like?"

For the first time, Jack saw you visibly frown at him, cocking your head to the side and squinting as if he were the one who had something heinous. It shocked him physically, so much so that he had to take a step back.

You matched his step, though, coming closer into his space and trying to see if his face was hiding something.

Only when you didn't find anything, did you speak:

"What husband are you talking about?"

Jack felt like he was getting fooled. He glanced around like someone else might be in on it. "I mean—I just thought—no, not thought, more like saw—a man. With your daughter. Remember back two months ago when she fractured her leg, and he carried her in? I thought that was your husband! You looked so comfortable. I thought it was a babysitter or brother until you hugged and held hands and she called him daddy. Well, maybe the "daddy" part should've told me sooner, but anyways, you still got the ring on your finger so—"

But he couldn't finish because your cackles had drowned out the entire locker area. You were doubled over, clutching your belly and holding onto the lockers for support.

Jack could only stand there dumbfounded as you wiped tears, fighting your breath to speak, "God, Jack, you're—god, you're something else! Me, a husband?! Jack Abbot, that's my ex-husband. Oh god, I have to tell him this, he's gonna lose his mind—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Jack waved his hands like he was directing traffic, "But you have a ring! See! I see it right there!"

You looked down to where Jack was pointing, the golden band. You snorted once more before slipping it off and tossing it at him.

"It's a fake, Jack!" You laughed again. You were right. It was plastic, cheap, and shiny. The inside was smudged off to show the stainless steel, "I've had too many incidents in my residence of guys hitting on me. I decided a fake, second ring would help. That way, my real ring would be fine, while my peace of mind would also be protected. Guess the habit just... carried on."

Jack could only stare dumbfounded, his hand now curled up tight around the fake ring. This stupid little thing had been the bane of all these thoughts.

If he had opened his mouth, is he had some damn courage, then maybe he would've known ages ago. He would've been able to put himself out there to talk to you.

His late wife let him, but the only thing holding him back was...

"Are you free this weekend?"

You blinked, the sudden whiplash now shocking you. "Excuse me."

"I asked: are you—"

"I heard you the first time," you interrupted, "It's just... Jack, the way you're phrasing this sounds a lot like a—"

"I want you to tie up my hair." Jack said, with sudden gusto, "You gave everyone else hair ties, except me. A-and my hair's been getting longer, so maybe we could go to my usual bagel shop and get some food, and you could teach me how to tie up my hair."

"The only reason I didn't give you any hair ties was because you scared me!"

"Really?! Me?! I joke with everyone!"

"Yeah, you do, and you're fucking hilarious. But when it comes to me... You kinda just stare. And I know you're a military vet, Jack. Having you stare me down isn't exactly calming on my psyche."

Jack chuckled. "Well then, no more staring. I'll be fun and honest, how about that?"

"Promise?"

"Of course."

"For the bagel, meet up or you not staring?"

"Both."

You were already backing away from him and the conversation, "Then you have my number, Jack, you know where to call me. No need to get jealous anymore, now you can have all the colors you want."

Jack grinned stupidly at that.

Yeah, Jack had no more damn reason for this jealousy.

Not anymore.

Gosh, Jack, you're such a loser, you don't care if the woman you're chasing is married or not... ugh, come on and let's finger this wound together.

The world did not end with a bang.

It went quietly.

Like a rattling, shallow breath exhaled after a a long and arduous struggle - not unlike the more unfortunate people you used to encounter in your line of work.

Not that it mattered now.

Humanity’s numbers had been halved in a single brushstroke, reduced to small enclaves that now lived in constant terror of what might still come to pass.

The Collapse, the survivors called it.

A mundane name for something so devastating, for something that had literally wiped most populations from the face of the earth - but maybe that’s just what history does: remembering humanity and its follies as nothing but names and dates and anecdotes that are fated to be forgotten.

You stare at your scratched-up hands, scorching afternoon sunlight beating down on your neck. You wait until it starts to hurt - then you look up.

High walls and faded yellow-beige paint. Ambulances parked in the bay, back doors almost torn off the hinges. Scattered gurneys sitting close to the entrance, covered in a murky layer of dust and debris.

And old blood, splattered on the baking pavement.

There’s an unnatural stillness hanging over everything - as if time had decided to forget about this place. Even on slow days, the PTMC used to burst at the seams with people coming and going constantly. Doctors, nurses, EMTs, social workers, admins, clerks.

All gone now.

You swallow, an uncertain kind of dread coiling in your stomach.

You don’t even know why you had decided to come back here.

Pittsburgh has been abandoned for months. After the initial panic, a period of anarchy had followed, keeping its iron grip until every hospital, every store and every gas station had been looted - emptied - top to bottom.

Now, the city is nothing but a hollowed shell, carved out by fear and desperation.

There had been no real reason to return. Your friend had told you as much, scowling over a meager breakfast made of canned apricots and chewy, but ultimately tasteless oat cookies.

*"I thought you wanted to go north. Find the other survivors."

"I do."

She shakes her head. "Then why?"

"For me. For… for closure. There are so many things I regret not doing. Like not saying goodbye, and - and we don’t even know how long we can go on like this."

It’s not the whole reason. But you have to smudge the truth a little, or else you’d be dragged along kicking and screaming.

"You know I can’t wait for you. My husband, my siblings..." Your friend trails off, wringing her hands.

You reach over, settling a hand on her shoulder. "I know. The Crossing is your best hope. Swear I’ll try to catch up."

You can tell that she wants to argue, but she knows better than to attempt talking you out of it. It has never worked, even before the end of the world.

The two of you had said goodbye the next morning, parting just beyond the city outskirts. You’d made the decision to walk, leaving the truck you had scavenged a few weeks ago in your friend's care.

You won’t need a car where you’re going.

Heaven. Hell. Beyond.

Not that you exactly know what that will look like. But it can’t be worse than this.

Eyes still fixed on the ambulance bay, you manage a wobbly smile.

Maybe being here for the end does make sense.

The Pitt is the only place where you’d ever truly felt at home. A single year spent in the emergency department - and despite the stress, the daily chaos and the emotional strain it had been one of the best years of your (admittedly) short life.

You had actually planned on applying for an attending position here after passing your boards.

After proving that you were worth keeping.

Belonging.

That’s all you’ve ever wanted. And you’d found it with the night shift - with the weirdest and wildest of them all. With Lena, John, Parker, Crus and Mateo.

With-

The roar of an engine cuts through the vast silence, ripping you back to the bleak reality.

A large dust cloud billows in the distance, following the sound like a smoke signal. You take a few wary steps back, into the half-shadows of the ambulance bay, hand flicking to the worn bat fixed to your equally patchy backpack.

It’s a motorcycle.

Vintage and black, speckled with dirt and mud and covered in scratches, some deeper than others. Its rider - a man from what you can tell at this distance - is more of the same: a dark helmet obscures his face, leather jacket and fingerless gloves well-worn.

He stops in front of the bay, killing the engine.

Then he simply… stares.

Just like you had.

Head tilted back to take in the massive building in all its empty, sad glory. There’s something strangely familiar about the way he sits, about his posture, back ramrod straight and broad shoulders squared.

Finally, his hands lift, thumbs dipping beneath the helmet to keep a steady grip as he pulls it off.

You can hear your breath hitching, heart going still and ice cold for just a second before restarting at double the pace.

It can’t be.

You must be hallucinating. Dreaming. Going mad like so many others had in the past months.

You take in every feature, every minute detail, frantically trying to make sense of what you're seeing.

Salt and pepper curls. Sharp features. Pensive hazel eyes. Thick silver stubble.

It's him. It's him and he's not gone and he's here-

"Jack?" you croak, taking an unsteady step towards him.

His gaze immediately snaps over to you, hand flying to the handle of the sizable hunting knife strapped to his denim clad thigh. Suspicion morphs into apprehension - then recognition.

He rasps your name and the familiar sound of his smoky voice rips something in your chest wide open. Tears well up in your eyes and blur your vision, relief hitting you so hard its nigh painful.

He tosses the helmet and scrambles off the bike, almost tripping over his scuffed boots in the process.

You drop your backpack with a resounding thud and start running.

Jack meets you halfway, catching you in his arms when you collide into him, stumbling back a few steps from the force of it.

We’ve never hugged before, you realize faintly.

You’d shaken hands on the day you met. Had shared the cramped space around coding patients. Had sat together in the break room on nights that felt like treading deep, dark waters with no safe shore in sight. Had laughed over drinks in a bar while ignoring your squabbling coworkers around the pool table.

But you’ve never hugged. Of course you had wanted to.

A hug, a smile, a word, a single sliver of attention; anything from Jack Abbot would have been enough in the face of everything that had argued against the futile feelings that had blossomed within a week of meeting and working with him.

Age. Experience. Actual rules put in place to prevent the abuse of power.

Attending. Resident.

Titles that mean nothing now.

The world as you know it is over - and it can ever go back to the way it was before.

You clutch the faded fabric of Jack's shirt, face buried in the solid curve of his shoulder as you start to sob. Months of repressed emotions crash over you like a violent tidal wave and pull you under. Grief that you had never fully addressed - that you had refused to touch - overwhelms every cell in your body.

Months of believing you would never see him again, that you’d die all alone-

His arms are a fortress, one wrapped tight around your middle and the other sliding up to find the back of your head, fingers threading through the strands of your unkempt ponytail.

"I thought you were…"

He trails off, voice breaking at the edges, and you pull back a little to look at him, to really look. There are deep shadows under his eyes and he seems even more exhausted than he had a year ago.

But his expression is open and utterly relieved, crows feet deepening as he holds your gaze with a brittle smile.

He's devastatingly, beautifully alive, heart beating hard and fast right beneath your trembling palm.

"Me too," you say shakily, wiping at your damp cheeks, at the tears that won’t stop coming. "I’m sorry, I don’t know why -"

"No, no, sweetheart-"

The term of endearment only makes you cry harder and Jack immediately tugs you back to his chest, stubbled chin dragging along your temple as he hushes you.

"You’re okay," he murmurs. "I’m right here."

You tighten your grip on him and let yourself break.

You cling to each other in the burning sunlight for what feels like hours.

By the time he gently guides you towards an empty EMT, you’re exhausted and all cried out, face sticky with dried tears.

Above, the sky remains frighteningly blue, utterly indifferent to how the entire world seems to have changed in an instant once again.

The two of you sit, and you drop your head onto Jack's shoulder as he reaches for your hand, fingers intertwining tightly between your bodies.

Thirteen months ago, you wouldn’t have dared. You would have flushed at the very idea of this kind of proximity to the man who signed off on your charts.

But he’s also still the man who brings you coffee in the morning, already splashed with your favorite creamer. The man who makes sure that you eat during busy shifts; and the man who insists on driving you home during the colder months, for 'his own peace of mind'.

Either way, you couldn’t care less about past boundaries, your nervous system deciding that feeling safe and settled for the first time since the Collapse is far more important than some arbitrary rules from a society that is now on the brink of extinction.

Jack stills for half a second before settling his cheek on your hairline, relaxing into the unexpected closeness.

"Didn’t think I’d find anything when I decided to come back here," he says quietly. "Least of all you."

"Neither did I." You swallow, trying to find the right words for what you’re about to confess.

There’s no sugarcoating it, no hiding. He’d see right through you, and you’re not keen on prolonging the discomfort any longer than necessary.

"I came here to… to end it."

"What?"

When you don’t continue, Jack squeezes your hand, almost to the point of pain. "Sweetheart. Tell me you’re not serious. You can’t fucking mean that."

"Maybe not," you murmurs. "I’m just so tired, Jack."

"I know. But I’m here," he repeats roughly. "Alright? We're both alive and I’m going to make damn sure it stays that way."

"That sounds like a lot of rotten work for you."

"It’s not. I don’t-" He pauses to take a deep, steadying breath. "Robby didn’t… he didn’t make it, you know?"

He doesn’t meet your eyes when you gasp and jerk up, somber hazel flicking between the desolate city skyline and the motorcycle, still parked in a stretch of sunlight a few feet away.

"Idiot got hurt three months in. Cut himself on a rusty wire while we were climbing a fence." Shaking his head, Jack scoffs, the sound bitter and vicious. "It wasn’t even that deep. But it was enough for it to get infected a day later. He told me to take his bike and keep going."

He finally turns to look at you again with pain, anger and determination written across his features in equal measure. "I buried him in the backyard of his house. The man I considered to be my brother. And I refuse to bury anyone else, you hear me?"

You nod meekly.

For a moment, Jack simply observes you, jaw muscles twitching ever so slightly. Then he reaches up to grip your chin, thumb on one side and the rest of his calloused fingers on the other.

You open your mouth to say something and Jack shifts his thumb to your lips, pressing down and giving you a severe, warning look.

"Your next words better be in agreement, sweetheart."

"Yeah," you manage, fresh tears burning your eyes.

Not because he’s actually hurting you, but because he cares enough about you to force the matter if need be.

To force you to live.

You let out a shaky breath. "...Let's head North."