LuLu’s Section

You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

Tapping away in a computer at the nurses station right when you arrived seemed like a good idea, until Shen noticed your wedding ring, the same one you have forgotten to take off and put on the chain you wear around your neck.

“Woah, is that a wedding ring?" Shen asked you, his eyes open in surprise.

shit

"I- uh,” you stuttered, seemingly being caught. "Yes, it is”

"You're married?”

"No, I just liked the ring and I bought it” you rolled your eyes "I think the ring means I'm married”

“Who’s married?" asked Jack, joining the conversation.

"Apparently, Sunshine is” said Shen, his usual cup of iced coffee— almost empty— in his hands.

Jack turned his gaze to you, assessing you. "You're married?”

You groaned "I think we've already established I am”

Jack raised his hands in innocence “I was just asking"

“How long have you been married, hon?" Lena— night shift's charge nurse— asked you.

You smiled at her “Two years"

"What? Girl, how's that possible? We've known you for almost four years” Ellis, who had just been listening, said from her chair, now very interested.

You shrugged “I'm a very private person"

“No shit" laughed Ellis “I cannot believe you!"

"What's his name?” Lena asked you.

You shook your head, "Not telling. He's nameless” you sealed your lips shut.

As you turned to go check on your patients, you winked at Jack discreetly.

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Days later, you were called in early, something about needing extra hands since various people had called in sick.

“Oh, hello, hon." Dana looked relieved to see you.

“Dana, rude of you to call me in early, I need my beauty sleep" you said playfully while leaning against the counter of the nurses station.

“We needed more hands on deck, chairs are hell, too many patients and too little doctors" she sighed heavily

You brushed her off “No worries, I'm kidding. I'll go to the lockers and then I'm your obedient servant"

She laughed, shaking her head “Of course, hon. Good to have you back on the days, even for a few hours"

You winked at her before walking to the lockers, quickly changing into your scrubs.

Walking back to the nurses station, you decided to check your texts and to no surprise Jack was the one texting you.

Jack

Made it okay?

You

Yes.

You should be asleep

Jack

Can't. Miss u.

You

Miss u too, baby.

Now sleep

Jack

okay, bossy.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you made your way to Robby.

"Hey! Sunshine, you are honoring us with your presence?"

“Indeed. Dana called"

He glanced around “Yeah, today's chaos in here"

"Where do you want me, boss?”

"Central 15 is all yours”

You nodded "Aye, aye”

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Two hours or so later the work had winded down a little, allowing you a respite. You made your way to Ahmad's post, wanting to see what the new betting grid he was running was about.

"Doctor Sunshine!” he greeted, "coming to place a bet?”

You chuckled, shaking your head "I'm merely curious about the recent bet you have going”

"There's two” he nodded towards the white board in his post.

You glanced at it from outside, reading the bets.

Residents/ interns changing shifts. Who? Why?

$20. Santos. Avoiding someone — Perlah

$30. McKay. Night shift vibes. — Shen

$30. Ogilvie. He thinks he fits in there — Princess

$40. Mohan. Wants to try it. — Dana

$10. Whittaker. By the end of the year. Loses a bet to Santos — Santos

You chuckled softly before turning to Ahmad. “I'll take $50, none of them."

He shook his head, impressed “Bold bet" he said, pulling his sticky notes to write your bet.

You shrugged, handing him the $50 bill “I know them Pittlings, they wouldn't last on night shift" you hummed “Well, maybe Joy would fit perfectly but I'll take my chances with my bet”

"Good”

You tilted your head "What's the other—?”

"Nah, that one is not for you” He moved, blocking your gaze from the other one.

"Ahmad”

"Fine,” he murmured, moving away.

Dr. Sunshine’s marriage. Real? Fake? To whom?

$20. She wears the ring to avoid being asked out — Whittaker

$20. He's a hottie but it's just his boyfriend — Princess

$30. He doesn't work here, very real — Ellis

$20. Fake — Garcia

$40. Real. Someone who doesn't work here —Perlah

$30. Attending here. Very real — Santos

Your mouth was open in surprise. “You're betting about my love life? Ahmad!"

He raised his hands “Don't blame the player, blame the game"

You huffed “You're on my list now"

“Care to tell me who's won, then?"

“No"

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Closer to 4 p.m., you decided to text Jack.

You

You wouldn't guess the new bet Ahmad has running.

His reply took a few minutes.

Jack

The resident to night shift? I put $40 on Joy

You

I put $50 on none of them.

I'm not talking about that one, though.

Jack

Bold.

Idk about any other bet.

You

It's about my marriage and whether it's real or not.

Jack

That's hilarious. I'll place a bet.

You rolled your eyes, of course he would.

You

See u in a few.

Love u

Jack:

Love u too

You shook your head, pocketing your cellphone. You couldn't believe your colleagues were to the extreme of betting about your marriage— or rather you could— but they were unbelievable.

You also wondered how oblivious they could be, you had been married to Jack for two whole years and the only ones who knew were Dana and Robby. Robby was the best man, of course, and Dana, well she's Dana, she knew you liked Jack before you even knew. You were beyond grateful they were discreet— and that you and Jack had managed to pull it off this long— it wasn't you didn't want to shout the world you love Jack, it's just you loved to be only the two of you.

At first, it was just a keep it secret to see if it works out when you started dating. It soon became marry me? but we'll keep it a secret still because you had enjoyed your relationship without people mending in. The years passed and you still managed to keep it a secret— it wasn't that much of a secret, you and Jack were pretty joined to the hip, but they haven't connected the dots. Until you screwed up by not taking your ring off.

You knew your secret would be uncovered sooner or later, it was going to be amusing to see all of them trying to find out.

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

You were checking something on a tablet when you felt a presence next to you.

“So…” Santos said casually — or so she thinks.

"So?”

"You're married”

You nodded, not lifting your gaze from the tablet "I am”

"Does he work here?” She asks again trying to sound casual.

"Trinity, I know about the bet”

"Damn it!” she huffed but quickly changed her expression, giving you her best puppy eyes "Help me win! Just tell me if he works here, I need the money, I'm a broken R2”

You chuckled, shaking your head "Nope, not telling”

She gave you a look, she was going to start pestering until you told her.

You were quicker, though “Dana?"

“Yes, hon?"

“Is there a patient for Dr. Santos?"

“Yes, South 12, knee laceration. It's not pretty"

“Thanks, Dana" you smiled at Santos, giving her a pat on the shoulder “You heard Dana, c'mon"

She didn't say anything, just stomped her way to see her new assigned patient.

Dana shook her head, chuckling softly “How much longer do you think you can keep it up?"

You shrugged “We'll find out"

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Hours later you were still checking on patients, working every waking moment. Your real shift was set to begin in an hour, the night shift already arriving, ready to go through the hand-offs.

As you were checking the boards, you felt eyes on you, without turning to them, you hummed.

“Perlah, Princess" your eyes kept scanning the board “is there something in my face?"

Seeing an opportunity to talk to you, they got closer.

“We were wondering…” Princess said.

"If you'd talk to us about your husband?” Perlah finished, a hopeful smile on both their faces.

"He's alive and well. Handsome too” you grinned at them, not giving them what they wanted to hear.

"Who are we talking about?” another voice cut through. Jack.

"Sunshine's husband” Princess quickly informed

Jack turned to look at you, an amused smile on his face “Oh, your husband"

You hummed “Yes, they want to know about him"

“Interesting. I want to know too, after all, I just put $50 dollars on who he might be" Jack crossed his arms in front of him, looking at you with a teasing smile.

You rolled your eyes “You all shouldn't be betting on people's lives" you chided all of them.

"Does he work here?” Princess whispered, expectantly looking at you.

"No, I'm not helping you win the bet” you said firmly "I'm taking five before my real shift starts” walking away, you ignored their frustrated groans.

You made your way to the staff lounge, taking a seat and thinking about ordering some food, you were hungry.

"So, this husband of yours…”

You have Jack a grin "I'm not talking about him in my workplace”

"Oh, c'mon. He's a catch” he said teasingly, you were alone, sitting across from one another.

"Says who?” you raised an eyebrow at him.

"Someone who knows him very well”

You rolled your eyes "Well, you could ask him if he wants some food before his shift, I'm about to order”

He stood up, walking to the fridge and taking a container with your name in it "No need, he sends you this”

You gasped, he had brought your favorite. "Oh, I love that husband of mine"

“He loves you too," he said, glancing at the door, checking if no one was coming in before pressing a soft kiss on your head. “Eat, I'll go to take care of the hand-offs"

You winked at him, standing up to heat your food “Yes, Cap"

He chuckled, shaking his head before leaving the staff lounge.

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

“If you ask me again, I'm requesting all holidays off and you'll be stuck working, Shen" you threatened him, tired of his interrogation.

He bit the straw of his ice coffee “Please, Ellis said if I help her win the betting grid she'll give me a cut”

You smiled at him as scary as you could "Keep asking and I will give you a cut”

He raised his hands innocently "Point taken”

"Good”

Hours later, it was a fairly decent shift, the waiting room was swamped as usual but you were working fast and efficiently.

Your next case was a kid with a broken arm, divorced parents and they didn't look happy with each other. You steeled yourself to handle the case as best as you could given the circumstances.

"Hello, what do we have here?” You said, entering the room with a gentle smile, introducing yourself.

The little 7 year old boy looked at you with teary eyes, sniffling softly. The parents were on opposite sides of the room, not even glancing at each other.

"He broke his arm” said the child's mother "because of this drunken excuse of a father!”

"That is not what happened–” they started bickering.

You looked at the nurse who was assisting you, Annie, and shook your head. Those cases were impossible because of the parents.

"Enough!” you said loudly, they both stopped. "My concern right now is treating this little one, if you keep bickering you'll be escorted out” you said firmly.

"Alright” "Fine” they both answered

You took a deep breath, moving to assess the child's arm. "Does it hurt here, Dylan?” you said, making a quick exam.

He winced "Yes, it all hurts”

You hummed "Okay. Did you hit your head or was it just your arm?”

“Just my arm" he answered shyly, his tearful eyes looking at you.

“Alright, we're already giving you something for the pain and now we need to know how it's your arm so we'll send you to an x-ray" you looked up at his parents “One of you can go with him"

“I'll go" said the little one's mother

You nodded “Okay. Annie, would you show Mrs. Michaels where she can wait while little Dylan is on the x-ray?"

She nodded “Of course, follow me"

As they left the room, you were left with the father. “I'll come in and check with you when the x-rays are back, Mr. Michaels. Is there something else you need?"

“No" he said gruffly, he was noticeably drunk.

“Alright, I'll be back"

You made your way out of the room, taking a deep breath, you despised divorced rude parents. Arriving at the nurses station, you addressed Lena “Hey, could you make sure security keeps an eye on the parents in Central 15? They don't get along, quickly escalate on bickering and the father is drunk"

She gave you a smile “Of course, doll. I'll inform them"

“Thanks, Lena" you sighed, looking at the board “I'll go check on other patients, let me know when the x-rays are back, please?"

She nodded “You got it"

You smiled at her before going to check on some other patients. 30 minutes later you were back with the kid, checking his x-rays.

“Alright, it's a clean fracture so it's something we can simply fix with 6 weeks immobilization with a cast"

“Oh, thank God" the mother said, caressing the little one's head.

“Could you hurry up? I want to get the hell out of here?" the father snapped at you.

“Of course, sir" asking for the supplies you needed, Annie quickly went to gather it, while you stayed with the parents.

You were talking with little Dylan, trying to lift his mood while the father— still very much drunk— was growing impatient.

“How hard is it to do your job!" he snapped.

“Sir, it just be a little moment more—”

"Calm down, all of this is your fault!” the woman snapped at him.

"My fault?”

"Yes! If you hadn't been drinking as always, he wouldn't be here!”

“He fell!"

"You were supposed to be watching him!”

"It's not my fault he's as stupid as his mother!”

Things were escalating quickly, and the child was growing restless, afraid.

"Okay, that's enough—” you said, getting closer. They didn't listen, still arguing.

“That's enough!" you said louder, getting closer to them, trying to separate them.

It was the wrong move because at that moment the man intended to hit the woman, —and you moved to separate them, causing you to be hit.

You felt the hit, your ears ringing and your vision blurry. He hit you hard.

"Security!” you slurred as you could, since the pair kept fighting.

Your brain felt sluggish. The rest was just blurry, security separated them, you were ushered to the nurses station. Your head felt underwater, you could hear someone talking to you but you couldn't make any of it.

Lena, Shen and a few others were around you.

"Call Abbot!” someone said, causing you to shake your head, insisting that they didn't need to.

You knew Jack, you knew he'd flip out and he'd uncover your secret. Besides, you didn't want him to worry.

"I'm okay” you tried to reassure them.

"You're not, doll” said Lena, the ringing in your ears was easing up. "Let Shen take a look at you, Abbot is with an emergency that arrived a few minutes ago”

You nodded, glad that Jack was occupied at the moment.

It all passed in a blur, Shen informed you that you had hit your head. When? it was all a mystery, so now you were waiting for the results of a CT in a room, practically hiding from Jack. You knew it was a matter of time before he found out.

Shen entered your room after a few moments, checking something on a tablet.

"CT looks normal. You're good but you do need rest”

You hummed "What about Dylan? The little kid with the broken arm?” you asked, still worried about your patients.

"He is—” Shen was interrupted by a presence storming into the room.

"Why did I just overheard you were attacked?” Jack growled "and you didn't think to call for me?”

shit, shit, shit

"Jack—”

"Do you know,” he cut you off "how I felt when I heard someone say my wife had been attacked by a patient?”

"It was the patient's dad—” he gave you a look that shut you off.

Shen, who was very much in shock, still in the room, cleared his throat. "CT came back normal, she's good”

"Thank you, Dr. Shen” Jack said, he was grateful that at least someone checked you out. "Now, would you let me alone with my wife?”

He nodded "of curse”

Once Shen was out of the room, Jack walked to your side "Why didn't you call for me?”

"I knew you'd overreact,” you murmured.

"Overreact —” he took a deep breath, saying your name in that firm manner he used the few times you managed to drive him out of his cool composure "You were attacked by a patient's parent. A man double your size, you should've call me”

You sighed, knowing he was right "I know”

He shook his head, his anger evaporating, leaving just your worried lovingly husband “I hated that I had to hear it from someone else, baby"

Feeling like a scolded child, you nodded "I imagine”

He took your hand in his, taking a seat in the hospital bed "I am glad you're okay and you are pressing charges. That man assaulted you, plus he's drunk and apparently, an irresponsible man”

Your lips twitched, you were not comfortable with taking a man away from his child.

"Don't do that. He is not a good influence on the child. Besides, his ex-wife is going to testify against him too, apparently, he used to beat her”

You sighed “Alright, alright. I'll press charges"

“Good" he said, caressing your face.

“You know you just told Shen I'm your wife?"

“Yes. Secret is out" he shrugged.

You smiled softly “I'm curious about who won the bet"

He kissed your forehead “I'm just glad you're okay"

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Jack forced you to stop working the rest of the shift, claiming he had you on observation until he could take you home. Of course, Shen and his big mouth made everyone in the Pitt know about who your husband was. It spread like wildfire, even the day shift knew now, some of them texting you— while they should be asleep— to know if it was true or not.

You successfully convinced Jack to let you hang out in the nurses station, leaving the room open for potential patients. So now you were watching it all from the sidelines, sipping on water while staying next to Lena (Jack's orders). He even brought you a sandwich and a water bottle.

Ellis approached you, leaning against the counter in the nurses station, peeking at your sitting form on the other side of it.

“I don't like you," she said.

“You do like me, Parker." you hummed, eating your sandwich.

“I don't. Why didn't you tell me you were married to Abbot?"

“Because I didn't tell anyone" you shrugged softly.

“You made me lose money"

“I didn't tell you to bet on my life" you smiled at her.

“You could at least give me a hint" she recriminate you

“Parker, it's not my fault you're all oblivious"

She huffed, not happy with having lost. “This is not over, I'm still mad at you" she said before walking away. You didn't take it at heart.

“She's mad about having lost, huh?" Jack asked, taking Ellis's place.

“Yep" you said.

“How the head?"

“10/10. All good." you shrugged softly.

“That's good. Just two hours left of shift then we'll go home"

You pouted “No, I want to see who won the bet"

He tilted his head in amusement “I thought you were mad about the gambling about your life?"

You shrugged “I was, that doesn't mean I don't want to know who won"

He hummed, thinking for a moment “Does it count as cheating if I placed a bet and I was right?"

“I think it does, seeing the fact that it was a bet about who my husband was and you are said husband"

He shrugged “I'm still collecting my money"

You rolled your eyes “Of course you are"

He leaned in, taping your forehead between your eyes “Stop that, you're gonna get a loose eye if you keep that up"

You swatted his hand away “Do that again and you're sleeping alone"

“Yes, ma'am"

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

It was 7 a.m., time for hand-offs. You were patiently waiting for Jack while he took care of that while observing Ahmad take in the news and going through his post-its to see who won. Surprisingly, Santos won, along with Jack.

“Yes! I knew it" Santos said, jumping in excitement at the money she was about to receive.

You chuckled from your place, happy she won. Jack joined you shortly after, observing it too.

“Seems I'm splitting my money with Santos" he said, amusement written on his face.

“You cheated," you pointed out.

"I still won,” he shrugged.

Ahmad made his way towards both of us, a handful of dollar bills on his hands. “This belongs to you, though I consider that cheating, Santos agreed to split it"

Jack took the bills, you immediately took them from him.

"I think you still owe me money” Jack said to Ahmad, observing you while you counted his prize.

"I already gave it to you?” Ahmad said, confused.

Jack crossed his arms in front of him, a smirk dancing on his lips. "Joy just put her transfer to night shift”

"Oh, man!”

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

When you were finally free, Jack guided you to his truck, his arm wrapped around your shoulders.

"You know,” he began "I'm surprised we managed to pull this up for as long as we did”

You hummed "Yeah, me too. It was nice to be just us for a while, though”

He kissed your forehead "It was. But I am glad we can stop hiding and looking over our shoulder constantly”

You smiled "Now I can say freely you're my husband”

"That too”

You snort at the 106 thing. Swipe right anyway.

It’s a match instantly.

He messages first.

James: “Hi. I’m not very good at this.”

You grin at your phone like an idiot.

You spend hours that first night talking. Then the next. Then the next. He’s dry in that sarcastic way that makes you laugh out loud in bed at midnight. He asks actual questions. Remembers your answers. Sends you a photo of the coffee shop he swears has the best cannoli in the city. Tells you about his “weird job with weird hours” without getting specific.

You find yourself checking your phone at work.

Smiling for no reason.

Telling your coworkers, “No, he’s actually different.”

He asks if you’d want to meet up. You type yes before he can second guess it. He suggests Saturday. You pick the coffee shop.

Friday night he sends, “Looking forward to tomorrow.”

You go to bed excited in a way you haven’t been in years.

And then Saturday morning?

Nothing.

You send a casual “Still on for today?” around ten.

It stays on delivered.

By noon you know.

By three you’ve deleted the thread.

By Sunday you’ve convinced yourself you were stupid for getting your hopes up.

You don’t cry. You’re too used to disappointment for that. But something about him lingers. The way he’d typed slow and careful. The way he’d said he didn’t waste time.

Apparently he did.

Months pass.

You stop checking your phone.

You stop thinking about James.

Mostly.

---

The ER is chaos the night he walks back into your life.

You’re three hours into a twelve-hour shift. There’s a drunk college kid vomiting in triage and someone in bay four screaming about a possible fracture. You’re gloved up, hair in a messy bun, scrubs wrinkled and coffee-stained.

“Incoming,” someone calls. “Laceration. Bar fight.”

You roll your eyes. Of course it is.

The gurney wheels in and you’re already reaching for gauze when you look up.

And your entire body goes still.

It’s him.

Same hair. A little shorter now. Same eyes—startling blue. Same stupidly handsome face.

Except there’s blood dripping down from his eyebrow and his lip is split open.

He looks dazed. Irritated. Sexy in a reckless way that makes your stomach flip against your will.

Then his eyes focus.

They land on you.

And widen.

You feel heat crawl up your neck.

Mortification hits you like a truck.

Of all the ERs in the city.

Of all the nurses on shift.

He gets you.

You swallow hard, professional mask snapping into place. “What happened?”

His voice is rough. Lower than you remember through text.

“Guy had bad aim.”

You nod curtly. “Sit still.”

You clean the blood with steady hands even though your pulse is racing. He’s solid beneath your touch. Warm. Real. Not a ghost in your inbox.

He doesn’t look away from you.

Not once.

“You’re a nurse,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer that.

You inject the local anesthetic near his eyebrow. “This will sting.”

He doesn’t flinch.

Of course he doesn’t.

The silence stretches.

You tie the first stitch.

“You ghosted me,” you hear yourself say.

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because months of embarrassment deserve to be acknowledged. Maybe because seeing him like this cracks something open.

His jaw tightens.

“I know.”

Oh.

You weren’t expecting that.

You tie another stitch. “That was… kind of a dick move.”

“Yeah.” No defensiveness. No excuse. Just quiet agreement.

You risk a glance up.

He looks ashamed.

Not annoyed. Not dismissive.

Ashamed.

You set your instruments down. “Why?”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands flex against his thighs like he’s bracing for impact.

“I panicked.”

You blink. “About… coffee?”

A humorless huff leaves him. “About wanting it too much.”

That knocks the air from your lungs more effectively than any punch.

He keeps going, words slow and deliberate like they cost him something.

“I haven’t dated in a long time. Thought I could. Thought I was ready.” His eyes lift to yours, raw. “You were the first person in years I was actually excited to meet. And that scared the hell out of me.”

Your heart stutters traitorously.

“So you just… disappeared?” you whisper.

He nods once. “Didn’t think I’d be good for you.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

“I know that now.”

The ER noise fades into background static. It’s just you and him and the faint antiseptic smell between you.

You finish the final stitch. Snip the thread. Clean the area gently.

“You could’ve just said that,” you murmur. “You could’ve told me you were scared.”

His voice softens. “Didn’t think you’d understand.”

You give him a pointed look. “I work in an ER. I’ve seen worse than emotional vulnerability.”

That actually makes him smile. Small. Careful. But real.

It does something dangerous to your insides.

You step back, peeling off your gloves. “Three stitches. Keep it clean. Come back if it opens.”

He slides off the gurney slowly, like he’s hesitant to leave.

There’s a beat.

Then he says, “I thought about you.”

Your pulse jumps.

“You don’t get to say that casually,” you warn.

“I’m not.” He steps closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that you feel his warmth. “I tried not to. But I did. Every time I passed that coffee shop.”

You hate that your eyes sting.

“I almost showed up anyway,” he continues. “Sat in my truck for twenty minutes. Couldn’t do it.”

You search his face for insincerity.

You don’t find any.

“What changed?” you ask quietly.

He gestures vaguely at his stitched eyebrow. “Got tired of running from things.”

You fold your arms, protecting yourself. “And what? You get punched in a bar and decide that means you’re suddenly emotionally available?”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Something like that.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling despite yourself. Damn him.

“I’m not that girl,” you say softly. “I’m not the one who waits around hoping the guy who ghosted her had a good reason.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he replies immediately. “Just asking for a second chance.”

You study him for a long moment.

This isn’t texting at midnight. This is real. Messy. Vulnerable. Stitches and antiseptic and heartbeats.

You sigh.

“There’s a coffee shop,” you say carefully, “that claims to have the best cannoli in the city.”

His breath catches. “Yeah?”

“You owe me one.”

Relief floods his face so openly it almost makes you laugh.

“Saturday?” he asks.

You pretend to consider it.

“Text me,” you say. “And don’t disappear.”

His gaze is steady now. Certain.

“I won’t.”

As he walks out of the ER, hand pressed lightly to his bandage, you realize something terrifying.

You’re excited again.

And this time?

The air smelled of glazed smoked ribs , freshly baked peach cobbler and pure joy.

It was the kind of humid Southern night that stuck to your skin in the best way.

Lazy wind winding the trees and the golden light breaking through the clouds. Fireflies dotting and dancing across the grass like stars had melted down to earth. 

Sam’s family cookouts had quickly become your favorite kind of chaos. Laughter, loud music , beer bottles clinking on the porch railing . Uncle Dwayne arguing with a bluetooth speaker– it as perfect.

Sarah was now setting out a third tray of cornbread because “Lord knows y’all eat like linebackers.” 

And Bucky…

Your sweet , grumpy, boyfriend , stood barefoot in the grass , sleeves of his blue henley rolled up , nursing on a sweet tea and keeping one eye on you no matter where you wandered. 

You were swaying around chasing kids and toddling babies , blowing bubbles , drawing with sidewalk chalk and giggling as they pulled at the hem of your flowy sundress.

Even now , as you breathlessly ,  wandered back to Bucky 

 kissed his cheek and whispered , “Bathroom ,  be right back,” his brows pinched with that automatic worry he always wore when you weren’t within arm’s reach.

You saw the expression as you swiped your thumb in between his furrowing brows relaxing them. 

“I’ll be quick ,” you promised , brushing your hand over his chest , feeling the faint clinking metal of his dog tags that were underneath..

“Still,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the house , “Don’t take too long.”

You gave him a soft smile and disappeared inside.

It was quiet in the house. Cool air conditioning blowing , it felt wonderful after the thick warmth of the evening. 

You washed your hands in Sarah’s bathroom , pausing to admire the little vase of flowers by the sink and the lemon-scented soap she probably made herself. 

You took a breath , smoothing your dress , fingers running over your waist where Bucky’s hands had found home and rested earlier. You could still hear his voice in your head, that low rasp as you walked out of your house to leave; “You look like summer and trouble all wrapped into one.”

Smiling, you stepped into the hallway, careful not to trip on AJ Wilsons soccer ball.

You caught sight of a  man leaning in the corner, half-shadowed , beer in one hand and his breath heavy with alcohol. The energy shifted , your gut picking up something off. 

You didn’t recognize him. Maybe a friend of a cousin. Or someone who slipped in from the street with the crowd. Who knows you just want to get back to Bucky and your drink outside on the lawn.

“Hey,” he said, eyes raking over you. “You’re too pretty to be hiding inside.”

You kept walking, smiling half kindly half trying to brush him off. 

“Oh I-I was just heading back out…”

He stepped in front of you. 

Oh.

“Come on now, don’t be like that. Let me take you on back out. Or better yet…” He grinned. “Let me take you back to my place.”

Oh.

You stiffened. “I have a boyfriend.”

The words were firm. Clear.

But he ignored them.

“You sure he’s not already busy out there? I don’t see him with you.”

You glanced down the yard , hoping to catch sight of Bucky or Sam , Sarah anyone! 

“I said, I’m going back out now , excuse me.”

You started to move.

That’s when his hand shot out — thrusting his full , yet stumbling body weight into you with a harsh shove.

“You , don’t walk away from me, sweetheart!” He growled

You feel knees and palms first , on the concrete porch. The sting instantly burned , and worse than you for sure getting blood on your new dress is the taunting behind you as the man continued

Your breath caught.

And you cried out.

Not loud. But sharp. Real.

The sound sliced through the night like glass shattering.

The metal screen door banged open hard enough to rattle the frame as the man ran off when seeing the eyes of all the family and guests now staring at you two.

Bucky was already sprinting when he heard your cry and faster when he saw you on all fours..

He didn’t hesitate , didn’t blink — didn’t breathe until he was at your side.

“Baby..doll”

His voice cracked as he reached you , hands cupping your face , eyes scanning every inch of you. Landing on your skinned knees and stinging hands.

“You okay? Did he—what happened?” His thumbs brushed your cheeks swiping your tears , frantic. “You’re shaking. Look at me , honey. Look at me, hey.”

“I—I tried to—” Your words stumbled. “He wouldn’t s-stop.”

“Where is he?” Bucky’s voice dropped. Quiet. Ice-sharp.

You buried your face in his chest , trembling. “He ran out the back , h-heard the door.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to your temple , then your forehead , then the crown of your head — like a promise , like a tether to keep himself grounded.

The next few minutes blurred.

Sarah was now also at your side instantly, voice like sweet satin as she wrapped an arm around you. “C’mere , honey. Let’s sit you down.”

Sam brought ice wrapped in a clean towel. “Is it just your knees?” he asked gently, eyes narrowing at the cuts and the bruises already forming on your legs. “And my hands..” You barely spoke up , holding out your palms showing the cuts there

 “He’s lucky Bucky got to him first.” Sarah whispered, dabbing your hands with alcohol.

You didn’t answer — couldn’t yet. Your throat ached with tears and the adrenaline rush was still pounding in your ears.

But your heart knew only one thing:

You are safe now. Okay.

When Bucky came back twenty minutes later, his knuckles were scuffed and red.

No blood, no open wound. No explanation.

Just that hard , contained stillness he wore like body armor when the Winter Soldier still lingered beneath his skin.

You looked up from the porch swing where Sarah had tucked you with a blanket and a cold drink , your knees now wrapped , your hair fuzzy and mused.

Bucky didn’t speak.

He just knelt in front of you.

Hands cupping your knees– a featherlight touch.

Eyes searching yours.

“You okay,sweetheart?” His voice cracked again , that same soft comforting rasp. 

You nodded, “I need to hear it from you.” he pleaded

 Lip wobbling , you hummed. “I am now.”

Bucky bowed his head , pressing it to your knees like a silent prayer. 

“I’m so sorry.”

“You weren’t even gone,” you whispered,  rubbing a hand over his head through his hair.

“I should’ve been faster.” He kissed the bandage on your legs as he sat up to sit next to you his head falling on your shoulder. “I should’ve—”

“Buck,” you breathed, wrapping the thin fleece blanket around the both of you , threading your fingers through his hair. “You came. You always come.”

He looked up at you with something broken and fierce and so full of love it made your chest physically ache.

“I would burn the whole world down for you,” he whispered. 

“You know that, right?”

You nodded , smiling,

He leaned up slowly, kissing your lips  gently, like you were made of sunlight that his touch could shatter at any moment. He kissed the corner of your mouth , your cheek , your jaw.

You whispered against his lips, “I don’t want fire and ash , Buck. 

I just want you.”

“You have me,” he said fiercely. “You’ll always have me.”

And when you curled into his chest again , safe and warm and completely held , the darkness faded. There were no monsters lurking in the shadows , no more ghosts at your back.

Just a man who would die a thousand deaths before letting harm touch you again.

And that — that was more than enough

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

your message had come at 3:45 in the morning as a quick flash of light on bucky's phone.

hi bucku u up? i knw i ask a lot but colud you pick me up

bucky hadn't been asleep anyways. he'd been laying on his back in bed, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other holding his phone to his chest, the device warm from when he'd checked for the seventh time in ten minutes.

he knew you were going out tonight. you'd made it a habit to inform him of when you were going out and when you might have a drink or two— or in this case, a few.

tonight was special for you. you'd recently gotten a promotion at work and your new colleagues had decided to take you out to celebrate. although bucky usually tries to persuade you to stay sober and enjoy the night with a glass of water in your hand instead of alcohol, but he knew this meant a lot to you.

tonight, he had simply sighed through the phone call and told you, "alright. have fun and don't do anything stupid."

his apartment is quiet apart from the shuffle of his blankets as he sits up, already halfway out of bed. he pulls on an old shirt, tugs on a dirty pair of jeans, and slings a jacket over his arm. just as he steps into his living room, another handful of messages light up his phone.

im srry bucky i know m bein g annoyisn but i donr knwow where the others wen t.

thy said they were goins to thebathrom and never came back ;(( it's beeen maybe a hour??? i think

so i'm jsuy sitting here

its okay if ur sleepoinf i can calal an uber!

a familiar knot tightens in his chest. it's not annoyance— he could never be annoyed with you— but worry, the feeling sharp in his chest as he imagines you sitting alone and in the cold on a curb somewhere in brooklyn waiting for him.

his reply is almost instant.

I'm up

Where are you?

Are you okay?

message bubbles pop up immediately after he hits send, but they vanish and appear a few times before you finally text back.

safe yes just col d

i want to sleeep can i come home??

Can u bring me jackey

bucky sighs as he leans over and grabs his key, his flesh hand typing on his phone while his other is unlocking his door.

What bar are you at read

Sweetheart? read

the hallway of his apartment complex is dim like it usually is during the night, and the few sensor lights that line the floor light up as bucky heads towards the elevator. his brows furrow as he looks at the read receipt, but then his phone buzzes again, his phone lighting up.

A Location Was Shared With You! 📍

he presses on the notification, and he can see exactly where you've been abandoned. the little red pin sits in an empty street just outside of a bar you'd never been to before, unmoving and lonely in the greyscale map. his phone buzzes again.

ur the bestt bucky

i owe u soooo much

i love u

he stares his phone as the elevator sends him down to the parking garage. something heavy settles in his chest, aching and almost tender as he stares at your message— but he shoves his phone into his pocket. he knows you love him, and he loves you too, but only because you're best friends, and best friends love each other.

bucky gets into his car, starts the engine, and turns on the heater. his headlights cut through the dark as he pulls out of the parking garage. the traffic is practically nonexistent at this time of night and the traffic lights change for nobody at all. he cruises through the roads, his hands steady on the wheel as he tries his best to get to you before anything else does.

he doesnt let himself think about it— about how easy it feels being there for you, about how right it felt that he was the one you called when you needed help.

as he drives, his phone buzzes in the centre console.

can i sleep in ur bed

bucky swallows. that's a weird question. you always sleep in his bed when you stay over. he's usually the one who sleeps on the couch—

with you

?

oh. bucky has to do a double take to make sure he's reading your message correctly. his thumb hovers uselessly over his phone screen. he wasn't sure he trusted himself with that kind of honesty at four in the morning while you're drunk and cold.

We'll see

he texts back. it's short and simple, and he hopes it's enough to keep you happy until he gets there.

bucky sets his phone down again into the centre console as his location approaches yours, the red pin creeping closer and closer as he rolls to a stop outside of a bar with a blinking green sign, close enough that it overlaps with his blue dot.

and then he sees you. you're sitting on the curb exactly like you said you were, just a few feet down from the bar. your knees are drawn to your chest to shield yourself from the cold, your breath comes out in curly lines of smoke as you stare at your phone. his headlights wash over you and your head snaps up almost immediately.

bucky parks along the curb, crooked and careless, before he sets it into park and jumps out while it's still running. you recognise his smell before you see him, and that brings a dopey relieved smile to your warm face.

"bucky." you breathe out like you'd been holding onto his name and using it like a prayer— like there was a real chance he wouldn't have shown up tonight.

he hates that you ever doubt it.

"i'm here." he says immediately as he walks towards you and kneels right in front of you. his voice is soft and steady as he takes your face in his hands, examining you for anything wrong. "you okay"

"hmmm." you hum with a small nod. "i'm okay. tired."

up close, you smell of perfume and alcohol and that familiar hint of your shampoo that always makes his chest tighten. your eyes are glassy and your face is warm in his palms, and you lean into his touch like you've never felt the touch of a human before.

bucky smiles despite himself, something soft and helpless tugging at the corners of his lips as you look to him with a small sigh.

"did you bring me a jacket?" you ask, fingers digging into the cold flesh of your arms like you'd been dealing with it for longer than you'd wanted. "'s cold."

"course i did." he tugs at his sleeves, pulling the jacket he's wearing off and placing it over your shoulders. "here."

the night air bites at his skin immediately after his jacket leaves his shoulders, but he doesn't flinch. he settles it around you instead, watching the material eat you up as he tugs it tightly around you, instinctive and practice. you sigh and melt into the warmth like it's your missing puzzle piece despite the frown that's grown on your face.

"but you'll be cold.." you complain, brows knitting together in concern that feels painfully sincere, and he's sure it is.

"i wont be once we get in the car." he says easily.

you look unconvinced, still staring at him like you're weighing between his warmth and your own. bucky's head tips towards the car, and you huff.

"c'mon, princess." he says with a fondness he doesn't try to hide as he gestures for your hands, "up you get."

you reach out and place your cold hands in his, letting him help you up. you wobble— just a little— and bucky slides a hand around your waist to keep you upright. you're sure you could probably ask him to carry you bridal style to the passenger seat of his hand and he would without hesitation, but you feel an odd sense of intimacy in the way he simply holds you like this.

he's only doing this because he's a good friend. this is what friends do, you tell yourself. even in your drunken haze, you know this is him doing what he thinks is best for you, but god, it feels so nice to be held by bucky. you loooooove it.

you let him guide you to his car, letting the warmth of his skin seep into your cold body. the closeness is intoxicating, disarming in a way that makes your heart stutter and your legs give out (you hope you can blame it on the alcohol).

he slides you into the passenger seat, and when he leans over to grab the seatbelt and buckle you in, you catch a whiff of him— soap and leather and the faint scent of his cologne. it wraps around you the second he leans into your space, close enough that you can feel his warmth, close enough that your breath catches in your throat for a second too long, because you cough and that catches bucky's attention.

"you okay?" he asks, but he's already pulling open the glove box and pulling out a bottle of water and opening it for you.

you nod, but it's slow and delayed.

"here, water." he murmurs. "open."

you barely have time to render what's happening before bucky's fingers slip under your chin, steadily tilting your head back. you obey and part your lips for him, the contact sending a shiver through your body. he tips the bottle over just enough for a stream of water to pour into your mouth, stopping when you'd had enough. you shut your mouth with furrowed brows like you're not sure what to do next.

"swallow." he says, and you do. "good."

your throat works as you drink, one hand coming up to grab at his wrist— not to stop him, but to keep yourself steady. he notices, and his hand stays where it is until you give him a soft nod.

"thanks, buck." you sigh, wiping at your mouth. you smack your lips a few times before you smile. "you're really good at this."

bucky huffs out a tired laugh as he screws the lid back onto the bottle. "we've done this a few times. i've had a bit of practice."

you slowly pull your hand away from his wrist with a content sigh and watch as he places the bottle into the centre console. bucky pulls away and shuts the passenger door, the absence of his presence weighing heavier on you than you'd like.

the car hums around you, the heater blasting hot air into your face and bucky's jacket weighing heavy on your shoulders as you watch him circle the front of the car. its only when his body lights up in the headlights that you realise that nobody has ever taken care of you like this— like how bucky does.

the drivers side door pops open and bucky slides in, the cold rushing in before he shuts it. you turn your entire body on its side so that you're facing him, struggling a little bit with the seatbelt strapping you down, but otherwise making it work.

he notices, because of course he does, and he resists the urge to look you up and down. after your awkward shuffling in the seat, your skirt had slid up awfully high, and he's sure that if his eyes dropped down even an inch, he'd catch a glimpse of something he shouldn't be allowed to see.

his eyes stay on yours as he reaches over and tugs at the hem of your skirt, pulling it further down your legs. you let him do so, even lifting your butt up so its a little easier for him.

"you warm enough?" he asks, grounding himself in your eyes.

"mm-hmm. m'toasty." you hum with a nod. you settle into the seat like you've never been warmer. "everything smells like you."

he huffs out something that barely resembles a laugh as he turns back to the front of the car and pulls away from the curb and onto the road. "yeah, that tends to happen when you're in my car and wearing my jacket."

you hum in content, tugging the sleeves of his jacket over your hands, practically drowning in it. bucky glances over for just a moment and takes in the way you've melted into yourself and how peaceful you look now that you're warm and not alone.

his eyes turn back to the road. "how was your night? you have fun?" he asks,

"mm... it started off good— like really good. they were nice... kept buying me drinks..." you hum again, a little more thoughtful this time as you lean your head against the headrest of the seat, but then your face turns almost sour. "but then they got weird."

bucky's jaw tightens. "weird how?" he asks, his voice still even, but there's something protective in it now.

"i dont know..." you sigh with a shrug, his jacket following the movement. "this other girl showed up and they started ignoring me and started being real interested in her. i wasn't jealous, it was just like—"

you pause for a minute, the words sitting on the top of your tongue. then you furrow your brows as the memory comes back.

"she was really mean to me, and everybody laughed with her." you add. "shes friends with most of them and she wanted the promotion that i got. pretty sure she thought she'd gotten it and then i showed up."

bucky exhales through his nose, feeling a little guilty for not being there for you when you'd needed him. "so they iced you out."

"kind of?" you mumble. "they started making weird jokes about how 'management makes weird decisions sometimes'. and then she was all fake-nice to me, like... you know that voice? where it's all high pitched and her smile is so obviously fake?"

bucky knows. he knows all too well.

"that's bullshit." he says quietly, "you earned it."

you glance at him, a little surprised like you hadn't expected him to be so sure about something as mundane as this. "you think so?"

"i know so. promotions aren't handed out because they feel bad. they gave it to you because you're good at what you do. that other woman was just mad she can't do what you do."

you go quiet at that, eyes fixated on the side of his face. you trail along his stubble on his jaw, then at the curve of his adams apple, and then it sits in the hollow of his throat. maybe its the alcohol, but he looks really handsome in this lighting.

"thank you, bucky. means a lot to me." you smile, exhaustion creeping up on you. "i'm okay now. just kept wishing you were there to celebrate with me. everything is better when you're there."

"yeah, well, i wouldve just told you to slow down on the drinks and eat something." he says, his tone deliberately light, "real fun company."

you smile at that, soft and sleepy, the corner of your mouth lifting just as your eyes start to droop. "i like your company no matter what."

that does him in.

bucky has to press his lips together like he can physically hold back the feeling if he tries hard enough. his chest feels warm, unnaturally so, like there's something in him that wants to free itself from the restraint he's holding it under.

a beat passes. the empty road hums underneath the tires as you near bucky's apartment complex, and bucky glances at you.

"you did good tonight." he says. "promotion and all."

your eyes flutter open at that. a small, proud smile tugs at your mouth, "you're the first person who's said that."

his heart twists.

"yeah?" he softens his tone and ignores the tightening ball of pity in his chest, smoothing down your hair. "i'm sorry about that, princess. you deserve it more than any of those assholes do."

you beam in the lowlight of the street lamps, too tired to reply. but bucky knows you take it to heart, because you lean over and cup his cheek with a softness that makes his heart ache. your thumbs skims over the stubble of his jaw, feeling every tight muscle under his skin. but soon after you pull your hand away, and the side of his face is left feeling colder than before.

by the time bucky parks, you're a little out of it. for some reason, you can't stop laughing, even when he's pulling you out of the passenger seat, even when he's holding you up in the elevator by your waist, even when he's pulling you through the halls with a hand hesitantly covering your mouth sí you don't wake up his neighbours, and even when you're right at his front door.

he unlocks the door one handed and nudged it open with his foot. the two of you step inside, you a little less coordinated then him, and bucky wastes no time pulling you towards his bedroom.

he'd be a little embarrassed by how messy he let it get since the last time you had come over— evidence of a life lived alone— but he's sure you couldn't care less, now more than ever. you stumble a little in the doorway, just enough that bucky's arm tightens around you enough to keep you upright.

"easy." he murmurs, more fond than demanding.

"iiiii've got it." you express with a little righteousness, but you trip over one of his boots and fall into his side. "whoops."

he helps you sit on the edge of his bed, still warm from where he laid before he left. you lift you foot, a little limp, and he undoes all of the weird and intricate buckles of your heels, placing them neatly onto the floor beside each other despite the rest of his room.

he peels your jacket off of you despite your protests and tosses it onto his bedside table before he pulls the blankets back and helps you settle in. you pull the blankets up to your face and shamelessly breath in the smell, a dramatic sigh leaving you.

"there," he sighs, "comfy."

he straightens, already turning like he's about to head for the couch, like muscle memory is steering him more than his mind, but then your hand shoots out and catches his wrist. he turns back.

"arent you gonna sleep with me?" you ask, voice drowsy but earnest, brows knitted together like the answer matters more to you than you'd admit.

and he hates that the first thought that comes to mind is sex. his mind— the traitor that it is— goes somewhere wildly inappropriate for a second before he has to shake it off.

"what?" he blinks. "what do you— what do you mean?"

you squint at him, confused at his confusion. "are you getting in the bed with me? are we snuggling?"

he sighs, and he's not sure if it's out of relief or fear of snuggling. his eyes flick to the other side of the bed, than back to you. you're already scooting over without waiting for permission, making space for him like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"...yeah." he says finally, "okay. i can do that."

he kicks his boots off, messily splayed next to yours, before he moves to the other side of the bed and eases into the spot next to you.

for a moment, it feels odd to be sleeping in one side of the bed. usually he sleeps in the middle, but now there's a weight there that feels immovable— you.

you curl into him almost instinctively, trying to chase his warmth, your head finding his chest like it's always known the way. he's sure you can hear how fast his hearts racing and he wanders if you're choosing to ignore it or if you're too tired to realise. he hesitates for a moment before he finally wraps an arm around you, pulling the blankets up with his other hand.

your breathing evens out quickly, and after a few minutes, bucky's heart slows just the slightest bit. the room falls silent expect for your soft breathing and the late night noises outside.

your fingers twitch once against his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt. then, barely above a breath, you whisper, "i love you, bucky."

his chest tightens, but he answers easily like he always does and always will. the words slide off of his tongue like it's the most natural thing in the world— and to him, it is.

"i love you too, sweetheart."

"but i mean it." you whisper.

he squints, a little defensive. "and you think i dont?"

you shake your head against his chest, your voice muffled in his arms, "no, bucky. i mean i love you."

bucky feels himself get a little lightheaded at your words, and he has to blink a few times to make sure he heard you right. you continue, the words pouring out of you slow and sleepy but devastatingly sincere.

"like i want to kiss you on the lips love you. like i want to sleep in your bed with you love you. like i'd have your babies if you asked me love you. like i want to fuck you love y—"

"you're drunk, princess. you don't know what you're saying." he cuts you off, but he doesn't know whether he's trying to convince you or himself.

"no, bucky, i know what i'm saying. whats that— what's that saying?" your head presses into his chest, eyes clenching shut as you think. "sober... words and drunk thoughts?"

"drunk words, sober thoughts." he corrects.

"right." you nod. "so do you love me too?"

the question catches him a little off guard. you've always been forward, but this felt like another level of forward. he almost doesn't really know what to say. he sucks in a breath before he speaks.

"you're exhausted and you've had a lot to drink. how about you just try to get some rest and see if you remember this in the morning?" he presses a kiss onto the top of your head, the action a little impulsive but otherwise welcome. "i dont want you saying stuff you might regret."

"but i wont." you whisper. "i'd never regret loving you."

and at your words, all of his breath leaves his lungs. he's spent years teaching himself restraint— what to say, how to act, what feelings to lock away— and right now, all of that training is what's keeping him from steady, because the truth sits heavy in his throat, heavy and undeniable.

i love you too, and i always have.

but he doesn't say it. not because it isn't true, but because when he does, he wants you to remember it in all of its truthfulness and all of its meaning. he wants you to know it.

"we'll talk about it in the morning, okay?" is what he wills himself to say instead even though it pains him to.

you dont argue, because you know he's right. you probably couldn't even count to twenty right now, let alone tell your best friend that you're in love with him.

"okay," you breathe out, "morning."

"morning." bucky echoes, his arms tightening around you.

his hand smoothed over your hair once more before settling in the crook of your neck, and within minutes, he can hear your soft snoring against his chest.

and as bucky lay awake for a while after, he wonders if the drunk words, sober thoughts theory is real, because if it is, the hundreds of other times you'd ended up in his bed muttering how much you love him weren't just throwaway words, but confessions you knew you couldn't say in the daytime.

either way, bucky knows one thing with startling clarity; he's never letting you go, even through drunken confessions and clueless mornings, because the truth sits in his chest and burns brighter than anything he's ever felt— he loves you completely and irrevocably, and he's too far in to turn back now.

the way this is nothing like the prompts

You come home whining about your day, dropping your bag somewhere near the coat rack but not on it, flopping across the couch in a dramatic heap with a groan that echoes through the whole apartment. You’ve been bratty all evening, poking at him, teasing him, rolling your eyes at every gentle correction he gives.

And Bucky—your sweet, soft, domestic Bucky—lets it go until he doesn’t.

You don’t even realize you’ve pushed far enough until you huff at him for the fifth time, muttering something snarky under your breath while he’s cooking dinner.

His back straightens. His hand pauses mid-stir. And then that voice slides out.

“Darlin’, try that again.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your thighs press together. You’re instantly, humiliatingly obedient.

“Sorry,” you whisper, smaller now.

He turns off the stove. Quiet. Controlled. Wipes his hands on the towel by the sink. Walks toward you with the slow, measured steps of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“C’mere.”

You go without thinking. He tilts your chin up gently, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“You’ve had a long day,” he murmurs, “but that’s not a reason to take it out on me. Is it?”

You shake your head.

“No, Bucky.”

“That’s right.” He kisses your forehead—soft, grounding, absolutely undoing you. “Good girl.”

You swear your soul leaves your body.

He pulls you into the bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed, and pats his thigh.

“Across my lap.”

Your heart somersaults. “Bucky—”

He raises a brow. Just one. Dangerously patient.

“Sweetheart. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You fold instantly, climbing over him, settling across his lap like your body remembers the position better than your mind does. His metal hand smooths over the curve of your ass, warm despite the cold plating. His flesh hand rubs your back in slow circles.

“You’re worked up,” he murmurs. “You need structure. You need to let go. I’ve got you.”

And then he spanks you.

Not hard—just enough to make you gasp, enough to focus you, enough to make your head empty and warm and soft. He alternates between soothing touches and firm swats, guiding your breathing, telling you exactly what he wants.

“You listen so well when you want to,” he praises, fingers squeezing your hip. “Such a good girl when you try.”

You melt, whimpering into the pillow.

After a few more perfectly measured swats, he pulls you upright into his lap, straddling him. You’re already panting, needy, gripping his shoulders like he’s the only thing holding you together.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, nose brushing yours. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you breathe out. “Need you to take care of me. Need—need you to tell me what to do.”

He smiles, slow and devastating, like he knew you’d say that.

“That’s my girl.”

He lays you back on the bed, pulls your clothes off with gentle, practiced touches, kissing every inch of exposed skin.

“You’re not bratty,” he murmurs against your stomach. “You’re overwhelmed. And you didn’t know how to ask.” His lips trail lower. “So I’ll show you.”

The way he drags his tongue over you—slow, controlled, savoring—makes you cry out. He pins your hips down with a steady hand, not rough, just immovable.

“Keep still,” he breathes against you. A command. A promise.

You really try, but every time he sucks you deeper into his mouth, your hips jerk. He growls, a sound so low you feel it more than you hear it, and pins you down harder.

“Let me take care of you,” he warns, “or I’ll tie you to the headboard so you don’t squirm.”

Your moan borders on obscene.

“Bucky, please—”

“That’s better,” he praises, and takes you right back into his mouth.

By the time you’re shaking, gasping, babbling his name, he climbs over you, caging you in with his body, forearms bracketing your head.

“You done acting out?” he asks softly.

You nod frantically.

“Gonna listen?”

“Yes—yes, Bucky, please—”

He kisses you. Deep. Slow. Possessive.

“Good. Now let me fuck you nice and slow so you remember who you come home to.”

And oh, you do.

You come apart beneath him embarrassingly fast, crying into his neck as he keeps you grounded, whispering praise that feels like worship.

“Such a good girl. Mine. Doing so well. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

When you finally go boneless in his arms, he rolls you into his chest, pressing soft kisses into your hair.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “My sweet girl. All that attitude gone, huh?”

You manage a weak nod, nuzzling closer.

“You keep givin’ me that tone,” he teases gently, “I’ll keep remindin’ you who’s in charge at home. That what you wanted?”

You whimper a quiet, breathless, “Yes.”

He smirks and kisses your forehead again.

You were on the opposite side of the court from him now, sunlight bouncing off the freshly painted lines, the little plastic ball whizzing back and forth. Sam and Natasha were heckling from the sidelines. Steve was being aggressively polite about calling scores. You were laughing—actually laughing—every time Bucky muttered curses under his breath about the ball being “too light” or “not aerodynamic enough.”

Then it happened.

The ball popped up just a little too high.

Bucky reacted on instinct.

Years of muscle memory kicked in before common sense could tap him on the shoulder. He stepped into the shot, swung with far too much force, and—

Thwack.

The sound was sharp. Hollow.

The ball hit you square in the upper chest.

All the air punched out of your lungs at once, like someone had slammed a door shut inside you. You stumbled back a step, paddle slipping from your fingers as you bent forward instinctively, hands braced on your knees.

The court went silent.

“Oh my god,” Bucky breathed.

He was at your side in seconds—metal arm hovering uselessly in the air, eyes wide and horrified. “I— I didn’t mean— I’m so sorry— I didn’t—”

You tried to answer him. Tried to tell him you were fine.

Nothing came out.

Your chest burned as you dragged in a shallow, shaky breath that didn’t feel like it went anywhere near your lungs. Your vision blurred at the edges, spots dancing as panic crept in—not fear, exactly, just that awful I can’t breathe feeling.

“Hey—hey, hey,” Bucky said, voice cracking as he crouched in front of you. “Talk to me. Please talk to me.”

Sam was suddenly there too, quieter than usual. “Wind knocked outta her,” he said gently. “It happens.”

Bucky barely heard him.

He was staring at you like the world had tilted off its axis. “I shouldn’t have swung that hard,” he whispered, like a confession. “I wasn’t thinking. I could’ve— I could’ve really hurt you.”

You finally managed to suck in a slightly deeper breath. It rattled, ugly and loud, but it was air. You lifted one hand weakly, fingers trembling, and gave him a tiny thumbs-up.

“I’m okay,” you croaked, though it came out more like a wheeze.

Bucky shook his head immediately. “No. No, you don’t have to say that. Just— just breathe, okay? Take your time. I’ve got you.”

He hadn’t even realized he’d moved closer until his knee touched yours, until his flesh hand came up to rest lightly against your shoulder—warm, grounding, steady. He kept it there like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You focused on that touch.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

The burn in your chest slowly faded to an ache. Your breathing evened out, each inhale less panicked than the last. After a minute, you straightened a little, rolling your shoulders experimentally.

“See?” you said softly. “Still alive.”

That did it.

Bucky’s breath hitched, sharp and uneven, and suddenly he was pulling you into his chest—careful, so careful—his arms wrapping around you like he needed to feel solid proof that you were standing there.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “Jesus, I’m so sorry. I forgot where I was for a second and— and I never want to be the reason you get hurt. Never.”

You slid your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against him. “Hey,” you said, calm now. “Accidents happen. It was a pickleball, Buck. Not a sniper round.”

He let out a weak, breathless laugh that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. “Felt worse than a sniper round.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were still glassy, jaw tight with the effort of holding himself together. You reached up and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.

“I promise,” you said firmly, “I’m okay. Just needed a minute.”

He leaned into your touch immediately, eyes fluttering shut. “You scared me.”

“I know.”

Steve cleared his throat from a respectful distance. “Maybe… we call the game?”

“Yeah,” Sam said quickly. “Court’s cursed now.”

Bucky didn’t even look up. “I’m done with pickleball forever.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “Deal.”

As he walked you off the court, arm tucked securely around your shoulders like a shield, you realized something warm bloomed beneath the lingering ache in your chest.

Being loved by Bucky Barnes meant being worried over like this—fiercely, desperately, completely.

And honestly?

Your presence is familiar enough that his shoulders ease before his brain even catches up. Then there’s the softest pressure against his thigh, the chair shifting slightly as you turn sideways and—without a word—settle yourself onto his lap.

Bucky freezes for exactly half a second.

“…Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle, metal hand hovering unsurely near your hip. “You okay?”

You nod, cheek already finding his shoulder. You smell like clean laundry and whatever soap you’ve been using lately—comforting, grounding. Your arms slip around his middle with slow, uncoordinated movements, like even that is asking a lot of you.

“Just tired,” you mumble. “Can I sit?”

His answer is immediate. Instinctive.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. C’mere.”

He pulls you in fully then, one arm firm around your waist, the other settling warm and steady between your shoulder blades. He adjusts in the chair so you’re supported properly, making sure your weight is balanced, that you’re not perched awkwardly. He’s learned you—how you slump when you’re exhausted, how your body goes slack the second it feels safe.

You sigh as soon as you’re settled. A deep, full-bodied exhale that tells him more than words ever could.

“You’ve had a week,” he says softly, pressing his lips to your temple.

You hum in agreement, already going boneless against him. Your forehead rests beneath his jaw, breath evening out far too quickly for someone who just sat down.

Bucky smiles despite himself.

He tries to keep working. Really. One hand returns to the keyboard, typing slower now, more carefully. The other stays wrapped around you, thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles at your side. He can feel the tension bleeding out of you with every passing second, your muscles loosening, your grip softening.

Then your breathing changes.

Not all at once—just a subtle shift. Deeper. Slower. Your head grows heavier against his chest, mouth parting slightly as sleep sneaks up on you without permission.

Bucky glances down.

Your eyes are closed.

“…You gotta be kidding me,” he whispers fondly, smiling so hard it almost hurts.

He stops typing. Saves his work. Closes the laptop with exaggerated care, like even the sound might disturb you. You don’t stir.

Instead, you nuzzle closer.

That’s it for him.

He sighs, rests his cheek against your hair, and just… sits there with you for a minute. No rush. No agenda. Just the weight of you in his lap, the warmth of you against his chest, the quiet knowledge that you trust him enough to fall asleep anywhere as long as he’s there.

Eventually, he knows he can’t keep you like this forever—his chair isn’t meant for sleeping, and you deserve better than a stiff neck later. So slowly, carefully, he shifts.

“Hey,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath. “Sweetheart. I’m gonna take you to bed, okay?”

You don’t wake, but you make a soft noise of protest when he starts to stand, arms tightening reflexively around him.

“Shh,” he soothes, kissing your hair. “I got you.”

And he does.

He lifts you with practiced ease, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. You curl into him automatically, face tucking against his neck, trusting him completely. He carries you down the hall like that, unbothered by anyone who might see, unconcerned with anything except keeping you comfortable.

The bedroom is dim and cool. He lays you down gently, easing you onto the mattress like you’re something precious. He pulls the covers back, tucks you in, makes sure your pillow is just right.

When he straightens, you reach for him again, fingers catching the hem of his shirt.

“Bucky,” you whisper, eyes still closed. “Stay.”

His chest tightens.

He kicks his shoes off without hesitation, sheds the rest of his clothes with quiet efficiency, and slips into bed behind you. One arm drapes over your waist, pulling you flush against him. His chin rests at the crown of your head, breath warm and steady.

“There,” he murmurs. “Nothing else to do today. Just sleep.”

You relax fully then, melting back into him like that was all you needed to hear.

Bucky stays awake a little longer, listening to your breathing, feeling the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath his hand. He presses a kiss into your hair, protective and tender all at once.

“You work too hard,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “But I got you. Always.”