Dr. Brendon Park who strikes fear into an interns heart. Who makes a new scrub nurse cry because she didn’t know he preferred staples over sutures because ortho work needed stability and to be sturdy- nothing delicate like sutures. Who prefers something loud when he’s in the OR like Breaking Benjamin or Black Sabbath or Sleep Token. Who snaps at residents or other surgeons but the instant that the nurse says “Dr. Park, it’s your wife,” and holds up his phone after answering for him? The music is off- the OR pauses because- “Brendon, baby- the flowers are beautiful!” Your sweet voice comes through the phone and instantly his eyes soften, some can even see a smile behind his mask- “Happy Birthday angel-” his voice so much softer- regretting that he can’t be home with you- but promises to take you out tomorrow night and reminds you that he’ll be home late but “wait up for me baby? I love you. So much.” Immediately after the call ends his eyes narrow- voice strong again and barking out to turn the music back on.

Dr. Brendon Park who bites the heads off of residents who don’t speak up when he asks them a simple question- who is a shark and narrows his eyes when they stutter and apologize. Who is fucking sick of incompetence and doesn’t think he’s asking for too much- it just needs to be perfect. Who strips off the Shark persona the second he’s home. The second you come rounding the corner to throw yourself into his arms and kiss the smile that he had- an actual fucking smile and not the scowl he’s been sporting all day even underneath the mask. Who holds you so close and gently in his arms to walk you back to the couch and groan in relief because he’s been on his feet for hours from a multi car pile up- so much trauma and repairs and fractures and- he just needs a second with you in his arms to breathe.

Dr. Brendon Park who feels relaxed with your arms around him- who kisses you softly and asks about your day because he could listen to you talk for hours. Who has a smile on his face as you kiss over his jaw and neck while you mumble about work or doing the laundry and shopping and- god he fucking wishes he didn’t have to deal with stupid people all the time. If no one was stupid or incompetent then he’d be needed less and could spend more time with you- he could actually see you when you’re awake instead of crawling into bed hours after you’ve fallen asleep even if you tried to wait up for him. When his phone goes off in the middle of the night because some idiot decided to drink and then drive- he’s arguing on the phone. Who’s not on call, who just got off a 60 hour work week and- who misses his fucking wife. But the on call surgeon is in the middle of a spinal cord injury with neuro and- “baby?” Half asleep, mumbling into the dimly lit room but you feel him leaving the bed- leaving you. “Go back to sleep angel,” who kisses you so fucking softly because he hates the way your face drops when you realize he’s getting dressed to go back to work. “I’ll be back in a few hours- I promise.” Who never breaks his promises to you.

Dr. Brendon Park who many speculate about as to what he actually does in his free time- provided he has any. Golf? Too boring and quiet. Working out? Well- yes but he needs the strength to keep up with his job and other than you it helps him relax. Feeding off the innocent souls of children and interns? Only on Thursdays. But- who actually spends his limited free time with his wife. Who, on his one day off this week mind you, is following you around the farmers market while you’re asking if he’s sure this is what he wants to do in his day off. The answer is always yes with a smile and kiss to your cheek, taking your hand and letting you lead him through the crowd of people who were also spending their early mornings picking out artisan goods and sniffing homemade beeswax candles- Brendon smiling and nodding when you ask if he likes it. Who likes what you like- he loves what you love. Who sees you sniff the fresh bouquets of flowers and buys anything you look at- who opens his mouth so you can pop a fresh strawberry in because they’re so sweet that he needs to taste them. He who his free time being happy.

Dr. Brendon Park who is so rough and mean- sometimes doesn’t know his own strength. Who needs that brutality to reset bones and hammer out titanium rods in the OR but doesn’t bring it home- much to your frustration sometimes. Who fucks you slow- soft and sweet words mumbled in your neck while he fists the sheets or the headboard because he’s trying to maintain his composure and not fuck you into the mattress right now because you’re the best this he’s ever felt. Who thinks you sound so good and feel so fucking soft underneath him- who hears that little whine of his name with a little “fuck- baby don’t stop,” thrown in and his integrity snaps. Immediately the switch is flipped and he’s the Shark again- hammering into your greedy pussy with rough, heavy thrusts that have stars dancing behind your eyes and a fucked out smile on your face that he can’t see. You know what breaks him- you like the Shark sometimes.

Dr. Brendon Park who never quite realizes that you do it on purpose sometimes- who doesn’t realize the marks he leaves and bruises he puts on your body are welcomed by you until weeks later when he recognizes the pattern. Who doesn’t hear little blissed out sigh you let out when you feel his hand slide up your neck to give your throat a squeeze- because he’s too busy listening to the sound of the headboard slamming against the wall to the rhythm of his thrusts. Who gets mean- “need to be fucked? Want my cock again- yeah?” Grunted in your ear when you’re begging for him to put it back inside you- heavy slaps to your weeping pussy when you try to grind against him for more. “Greedy fucking slut, wants daddy to be mean?” While he teases your folds with the tip of his leaking cock, smearing his precum along your wetness before pulling away again and slapping a large hand on your cunt over and over again until you cry- fat wet tears when you cum from the force.

Dr. Brendon Park who licks your tears- who moans when he tastes the salty drops rolling down your cheek while he forces you to take slow feeds of his cock between your forgiving walls. Who makes you cum over and over again- biting at your ankles that rest on his broad shoulders or smirking when your hands weakly shove at his chest and leave angry red scratches on his skin. Who bites the fat of your breast when he cums- groans muffled by your flesh between his teeth and your weak cries when the pain hits.

Dr. Brendon Park who dotes on you after- who apologies and looks sick with worry when he grabs a warm rag to clean up the mess between your legs after wiping your tears and any blood he may have drawn. Who kisses every fucking inch of your skin with soft whispers of “I’m sorry angel,” while he goes to run a bath for you. Who washes your hair, gently scrubs you clean, puts you in one of his shirts- who brushes your hair and puts it out of the way for you to sleep. Who pulls you to lay on his chest- kisses your temple, runs a heavy hand up and down your back to soothe you to sleep with you practically on top of him. Who doesn’t see your smile when you relax into his warmth- sleepily mumbling a soft “good night my love,” before melting into him.

Dr. Brendon Park who smirks when he hears the residents whispering about the angry red scratches on his neck- the bruises that disappear under his scrubs. “Did he kill somebody and they fought back?” “Get back to fucking work,” barked out when he turns to them and points to the OR board because they need to be doing his pre-op and not speculating on how he got those marks. Who smiles- thinking about you every time he feels a sting from a scratch or soreness from a bruise.

Dr. Brendon Park Who can’t fucking wait for this day to be over so he can have you crawl into his lap and listen to you talk about your day.

➻ taglist:

Park rolled his eyes, “You’re dewy-eyed every time he comes around,” he started. “I’ve seen you in action, you’re tough, you know your stuff, you command the room, you’re willing to get down and dirty, but when you’re with him, or if you think he’s around?” Park made a disgusted face and scoffed. 

“You’re clueless, as if being in a trauma bay is a field trip for you, and you’ve never encountered an actual medical case.” 

Balking at this criticism at your person, you were quiet, mulling over what he said. You tried to remember all your encounters with Park when Robby was around. Grimacing, you could see where he was coming from. 

Were you really like that? When you were with Robby? If someone like Park - who doesn’t come down that often sees it, who else does? Were you the fucking laughing stock of the ED?

Fury and embarrassment ran through you and you steeled yourself, “What’s it to you?” 

“I want you to be the best,” he answered, ordering another whisky. Park turned to you and under the light you saw the intensity in his eyes, the blatant expression almost too much for you. “I know that you can be the best.”

You were stunned at his words. 

“You can’t be the best when you’re too busy making sure that Robinavitch is noticing you, or whether he’s fucking one of the nurses again,” Park said truthfully. 

You want to say that Brendon Park is a liar. That he uses people to gain advantage. But he doesn’t. He’s mean, crass, blunt, impatient but not a liar.  

“I’m not trying to be mean,” Park glanced at you, watching as you fiddled with your drink. 

You scoffed, “Could have fooled me.” 

“I don’t want you to waste your potential. I’ve seen too many people in this field make themselves smaller so they can have the hot shot attending,” Park explained. 

“Speaking from experience?” You quipped and you mumbled an apology when he threw you a glare. 

“You have promise, you could make a good Chief one day, can’t do that when you’re too busy crying in an on-call room when you found out Robinavitch was fucking Hastings,” at the mention of the two people that have been the cause of your tears for the last few weeks, Park saw you tense, and then you relaxed. 

“That was one time!” You cried out. 

“You’re too attractive for him anyway,” he threw out, gulping down his shot, while looking at you through his peripheral. 

“Is this your way of getting into my pants?” You snipped. 

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he smirked. “But no, if I wanted to fuck you I don’t need to use pretty words.” 

“Oh really?” You sneered, and deep down inside you hated yourself because you knew he was right. But you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Why because you’re such an Ortho God that me having sex with you would give me some of your godly medicinal powers?” You hissed, narrowing your eyes, trying to figure out his plan. 

You followed the path of his mouth turning to a smirk, “No, I just know that you find me attractive as much as I find you attractive.”

You feigned a disgusted noise, snorting into your drink, “I never said I found you attractive.” 

“Oh, so do your eyes just follow everything attending that walk through the ED?” He remarked. “And do you accidentally like years old posts on their private Instagram as well?”

“That wasn’t me,” you mumbled, downing your drink, embarrassment alive and well, digging itself into every crevice of your body. 

Park laughed loudly, “Sure, baby,” the drinks making his lips a little looser. “Pretty sure I have a screenshot somewhere.” 

At the nickname, you squirmed in your seat. You weren’t uncomfortable per se, just confused that Park was talking to you like this. You squinted your eyes and poked him, trying to make sure that it was him in front of you. 

“What are you doing?” He leaned back, trying to figure out what you were doing. 

“Why are you talking to me now?” 

He took a moment to say anything to you, a silence that you filled by looking at him. 

“You did well today,” he begrudgingly said. Thinking back to your day, you remembered exactly what he was talking about. Park was called down for a consult, you were the resident in charge of the case. 

You caught something that the others didn’t see, that Robby didn’t see. They brushed you off at first, and you were frustrated at the lack of trust in your judgement. It wasn’t until Park came into the room and backed you up that people believed your claim. 

“A compliment? From Park the Shark?” You heard him huff and you could practically hear him roll his eyes. 

You didn’t know if it was the flowing of alcohol through your veins, or the fact that Park was actually talking to you, or the fact that conversing was easier than you anticipated. More comfortable and fun that you could ever imagine that you wanted to continue to talk to him. 

“So, back to that screenshot,” you smiled sweetly. “You were lying about that, right?” 

Park laughed and you watched, mesmerised at the rare sight. “Not a chance, sweetheart,” turning to you, a gleam in his eyes, “But if you don’t believe me, I can always show you back at my place.” 

“Smooth,” you rolled your eyes but downed the rest of your drink. 

You both stared at each other, knowing what each of you wanted. As if you were telepathically connected, Park paid for both of your drinks and looked expectantly at you. 

“I’ll call an Uber,” Park pulled out his phone, looking at you when you let out a breath through your nose. 

“You’re presumptuous,” you said but hopped off your chair, grabbing your things. 

“He’s on his way, let’s go,” putting his phone back, he waited for you to go past him, his hand landing on the small of your back. 

-

You were tense next to him, Park could feel it. Taking initiative, he placed his hand on your thigh squeezing once. You looked up to him, tracing his jawline with your eyes. 

“If you don’t want to do this, say so,” Park said, being uncharacteristically gentle. “I can book an Uber for you when we get to my place and we don’t have to speak about this ever again.” 

You rolled your eyes playfully, “Now I really know you want to get in my pants.” 

Narrowing his eyes, he pinched your thigh, causing you to yelp and the Uber driver to look at you. Nodding at him reassuringly, he looked back to the road.

“Are you always this mouthy?” 

Shrugging you turned to him, “Guess you just have to find a way to make me shut up.” 

Park grinned and the sight of his canines made you swallow. There was something so animalistic about him when he smiled at you like that. Feeling your heart begin to race, you felt yourself lean up. 

A clearing of a throat broke the two of you apart, you mumbled an apology, but didn’t move away from the warmth of Park. 

-

“I hate you,” you glared at the man between your legs. 

Park threw his keys by the side table and smirked at you, “I can live with that,” placing his hands on the back of your thighs, he squeezed once. “Up,” he commanded and you obeyed. “Good girl,” seeing your reaction at those words, Park filed the response away in his brain, fully intending to use it within the next thirty minutes. 

Lifting you up, you felt your back hit the door, and before you could complain, Park placed his mouth over yours. It was soft, softer than you thought his lips would be (not that you ever thought about his lips before this). Moaning quietly, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer. 

Deepening the kiss, you could feel his tongue slowly trace your bottom lip. Parting your lips, Park slowly slid his tongue, lazily allowing it to map out your mouth, your own tongue docile waiting for his command. 

“So needy,” Park smirked against your mouth, his tongue collecting both of your saliva from your chin and licking it back to your mouth. Feeling emboldened you stroked the underside of his tongue with yours, earning a groan from the man. Grasping the hair at the bottom of his neck, you pulled, eliciting another groan. 

Park pushed you closer to the door, his cock beginning to grind into your stomach, “Feel that, princess? Hope you can take it.” He swallowed your moan, this time completely taking over control, moving one hand to the back of your neck, he wrapped his hand around your hair and this time, it was him that pulled. 

Licking up your exposed neck, he could hear your panting from above, wanting more of your noise, Brendon sank his teeth in gently to the meat of your shoulder. 

“Brendon,” you gasped, his teeth leaving an imprint on your soft skin. You rutted against his bulge, earning a hitch of breath from the man in front of you.  

“I’m not going to fuck against my door,” he said against your lips. “Come on.” 

You briefly looked around his room. It was nice. Clean and precise, just how you thought Park’s room would be (again, not that you ever thought about that, definitely not), a few personal touches here and there. 

Feeling laughter bubble out of you, “Is that a picture of yourself on your table?” 

“I look good,” you looked back to the picture and he had you there. He did in fact look good, very good. 

“You’re narcissistic,” you replied. 

“I have good reasons to be,” he pulled his shirt off, tossing it somewhere in the room. You took a moment to look at him. The plains of his chest, the sprinkling of his chest hair, how broad his shoulders are. Just how fucking big he is. Wetting your lips, your eyes dragged down his happy trail, eyes landing on his bulge. 

He closed the distance between the two of you, clashing your mouths together again. Park grabbed the hem of your shirt and lifted it up, hands straight going to your ribs. You let your hands wander around his chest, eventually landing on his belt buckle. 

Biting his bottom lip, you moved your mouth down his neck, mouthing open kisses down his stomach. You heard him curse above you, spurring you on, you kissed the tent of his pants, your hands working on unbuckling his belt. 

Tugging his pants down, you noted the wet spot on his underwear, kissing the outline of his cock, you felt Brendon place his hands on your head. Pulling down his briefs, you watched his length appear. Practically salivating, you couldn’t help but lick the precum on the tip of his head. You rolled the liquid in your mouth, allowing it to coat every crevice. He tasted salty, masculine, and you wanted more. 

“Fucking hell,” Brendon gritted out, as his fingers gripped your hair. 

Sitting back on your heels, you took a moment to look at him. He was huge, to say the least. Big and thick in all the right places, a thatch of hair at the base of his cock. You took a moment to just admire his length, fingertip trailing against a particularly prominent vein. 

Licking your lips, you opened your mouth, ready to taste him properly. Before you could, you felt a tug on your upper arm. Brendon looked down at you, “Not tonight. Been thinking too long about this to not be in your pussy right now.” 

“You’ve thought about this?” You cocked your head to the side, and Brendon looked down at you and a little light flared up in his chest. 

Before you could think about what he meant, Park yanked you, grabbing your face and messily kissed you. Grinding his leaking cock into your stomach, you moved your hand downwards until you were able to grasp it. 

He hissed as he felt your hand on him, slowly twisting your hand up and down, spreading his precum around the head of his cock. Briefly pulling away from him, you brought up your hand and locked eyes with him. Sensually licking his cum off, you watched as his nostrils flared, his breath getting heavier, looking down you could see his cock twitching. 

With what could only be described as an actual growl, Park wrapped his hand around the nape of your neck, and roughly yanked you back to his mouth. 

“Get your fucking pants off,” he commanded against your lips.  

Kicking the rest of his pants off, you did the same, almost falling when it got caught on your ankle. “Careful,” he mumbled gently, as he caught you. 

Removing your pants for you, he laid you down on the edge of his bed. “Cute,” Park smirked as he stared at your underwear with cherries on there. His eyes focusing on the large wet spot. 

“Shut up, I didn’t know I was going to have sex with you,” you whined, closing your legs slightly. 

“So you would have worn something different if you did know?” He said arrogantly, and it took everything in you to not kick him in the head. Hot as he might be, he was still the arrogant Park you knew. 

Sensing your annoyance and that you were going to say something, he leaned forward and licked you through your underwear. A moan escaped your mouth as you felt him suckle your clit through the fabric. 

Tasting you, Park grunted and he felt himself subconsciously move closer to you, arms coming beneath your thighs and yanking them to his body. Kissing across the span of your pelvic area, you yelped when you felt him nip your inner thigh. 

Rutting into his bed, Park would have been ashamed of his actions, acting like a teenage boy tasting his first pussy, but you were here. You were under him and he really didn’t fucking care if he came right now just from tasting you. 

Having enough of the fabric in his way, he ripped the cotton, apologising by placing a soft kiss on your mound, eventually sliding down to your clit. 

“Prettiest fucking pussy,” as he spread your lips, your hole clenching at his actions. “Taste so fucking good,” he said against your hole. Lapping at your slick, your hands hovering near his head before you threaded your fingers through his hair. 

“Brendon, fuck,” you cried out, head falling back as you thrusted up to his face. Cupping your ass, he pulled you impossibly closer, allowing you to practically ride his tongue. 

You could hear the lewd slurp of his mouth, feel his drool combining with your slick. Brendon thrust his tongue into your hole, trying to get as much essence as he could, swallowing it down like it was his life elixir. 

Placing his thumb on your clit, Brendon growled as he felt you tighten even more against his tongue, moving away with an audible pop, he dragged his fingers down until he was at your entrance. 

Flicking his eyes back up to you, he watched as you arched your back as he entered your hole with two fingers. He closed his eyes at your warmth, the tightness and smoothness of your channel. He pressed deeper into your heat, eventually landing on your sweet spot. 

“Bren,” you sighed out as he began curling his fingers. You clenched your jaw, breath taken away from the sheer size of his fingers. 

Needing his tongue on you again, he pulled out his fingers, dipping them into his mouth and moaning at your taste. 

“You have the sweetest fucking pussy, baby,” he mumbled against your clit, sucking it into his mouth, Brendon almost rolled his eyes to the back of his head at the noises you were making. “Can’t believe you kept her from me.” 

You usually would have hated men referring to your pussy like that but fuck if didn’t turn you even more. Running one hand through his hair, your other hand gripped onto his forearm. Brendon shifted his hand to hold yours, interlocking fingers as he pushed his face closer to your heat. 

Feeling your release coming embarrassingly close, you tightened your grip on his hair and hand, your core tightening, you cried out, a long elongated noise as you felt your orgasm wash over you. You rutted your pussy against his face, prolonging the pleasure that you were receiving. 

Panting and trying to regain some sort of clarity, you slowly released the grip you had on his hair. The gel completely gone, you almost felt bad at how messy he looked, but all it did was turn you on. 

Sitting back up, you saw your release glisten against his face, you reached for him, needing to taste him. Crashing your mouths together, you cupped his cheeks, feeling his stubble against your palms. Dragging him down to you, you unashamedly licked around his mouth, collecting your juices and melted your mouths together again. 

Practically on top of you, you felt his shaft weep against your stomach, feeling drops of his precum dropping. Sliding yourself up, you wrapped your legs around him, letting his cock slide between your folds. Grunting into your mouth, Brendon followed your movements, his cock itching to be in you. 

Dragging you up his bed, Brendon reached for one of his side tables, opening up, blindly feeling around for something, all the while keeping his lips on yours. Bringing out what he needed, he slammed the drawer shut, and regretfully pulled away from you. 

Moving to open the foil packet, you grabbed his hand and looked at him, and against your all medical instincts, you shook your head, “Want to feel you.” 

Brendon breathed through his nose and for a second you thought you made a mistake. The next moment you saw, was him throwing the condom across his room, arms caging around your head, his weight slowly being placed on top of you. 

Gripping the base of his cock, he tapped the head a couple of times, your hips jolting trying to chase the feeling. He slid against your pussy again, his pre completely dripping down to your hole. Brendon groaned as he squeezed the base of cock and moved his hand up, forcing more of his precum to land on your clit. 

Spreading the liquid using the tip, you threw your head back, relishing in the feeling, as the man above you gritted his teeth.  

“Brendon, please,” you begged, eyes starting to tear up. You could feel yourself clench against nothing and it was aggravating to know he wasn’t in you yet.  “Please, I need you.” 

He stared at you, and for a moment you felt like you were prey finally being found by the big bad predator. Park kept eye contact with you as he slowly encompassed everything that you could see, everything that you could feel. 

Sliding into you slowly, Park watched as you closed your eyes at his size and the stretch. A blissful sigh leaving your lips as you felt him hit home, eyes closing at the fit. When he was flushed against your hips, he let out a strangled groan of your name. 

“I’m good,” you breathed out, nodding your head. 

“How do you want it?” 

You fluttered your eyes open and looked at the man above you, his gaze intent, “What?” You stuttered. 

“How do you want me to fuck you?” He elaborated -- the way he would explain simple medical terms to the medical students, but his tone was different. It was soft. 

“Slow, rough,” you gulped, a small sliver of embarrassment making a home in your chest, and you broke eye contact with him. “Hard,” you mumbled. 

Squishing your cheeks together with one hand, he turned your head to lock eyes with him. “Don’t,” he breathed as he began to pull out slowly, keeping his eyes on you, watching your reaction as he plunged harder into your pussy. Hands grasping his bedsheets, you arched your back, a loud moan of his name leaving your mouth.  

“That’s fucking right,” he purred against your neck, hands going to the back of your thighs, throwing them over his shoulder. Folding your legs, Brendon leaned on his forearms, as he held the rough pace. “Good fucking girl, taking my cock so well.” 

He was rewarded with you clenching your pussy tighter and a strangled noise coming from your mouth. 

“Feel so good,” you babbled, turning your face to kiss him. 

He grinned down at you, “Yeah, is that right, baby?” He pulled out to just his tip and you whined at the loss, “Who’s making you feel this way?” 

“You, just you,” you cried out, your hands reaching for the back of his body. Hanging on to him, “Brendon,” you moaned, eyes clenching tight. 

Roughly sinking back into your cunt, you let out a scream as you dragged your nails down his back. He kept at that rhythm, leaning on one forearm, other hand reaching towards to engulf the right side of your cheek. 

Caressing it softly, he looked down at you; sweat lining your forehead, your lips parted, cupid's bow just waiting to be kissed and Brendon didn’t want to ever forget this. Teeth latching on your jaw, not biting, just holding you there, one of your hands drifted to the hair on the base of his neck. 

“Where?” He mumbled against your jaw, lips moving to your lips.  

“Inside,” you panted, clenching your pussy. “Birth control.” 

You heard him briefly curse under his breath, his lips mouthing against your neck. “You just let anyone cum inside of you?” 

“No, just you,” you whined, your nails digging into his shoulder. “Just want your cum.” 

At that, Park’s eyes lit up, his face twisting into an animalistic look, brutally thrusting deeper into you, “That’s fucking right,” he growled against your skin. “You’re so fucking perfect, you know that?”  

Dragging his lips down from your mouth, he licked your neck, all the way down to your shoulder. “Tell me,” he mumbled and you grew confused until you felt his teeth sink into you. 

Clenching around him, you felt another rush of heat through you. “Brendon,” you gasped, breath hitching, fingers digging into his shoulder. “Fuck.” 

Softening his bite, he licked the mark, thumb moving down to circle your clit. “You want me to fill you up, huh?” Brendon taunted, as his lips found yours again. “Want me to breed your little pussy?” 

You nodded, tears running down your face, “Please, Brendon,” you cried out. 

Dragging his cock slowly, he pushed in and gave a little grind of his hips. Crying at the sensation of the tip of his cock grinding into your g-spot, and his hair catching on your little nub, you were in a euphoric state of mind. 

Breath hitching, you could feel your pussy pulse around his cock, your stomach tensing. You could feel your orgasm approaching. 

“Cum around me baby,” he said against your ear, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. “Wanna feel you.” 

Shutting your eyes, you jerked your hips upwards, “Fuck!” It was all too much, his words, his touch, his cock, everything. With one last grind against your sweet spot, you let out another scream of his name as you felt your release go through you. You squeezed his shoulders, nails breaking into the skin. Panting his name, all you could do was hold onto him, as you felt your cum coat his cock. 

Pulling him to you, Brendon dropped his head to your neck, licking the sweat accumulated there. Feeling the spasms of your pussy, Brendon stuttered in his thrusts. 

“Best fucking pussy,” he groaned out, hand on your neck and face nuzzled into the crook of it. “Feel like you’re made for me.” 

You nodded at whatever he said, head too fuzzy to register anything with the exception that his hips were snapping faster now, trying to chase his own release. “Fucking best girl, yeah? Gonna fill you up.” 

With a final growl of your name, you felt him spill inside of you. Your hips jerking as you felt him continuously fill you up. “That’s my girl,” he panted against your ear, licking the apparent tears coming from your eyes, as he felt his cock twitch a couple more times. 

Placing kisses from your ear to your cheek, he travelled until he met your mouth. Grasping your face softly with his hands, he looked down at you, blue eyes blown with lust but the most gentle you’ve ever seen. 

“Holy shit,” you panted, blinking rapidly trying to make sure you were still alive. “Fuck, Park.” 

At your reaction, he couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “Good to know it was good for you as well, sweetheart.” 

“Good?” You asked in astonishment. “Jesus, Park. That was mind blowing.” 

Grinning, he shifted his forearms, he looked down and the sight made him pause. Your slick was all over him, a white ring at the base of his cock, your wetness all over his pubic hair. Mesmerised at the sight, he leaned further back, spreading your folds, he shallowly thrust into you. Whining at the overstimulation, you grabbed his bedsheets, heart starting to race again. 

“Look at you,” he said in a soft awe. He paused for a moment, to just memorise you on his bed; dishevelled, tears running down your face, his marks along your body. Fucking beautiful. 

He pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the same time. Slowly lowering your legs, you felt him massage your sore hips as you hissed as they hit the bed. 

One hand slowly coming to caress your cheek again, Brendon couldn’t help but lean down again to kiss you. Unlike the previous times your mouths met, this time he met your lips softly. He slowly deepened the kiss, his lips working in a way that you didn’t expect from him. You felt him take his time to guide his tongue into your mouth, massaging your tongue with his. 

Reluctantly parting from you, he stared at you, blue eyes locking with yours. Brushing away the strands sticking to your face, you felt your heart jump at how he was looking at you. Gulping, you reached up and traced his cheekbone, admiring how pliant he was at this moment. 

“Stay,” he said softly, his tone completely different to a couple of minutes ago. Getting up he went to another room, which you presumed was the bathroom. You really tried not to admire his backside but Park truly was a god in terms of his physique alone. Watching as he walked back, you saw that even when he was soft, it was still a sight. 

“Spread your legs, baby,” he asked softly, and you did so, wincing as you opened your legs for him. 

You took a good look at him, as best as you could in your post sex haze. Admiring his thick thighs, you wondered what it felt like under your hands; to touch, to squeeze. Coming closer to you, you pondered on how his body would feel to just touch innocently, to have him wrapped around you. 

“Thanks,” you said in appreciation, staring at the way he was so gentle around you. 

Cleaning himself up, you watched as he threw the towel into his hamper. He stood by his dresser, leaning against it as he just looked at you. Running his eyes through your state. 

“What?” You chuckled, and a sense of insecurity ran through you. This was after sex. After the adrenaline and horniness of it all. Wanting to wrap his bedsheets around your body, you forced yourself to just stay. 

“You’re pretty,” was all he said and you were taken aback from the sincerity in his voice. Softening at his words, it was your turn to stare at him again. He stood in a way that radiated confidence, something that could never be shaken. 

“Go pee,” taking you out of your thoughts, you stared at him. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I have a spare glass on the counter. Are you happy with tap water?” 

“What?” 

He rolled his eyes and crossed the room to get to you. Gently picking you up by your pits, he sat you up. “You need to pee. You should know that, being a doctor and all,” and there he was. The annoying man you’ve become accustomed to. 

“I know that,” you snapped, slapping his hand away. 

Ignoring the wobbliness of your legs, you stood up, and you instantly regretted it as you almost fell face first on his floor. 

“Park,” you whined as you felt his hands supporting your body, you tried to wiggle out of his grip, but he wouldn’t give. 

“Are you always this annoying?” You moved to slap his thigh. “Jesus, if you’re still this annoying I need to fuck you harder.” 

“I’m going to pee now,” and with that you closed his bathroom door on him. 

You left his bathroom, and scanned the room, trying to see if you could see your clothes. You knew what came next, and you wanted to limit the amount of awkwardness that you’d inevitably feel. Padding over to where you vaguely saw Brendon throw your shirt, you frowned as you saw nothing. 

“What are you doing?” Park watched you with an impatient stare, noticing that he had put on some sweats and a shirt, you took a moment to drag your eyes down his figure. 

“Uh, going home?” You scrunched your face, and began trying to find your clothes. “Where are my clothes?” 

“I put them in my hamper, I’ll wash them tomorrow for you,” he jerked his head to the basket in the corner of the room. 

“Why?” You asked, confused. Isn’t this the part where he kicks you out? Tell you ‘thanks but don’t ever bring this up’. “Don’t you want me to leave?” 

“Did I say I want you to leave?” He got you there. But still this was the normal procedure. Rolling his eyes, he walked over to you, and dressed the extra shirt in his hand on your body. 

Leading you back to his bed, he laid you down and crawled over your body, “I’m not done with you.” 

-

Waking up, you turned over, hands reaching out for a warm body and opening your eyes when you didn’t find him. 

You slowly walked down, clad only his shirt, you observed for a minute, just seeing Park in his natural habitat. You saw him being at ease in his kitchen, if someone told you that you would be watching Park the Shark making breakfast with only his sweats on, you would have told them that they were crazy. 

Running your eyes down his back, you saw the marks that you left and pride (and a bit of embarrassment) filled you. 

“Morning,” you greeted, walking right beside him. 

Park ran his eyes up and down your body, “Morning. You look good.” 

“Sure, Park,” you knew you looked like a mess. Hair not even brushed, his shirt on you askew, and toothpaste residue you accidentally left on said shirt. 

You looked around at what he had, and you thought of what you could help with. 

“Just sit,” he jerked his head to his table, as if reading your thoughts. “I’ve got it covered.” 

Sitting down, you watched as Park continued to cook, you sat there in silence as you admired him. You wondered if he was like this every morning, or after every hook-up he had. Shaking your thoughts, you didn’t need to know about that. 

“I don’t know what you wanted,” Park spoke as he flipped the final pancake. “I don’t do this so I just made what I would usually have,” turning the stove off, he picked up the plates. 

“What? You don’t treat all your hook-ups like this?” You teased, heart lurching a bit, but you managed to ignore it. 

“No,” he answered bluntly. 

“Oh?” You asked, your mouth working faster than your brain. 

He looked down at you. “No. If I did sleep with someone, I wouldn't take them here and I certainly wouldn't make them breakfast.” 

“So what, am I special?” You teased, your heart lurching in a different way. 

Brendon didn’t say anything in response, just looked at you, and an unfamiliar (but welcoming) warmth made its home in your veins. 

Placing the food down, your eyes bulged and your mouth started to drool. “And I wasn’t lying,” Park said as he put your plate in front of you. 

“Huh?” 

“You look good.” 

Silence stretched until he sat down, Park really had no reason to lie to you. He already had you last night, several times in fact, and then this morning too before both of you truly woke up. 

The compliment sat on your chest and you didn’t know what to do with it. The warmth from before really hammering its presence. 

“Coffee?” You asked, not seeing anything on your side. 

“What do you usually have?” 

“Matcha,” and at that you heard him snort, making you throw a piece of fruit at him. 

“Of course, you do, princess,” Brendon rolled his eyes good naturedly. “I don’t have that,” as he made a mental note to place it on his list. 

Telling him your alternative preference, he got up and walked to his machine. “I can make it,” you started, getting up from your seat. 

“I got it, just eat,” and with that he turned his back to you. 

Taking a couple of pancakes and a few extra bits and pieces, you began to dig in. 

“Who knew that Park the Shark could cook,” you teased as you placed the pancake in your mouth. Moaning loudly, you looked to the food and to him, “Holy fucking shit, you made this?” 

“My mum made sure that I could cook,” he said as he placed down your coffee. “Said that I’m not a man if I don’t know how to cook for my woman.” 

Swallowing your food, you hummed, “Let me know her name and I’ll personally thank her.” 

“Are you working today?” Was all he said, despite the fond smile on his face. 

“No, I’m off for five starting today,” you replied, shoving another piece into your mouth.  “Good,” he looked over his coffee, eyes trained on your face. “Eat up because I’m going to fuck you all day today.” 

park taglist

@realwhoreforfictionalmen | @noisynightmarepoetry

don't go wasting your emotions taglist

both of the young men looked to robby— who did nothing to ease the growing nerves— as he nodded in confirmation. 

“she’s right.”

“b-but the patient is a teen. and—” “teens still need physicians. especially ones who specialize in their age group of medical care.” it was said matter of factly to ogilvies excuse. a poor one. because even a med student should know that. everyone knows that. “and seeing the extent of the injury, and the type it is, ortho needs to get in on this. it’s standard procedure.” robby explains lightly. still obvious in his tone of voice. but not demeaning.

ogilvie stays quiet. a crease between his eyebrows. almost as if he's slowly dissecting what was just said. whitaker paled next to him. “oh boy.”

—

"let's just let them assess the patient and uh— unless asked directly, just" whitaker motioned with his hands "try to keep to yourself." it was said carefully. unsure if it was more for himself than ogilvie. even if being aware of med students eagerness.

and off the side, tablet in grasp, robby laughed under breath.

they were still fresh. one more than the other. easy to spot and easier to kill. figuratively speaking. and while he finds humor in it now, the attending knows what it's like to have been bit by the shark and his wife. never has he admitted to it, but its happened once or twice in his career.

both exceptional and outstanding physicians, you guys were also extremely brutal. you more so than your husband.

robby was known to be hard. he was known to be honest. but your honesty couldn’t compare. your voice never raised. it never fell. it was collected. too collected for someone who was about to chew someone else out. he’d experienced it himself. and after that, he was careful on where to dip his toes.

“dr.park.” 

you’d come in first, and not long after, your husband did. your eyes briefly panning over the room before landing on familiar ones.

“doctor.”

ogilvie stilled at the address. remembering just why you referred to him as that.

“I see you’ll be joining us?”

the student glanced over to whitaker. the advice from earlier apparent. he looked back to you, then to brendon— who was staring expectantly above his lashes— as if looking to the man would help the ms in answering his wife. james couldn’t tell what was worse. your stare. or brendons.

“she’s talking to you, genius.” park says it drily. the students brain catching up as he slowly nods. “I uh, yes.” you make a face of faux approval.

“okay then. feel free to interrupt during the assessment.”

your teeth already sinking in and he hasn’t even done anything. yet. robby pursed his lips at the penetration of your words. knowing what you meant, seeing as he was there for the first time.

“why don’t you go ahead and begin the presentation.” your head motioning for him speak. and albeit the initial impression he made with you, you were being genuine, even if your words came off as a bait.

“a tibial eminence fracture?” brendons brows raised as ogilvie finished.

“that’s what I heard.” you murmured from the patients side. “rare.” sending the kid a warm smile, a subtle hand squeeze— all before turning your body around. the switch was startling. if someone saw, they didn’t say anything. and they wouldn’t want to.

“xray?” you glanced up in expectancy.

robby pulls out the screen. brendon nodding when he sees it. “clean break.”

“anesthetics?” you asked, attention still on the patient. robby listing off the meds.

yours and brendons eyes find each others. surgery. a silent agreement. his head nodding as your gloves come off. “I’ll prep the OR.”

your eyes rolling at the announcement that you were waiting to deliver to the patient before brendon did. your eyes catching wet ones as the kid looks to you for assurance. trying to lift the weight of the situation, you make a face, hand waving back to where your husband walked out.

“he never listens.” you prop up the gurney rails to get him ready. “our boys do better.” the corner of his mouth perking up from one side as he wipes his nose. his hand grasping yours. squeezing like earlier if not tighter.

“do you guys know each other?”

the question has you smiling. exposed. out in the open. even if there were others still in trauma. the innocence of it causing your front to break. you glance to where brendon left. but before you could answer—

“they’re married.”

and just like that, you were back. giving one last squeeze to the kids hand as they wheeled him out. your head turning to ogilvie who stared wide eyed.

The attending that was kind to everyone who worked with you.

You, who was fair tempered. Humorous and light hearted. Direct when necessary.

Forthright whenever patients overstepped boundaries.

You were an aspiration to all the med students and interns that passed through the Pitt.

You had a tenderness to your approach. 

One they assumed had been garnered from your years being a mother to three. 

A fact that you loved to talk about when time allowed. Speaking sweetly about your three little sweethearts. 

There were your two girls, Frankie and Finn. Your two fraternal twin girls who were polar opposites to each other. Acting like day and night. 

Where one was sunshine incarnate, as the other was pensive as the glistening moonlight. 

But they tried their best to mimic one another despite not being identical. 

They were witty and intensely curious in their own way. Bright eyed and in your opinion behaved a lot like their father, opinionated and forthright. 

You also had your eldest son, Lenny. 

Considerate and kindhearted, who was often compared to your own self. He loved watching out for his younger sisters, helping guide them. 

Such as the best way to get out of trouble... 

They were the apples of your eye. 

And filled your heart with immense joy. It was clear you were overwhelmed by a happy home life. With a supportive husband by your side. 

One that, come to think of it, you’d never mentioned him by name?

Too busy rambling on about what your kids had gotten up to. Asking Cassie for advice every now and again, considering her son Harrison was a few years older. 

Hearing about your home life was always a little bit of a bright spot. And humorous as you retold stories of what they had gotten up to. 

Even if it was a little chaotic. You wouldn’t change them. 

You were thoughtful with everyone in the ER. Paying attention to their questions and concerns. 

Remembering little details. Asking about how they were. An open hand for if times became difficult or they simply needed an open ear. 

Lightening the mood when things became heavy. Or simply being by their side, quiet and reassuring. 

Though as it appeared to everyone else. 

The only person who didn’t afford your kindness. 

Was Park the Shark.

For one reason or another it appeared as though you and Park were sworn enemies. Always locked in a battle of wits every time you crossed paths. 

As you retorted dryly. 

Face plastered with a smugness that only seemed to appear as Park entered the ER. 

It was rare and only on occasion. Whenever he came down. Stern as he crossed the threshold into the trauma bays. Eyes analytical and observant. Straight to the point. You often gravitated towards him whenever he appeared. 

It was always a spectacle. 

If not at least a little satisfying to watch you go toe-to-toe with PTMC’s Shark. 

There was a feistiness that his presence seemed to elicit from you. 

As you muttered with folded arms, shaking your head as he’d respond with the bluntness of a rusted saw. 

“Oh, fuck off,” you’d huff. 

Clicking your tongue if he ever insulted a med student while in your presence, “Don’t be such a prick”

Shaking your head with a sarcastic quip, “Could you be any more tactless”

Passing phrases that you simply slipped into the conversation whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

Insults and retorts that made everyone hold their breaths. 

Lying in wait for Shark to retaliate. To shoot you a stone cold glare. Before ripping you a new one. 

But the retaliation never comes. 

No matter how harsh your retorts are. Or how many times you tell him to piss off. 

He only rolls his eyes. Simply biting his tongue in exasperation. Never once snapping at you. 

This isn’t to say you’re always abrasive towards him. Just most times. Enough times for everyone in the ER to believe you hated the man. 

And no one would blame you if you did. It just felt as though you didn’t really have a reason to. 

Park was never outright rude to you. Never dismissive towards you. If anything he seemed. Nice?

It was puzzling for many. 

Most swept the interactions under the rug. 

Simply passing it off as Shark knowing when he was beat. When it was best to let things slide. Knowing better than to attack you with his brusque nature. 

Never realising how your words lacked bite as you directed them to him. 

Only ever focusing on the content. And never the delivery. Or the glint in your eyes when you crossed paths. 

Until one day. 

Joy, the new med student, simply asks outright. Abrupt as Park finishes a consult, after you had once again thrown a quippy remark his way. 

“Aren’t you going to retaliate? Dr L/N literally just called you an asshole,” the question fell out of her. “You’ve yelled at me for less. Surely this goes against all of HR’s policies”

She had said the very words that were on everyone’s mind. 

The very question no one had ever dared broach before. 

Park simply raises a brow. Lips pulled taut, at her question. Letting out a huff. His eyes darted to meet yours. 

A deadpanned expression crossing his features. 

Is she serious?

While you bite your lip, holding back the laugh threatens to bubble out. Until it eventually succeeds, the laughter echoing brightly and freely around the room. 

Thankfully the patient before you was sedated. Otherwise who knows how unprofessional this would come across to them. 

The sound of laughter bubbling out of you, catches everyone in the room off guard. Freezing them in place. 

While Park only sighs, shaking his head as a small chuckle escapes him. 

Only furthering their confusion. 

They felt like they were having a stroke. 

Had the world turned on its head? What the fuck was happening right now?

The Park the Shark. 

Infamous for his steely, cold demeanor. 

Was laughing?

What had the world come to. 

Perhaps it was the apocalypse, the end of the world, aliens had finally decided to invade Earth…

All of which seemed far more likely than witnessing Shark laugh.  

Eventually you catch your breath, wheezing slightly as you muster out, “He has no right in telling me off, not when I birthed his three kids”

“You’re the one that wanted a big family,” He remarked. 

Your lip quirks into a knowing smirk, teasing and light hearted as you retorted, “I distinctly remember that being you who said that” 

All of the words that come from the two of you only leave the people in the room further left in a pitt of confusion. 

“What the fuck?” Santos had muttered beneath her breath. 

“He’s my husband” 

“She’s my wife” 

You had stated at the same time. As you add, brows furrowing in thought, “I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before?” 

“No you have not! We were not picturing Shark when you said your husband was considerate and kind?” 

You shrug, stifling your laugh. “He is considerate and kind when he wants to be” 

Blinking in realisation, turning to Park, “Also, did you remember to pick up Finn’s soccer cleats?” 

He nods, “Of course I did, they’re in the car for her”

“Good,” You nod with a bright smile, “Thank you”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he murmurs, as you slide into the space beside him. Pressing a chaste kiss to the side of your head. 

You pat his back, catching his lips with yours as you lean up. Before clapping your hands, “Ok. Let’s not hold you up any further, I’ll see you later, handsome,” You winked. 

A quirk of his lips, as they curve into a smile. Fond. Appreciative. 

“Love you” 

As the others around you murmur. 

“I think I preferred when they hated each other,” Santos commented.  

While Whitaker responded, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, “I feel like my head is about to combust” 

Moving back through the ER, as the trauma room is cleared. You are trailed behind by a flock of med students and nurses, all wanting to know how it was possible that you. 

You, who was always so considerate and kind hearted. 

Was married to Park the Shark?

It made no sense to them. 

“How long have you been married?” Mohan asked. 

While Princess added, “Forget that, how long have you been together?” 

You replied as you moved to complete some charting, “Married for 9 years, almost 10 next month” pulling out the chain that always hung around your neck, tucked beneath your scrubs. As a pair of rings dip low pulling the chain down, one of which had a beautiful light blue diamond sparkling brightly. “We’ve known each other for well over 15 years, met through some mutual friends from med school” 

“Has he always been like this?-” Javadi begins, failing to reach an apt description for Park. 

“Like?” you raised a brow. 

“So Shark like?” Jesse interjected, as Javadi snapped her fingers in agreement with the description. 

“I mean kind of. But only as menacing as a whale shark to me,” you grin. 

He had been brash when you first met. But the sharpness of his attitude had eroded and softened over time. You wouldn’t be with him otherwise. 

And he knew that if he didn’t change. 

You might’ve slipped from his grasp. 

“So you have three kids together?” Langdon questions. Also intrigued by the news of your relationship. 

Nodding with prideful glee, “Lenny, Frankie and Finn”

“Finn?” Cassie grinned, “That doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that Park’s nicknamed Shark does it?”

“Well. Maybe” You replied. 

“....All three might be influenced by that fact actually”

“No”

“How did you manage that?”

“How did you get him to agree!?” 

“I feel like everything I’ve ever known about you is a lie…in the best way possible”

A flood of questions only managed to bog you down further. 

“Does anyone here know the movie Shark Tale?” you always chuckled to yourself each time you were reminded as to what led you to your children’s names. 

The group around you murmured with faint acknowledgement of the movie, “Lenny and Frankie are sharks in the movie, so it felt fitting, and well, Finn is pretty self explanatory”

It had started as a little inside joke. Just for yourself. 

Not even Brendon had caught on to the theme. 

Simply excited and so in love with you. 

Lenny. 

You had softly spoken the name, whispered to the tiny little baby boy in your arms. Testing how it felt to slip from your tongue. 

In your eyes it was the perfect name for your first child. You had hooked Brendon into picking the name by explaining how it meant to be brave as a lion. 

So Brendon couldn’t resist. 

Not when you whispered that name with such reverence. 

And then in the lead up to your due date, throughout your secondary pregnancy. As he stayed by your side closely. Attentive and dutiful towards you. 

Taking care of everything. Evenings after he’d put Lenny to sleep, he’d sit on the couch gently rubbing your feet. 

You would talk aloud about the names you liked for your twin girls. 

Frankie

That was one that had caught his attention. 

You did always love the song Can’t Take My Eyes Off You by Frankie Valli. So he simply assumed that was where the name came from. 

It simply helped that it was derived from the name Francesca, meaning to be free. Independent. And if that wasn’t something he wished for his baby girl. He didn’t know what else there was to hope for. 

And he was none the wiser.

To the fact that those names had been derived from a film. One that was unhinged and hilarious.

One that had sharks called Lenny and Frankie. 

He had no idea his children were going to be named after sharks….

Well. 

Not until you insisted on the name Finn. 

That was the very name when you knew the jig would be up.

The moment you would finally have to reveal. Brendon Park’s kids’ names were all Shark themed…

But in that moment where you suggested the name.

And he had no right to go against you. 

Not when you had just gone through 10 hours of labour to birth the twins….

Not that he even considered arguing with you over it. Finding the inside joke equally amusing. 

He simply sighed with a small smile, kissing your head sweetly, in your arms the little bundle of endless possibility and within his own arms wrapped neatly was Frankie. 

Murmuring softly, “Whatever you wish, love” 

He might be brash and blunt with everyone else. 

But for you. 

And your three little kids. 

He was as soft and pliable as playdough. 

Even as you teased him relentlessly at work. Putting him in his place, just as you had done all those years ago. When you had first met. 

Unafraid and bold. 

It was what had made him fall in love with you after all. 

He was so fucking grateful for you. 

And if it meant naming your kids Shark themed names. 

Then he would do whatever it took to keep that bright smile upon your face.

To be able to love and to hold you tightly. 

As you kissed him softly. 

Loving him tenderly. 

You were his home. 

Reeling him back to you.

You had him, hook, line and sinker.

And that was perfectly fine by him.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Once again I indulge myself. Soft Park the Shark for his lover. Also who doesn't love a little secret relationship trope?? And I literally couldn't help myself with the kids names, I thought it was funny and sweet. (Shark Tale in my opinion is a hilarious film, nostalgia filled opinion) Let me know what you think! ✨ Read Part 2: Hooked On A Feeling Here! Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Feel free to find my Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist here 🩺 Or check out my overall Masterlist here

it wasn’t new to have patients rerouted. but it wasn’t something they’d ask for. especially by someone this kid's age. if his condition was worse, they would’ve taken him to Presby. no hesitation. 

“his name?”

“Henry— didn’t get the last. we were trying to get his heart rate down, his adrenaline was high.“ the medic explained. “besides his request to come here, he didn’t talk much after that. I assumed he was still in shock from the pain.”

“and the neighbors didn’t say anything else? where his parents are or where they work?” robby needed something. the medic shook his head. “not to me.” his head turning over to his partner. “Pzsonyi— did the couple tell you anything about the parents?”

“said they were doctors.”

and he was adamant about coming here.

“that should narrow it down. not like we have a hospital full of those—” robby said sarcastically. “we got it from here.”

robby turned and walked towards where the nurses were. the blonde already fixed on him as he approached.

“you good?” dana asked as she watched over the rim of her glasses.

Robby’s hands went behind his neck as he blew out a breath. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

he then looked over his shoulder where the boy was across the floor of the department. “the 11 year old patient that just came in” his head gestured back. Dana’s eyes following. “would you be able to work your magic and get his emergency contacts? came in without anyone. according to the EMT, his parents work here.”

the charge nurse's eyes pinched a bit. 

"they work here?" 

Robby shrugged. “I’m not for sure,” Dana gave him a look, rolling her eyes.

“one of the medics said his parents were doctors and the other told me the boy was insistent on coming here. It’s a long shot but I could only assume.” robby scratched his beard. Dana gave him a nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

His hands clapped together, grasping one another as he gave her a tight lipped smile. A silent thank you before he turned to leave. heading over to where Henry was.

Jesse was with him. A smile on the boy's face despite his damp cheeks. 

“Henry, right?” robby started as he grabbed some gloves. blue eyes stared back at him, then a nod. a quiet ‘yes sir’ given.

it was a small movement. the corner of Robby’s mouth lifted up. 

Respectful.

his attention turned to Jesse. “500 mg of acetaminophen, 350mg of ibuprofen. and let’s get him in for xrays.” Jesse nodded as he gets the meds ready.

“We’re gonna get a hold of your mom and dad, Henry– let them know you’re here.” robby circled back to the patient. The attending watching. The boy’s lips parting before licking the bottom. almost as if it was on the tip of his tongue and he decided against it. “Okay.” 

“I hear they’re doctors here, any chance I might–”

“Robinavitch.” Dana peeked in. Robby glanced up. The charge nurse's head tipped the other way. “a word.”

Robby gave Henry’s shoulder squeeze. “I’ll be right back, in the mean time, Jesse here,” hand motioning to the tall male nurse, “aaaand” Robby’s head swiveled. eyes catching two of his students.

Student and first year resident.

“Whitaker. Ogilvie.” 

the two turned when they heard their names. Robby signaling them over.

“Dr. Whitaker and Dr. Ogilvie,”

“Student Doctor.” James interrupted with a finger up. Robby paused and nodded. “Right– are going to assist.” 

“Dr. Robby, we don’t–” whitaker’s words fell short as the older man delivered a shoulder pat. “You got this.” gloves snapped off as he sailed out. The blonde was standing in the hall with pressed lips, tablet held to her chest, and an amused glint in her eyes.

“Did you work your magic?” 

A smile stretched across Dana’s face. “I feel like you’re gonna regret asking me.” she laughed. “I did— and you’re never gonna guess who mom and dad are.” 

Robby eyed her. “Who?”

Dana’s flickered her sight a few feet away to where the boys were. her finger pointing to the younger one who sat on the hospital bed.

“you’ve got a baby shark in there.”

Robby blinked. then let out a laugh.

not a nervous one and not an amused one. It was one someone gave when they were just given information they couldn't fathom. Or really, didn’t like. Almost like not wanting to hear what they were just told even if they asked for it and now they were suffering the consequences.

that kind of laugh. 

“of course they are.” hands rubbing his eyes as he fell back onto the heels of his feet. “Are we sure?” he squinted as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Dana grinned. “Oh, I’m sure.” 

“Did you already let them know?” robby asked.

“And what? risk the chance of there being blood in the water because I waited to tell them that their son was down here. What are you fucking kidding me? Of course I told them.” the charge nurse gave him a wide look as if not believing he really just asked a stupid question. 

He was a man afterall. 

Robby blew out a breath. “Fuck– okay. When are they–” his question answered when you guys approach. 

“Park.”

It was rare to see you both down here at the same time. Not that it never happened, it was just unexpected. The interns said it felt wrong. like seeing a shark itself in the shallow waters.

You hadn’t even acknowledged robby; passing right by. Brendon barely sparing a nod. 

“Better not have anyone incompetent with my son.” 

Henry looked up when he heard his dad. A wide smile stretching when he saw his mom. 

Your persona was washed off. Not at all caring that you were completely exposed. Out in the open. Your hand caressing his cheek, his smaller one on top. 

“Are you okay?” a quiet ask. eyes watching him as he nods. “I’m okay.” 

A satisfied smile before you press a kiss to his forehead. Squeezing his cheeks in your grasp.

Whitaker and Ogilvie just stared. One not wanting to interrupt and probably too scared to do so, while the other stood with wide eyes. His mouth parted like a fish out of water.

Brendon pressed another kiss the other side of his head. before his eyes lift to his boy's foot. an ice pack resting on his ankle.

“is he on meds?” Brendon asked as he leaned up. his hand brushing against his son’s hair before pulling gloves out of his scrub pocket. snapping them on.

“500 mg of acetaminophen– 350mg of ibuprofen.” Robby clarified. arms crossed as he nodded.

“iced the area to—” “I’m not blind.”

Whitaker closed his mouth.

“dad.” brendons eyes caught his sons. the boy giving him an unimpressed look that you knew he inherited from the man in front of him. “don’t interrupt.”

your suppress a smile. his words sounded familiar.

brendon cleared his throat. “finish.” gaze on the r1 for a split second before he diverts it.

Whitaker looks to robby, then looks to you then the young boy. he knows now how Ogilvie felt. only this time it was a little more reassuring knowing the kid had his back. he didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.

“We uh— just iced to reduce the swelling, elevation above heart level. bp now, 105/61, HR 89, 99 on room….” his eyes finding Henry’s. the youngest park giving him a thumbs up.

“xray?” you asked from the side. "dr. robby already had them in order.” whitaker verbalised.

“we’re still waiting to get him in.” the attending intervened quietly. you slowly peeled yourself away from your son. "I'll be back— make sure dad doesn't kill anyone." you joke drily as you leave.

it earns a giggle from the kid.

Ogilvie, who had been surprisingly quiet, turns to where you just left. eyes wide as his head spins. “was she being serious—”

"It was just one time." Henry shrugs.

"One?” Whitaker and Ogilvie echo. Robby’s lips pursing as he watches in amusement. head shaking at how easy it was to reel them in.

the kids lip lifts up at the corner.

“I’m kidding— it was my mom.”

Brendon laughs loudly.

Well, you could ask, but he would probably say yes, and you liked the night shift staff too much to do that to them. 

“What the hell happened in here?” you heard Ellis ask, her backpack slung over her shoulder with casual air. You envied her rested face. “Why’s it so damn hot?” 

You grimaced, the expression making your head hurt. “What didn’t happen here?”

“That bad, huh?” 

“I mean, I’m sure there’s been worse days. Not sure when those would have happened. Maybe before electricity and the discovery of germ theory.” 

Ellis leaned her forearms on the counter by your computer, raising a brow. “Germ theory bad? Damn.” 

You finished your blessed last note and slammed the key to lock your account. “Just—maybe screen some patients for bird flu if they’ve been here all day. All I’ll say.” 

Ellis blew out a breath as you leaned back in your chair and pressed a hand to your forehead. You needed to drink about a gallon of water to abate the headache permeating along your temples—or maybe three. Jack liked to keep those gross electrolyte packets at your place for days like these, and while you usually had to choke them down and beg him to leave you alone, the sour peach flavor was calling your name. 

And so was about 14 hours of sleep wrapped in that hoodie Jack got from some national park you couldn’t remember the name of. 

“Let me know when you’re ready to do handoffs,” you called as residents and trickled in, your face in your hand and your eyes barely open. “I’ll be here.” 

“And don’t you just look so excited?” 

Jack’s voice sent a tiny jolt of energy through you—a really tiny, almost neuron-firing-level of energy. You cracked an eye wider and saw your boyfriend standing where Ellis once was, his expression far fonder and far less filled with disgruntled trepidation. 

“I’m thrilled,” you droned out, fighting off the smile working onto your face.

“Yeah, I can tell.” Jack rounded the nurse’s station and leaned over your shoulder, pressing his lips to your temple in a chaste kiss that jostled you around. “Are you good to drive home, or do you need me to have Shen take over for the first half hour?” 

“I can drive home,” you scoffed. “I’m tired, not incapacitated.” 

Jack hummed by your ear, spinning your chair and touching your forehead with the back of his fingers. “We should get an ice pack on the back of your neck before you head out.” 

You swatted at his hand with a breathy laugh, rolling away from his assessment. “You should go get ready for report. Sooner you do that, the sooner I can leave.” 

“You told me the AC went out nine hours ago. When’s the last time you drank water?” 

“Will you leave me alone?” you exasperated, still laughing, still the happiest you’d been all shift. “Go find Robby. He’s in an awful mood, and if he’s distracted, I can slip out and take care of myself, Dr. Overbearing.” 

Jack knocked his head to the side as he looked at you, the fondness still open on his face. He reached into the side pocket of his bag and tossed you his water bottle, giving you a pointed look as he backed away and headed to the lockers. 

The day was awful, but as you took a large sip of that damn electrolyte water and thought about the way Jack always looked at you, it felt a little less awful. 

Until Robby burst through the elevators with a vendetta. 

His ambush started on an uneven playing field. You had a clipboard in hand as you rattled off the vitals of a woman presenting with a kidney infection, the eager intern beside you nodding intently. The air had kicked on about five minutes into your rounds, and you silently cursed it for working just as you were leaving. 

“Another hour of observation and she should be good to go. Needs a ride due to the morphine dose,” you rattled off. 

“Got it,” the resident relayed back. “For the fracture in north 12, did you say—” 

Robby’s voice interrupted the flow of your rounds. 

Your name was a harsh strike through the air, and you jumped at his curt shout, your clipboard rattling. The intern stared at you with wide eyes as you waited for the telltale signs of Robby’s approach, but they never came. He wanted you to go to him. That wasn’t great. You’d also never heard him say your name with so much vitriol before, and you couldn’t pinpoint anything throughout the day that would have warranted such a call. 

“Um,” you paused. You shot your gaze to the side and considered pretending that you hadn’t heard him, but the entire room had paused when he shouted, so there was really no pretending. “Why don’t you catch up with Dr. King’s handoffs? I only had a few left.” 

The intern looked like she wanted to say more, maybe offer encouragement as you went off on your final mission in life, but she only nodded and scurried away, leaving you to parade yourself awkwardly into the hall. 

Robby did not look patient or kind or understanding when you got there. He had his hands on top of his head and was staring at the ceiling, his weight bouncing on his toes until the door to the Pitt closed, and you were alone with his frustration. He took in a large breath and looked at you, brows raised. 

The silence dragged. 

“You know I don’t treat you differently just because of your relationship with Jack,” Robby started, kissing his teeth. “I told you that when you started dating.” 

You blinked, unsure where the conversation was heading. You weren’t even sure if half the staff at PTMC knew you were dating Jack; special treatment was not an expectation nor a perk, and you had only recently become more lax in keeping your relationship private.

“What? Robby, I know that. I would never—” 

He was already shaking his head, the quickness of his words overpowering your rebuttal. “You fucked up. You fucked up, and I can’t make concessions for you just because of your relationship with an attending. I told Jack that if you were going to make your relationship public, you had to be perfect. If you weren’t perfect, it would—” 

“Wait—you told Jack? Why are you talking to him about my career? And you never told me that I needed to be perfect. I didn’t realize my relationship suddenly gave me unreachable contingencies.” 

Robby shrugged. “It makes sense. If you make mistakes, it looks bad on him. If you aren’t disciplined properly, it looks like favoritism.” 

“Disciplined? What have I done to warrant being disciplined?” 

Your body was heating up despite the air feeling cooler than it had all day. Your hands clenched into fists as you ran through the decisions you made throughout the shift, all the patients you’d treated and discharged. Nothing was alarming. It had been the environment, not the caseload, that made this day so chaotic. 

“You tell me,” Robby posed, and his nonchalance was starting to piss you off. 

An entire day of everything going wrong, and you kept a positive attitude. You had led the interns and taken the grunt work, and you had only eaten about half of a granola bar throughout your shift because of it. You could only recall one major trauma from the day, and you’d been pulled from the hall to assist with it. You hadn’t been part of the intake or the transfer. Everything else had been run-of-the-mill injuries and angry, sweaty patients. 

You opened your mouth and closed it a few times. “I—I have absolutely no idea.” 

Robby nodded, and you could tell from the redness working up his neck that he was about to blow. He’d been a ticking time bomb all day, something—maybe the heat or the multiple shifts—eating away at him. And you, alone in the hall, were about to be the victim of that repression. 

It all blew up at once. Robby was jutting his hands out as he yelled about improperly ordered labs and a missed CT. Then there was something about an incident in the hall with the same patient and letting a med student perform a procedure you shouldn’t have. He paused for a moment when your eyes became glassy, but started up again with a shake of his head because you were a doctor. You needed to know when to take criticism. 

He threw his hands up when he shouted about legal action and pressed his tongue into his cheek when you couldn’t answer a question about charting. He didn’t let you get a word in to answer him, but there was also the issue that the case wasn’t yours. You distinctly remembered Santos complaining about the situation earlier in the shift, med student intervention and all, but apparently, Robby was just getting word about it. And you had been incorrectly tied to each mistake. 

Silent tears were running down your cheeks as he made the final blow. 

“You know, maybe this isn’t where you should be. You’re sloppy now—distracted by your personal life. That’s not what a doctor is. Figure. It. out. Or I’m recommending a transfer because I can’t run my ED with an incompetent—” 

“Hey, whoa!” Jack was quickly jogging down the hall, and you blinked at the ground to steady yourself. More tears fell. He stepped in front of you, fingers tenting against Robby’s chest and pushing slightly. You hadn’t realized how close he had gotten while he yelled. “Wanna tell me why the hell you’re talking to her like that?” 

Robby laughed—a mean laugh. “Fuck, how ironic. You come to her rescue when she can’t handle it? She messed up, Jack. Multiple times. She deserves to hear it.” 

You saw Jack’s shoulders tense through your blurry gaze. 

“What the fuck are you talking about? We don’t talk to any of our doctors like that. Calling her incompetent—what’s going on with you?” 

“She missed basic signs. Didn’t run the tests she was supposed to and couldn’t figure out how to teach the med students the fundamentals. She’s been too busy cozying up at your apartment to—” 

“Watch yourself,” Jack snapped in a low tone. “This is about the medicine, but it could pretty quickly be about something else.”

You let out a shaky breath, begging the tears to stop, but it was like a dam had cracked from the stress of the day, and being yelled at for several minutes was not something your nervous system could regulate. You clutched your scrub top in your fists and counted your breaths, feeling pathetic and angry in each of your movements. 

“Can’t seem to separate them with her,” Robby accused. “Even now. I can’t teach my senior resident without her boyfriend getting in the way.” 

“That wasn’t teaching. You were berating her in the hallway. She never cries, and she hasn’t stopped since I got here, so, Robby, you need to back the hell up and reassess.” 

There was more silence, the two men staring each other down, and then Robby slapped his hands against his thighs and shot out a quick “find me when she’s ready to take accountability,” before harshly pushing his way back into the Pitt. Your tears had finally begun to slow as the heat in the hallway dissipated, but you felt them well up again when Jack turned to you and hushed out a gentle sound. 

“C’mere, it’s alright,” he muttered, yanking you against his chest. You pressed your face into his shirt and tried again to calm your breath, latching onto the soap and detergent and the feel of his body against yours. He held you for a moment and then spoke close to your ear. “The hell was that about?” 

You gripped the material along his back. “Wasn’t even my case,” you hiccuped, words uneven. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” 

“Probably because you had the shift from hell and then got screamed at.” 

You felt Jack tuck your hair back from the stickiness of your face and kiss you where his touch lingered. Your eyes fluttered shut. “Maybe I deserved it.” 

Jack pulled away, a frown etched on his face. “You just said it wasn’t yours.” 

“It wasn’t.” You bit into your lip and looked down at his sure hands along your waist. “But maybe he was right, and I’m distracted by our relationship—being a bad doctor and not working how I’m supposed to. I mean, you’re here, comforting me, and anyone else would have had to take what Robby said and get over it.” 

“Robby wouldn’t have had that argument to use against anyone else,” Jack countered, palms running flat along your head until they cradled the back of your neck. “He’s pissed about something else, not you. You’re a damn good doctor. If workplace relationships jeopardized that, he would be an issue too.” Jack’s jaw flexed, and he muttered a quiet, “Hypocrite,” to the air beside him. 

You were vaguely aware that Robby hooked up with a nurse from admin. Some of your anger flickered back to life at the reminder of his distracting relationships, but your head was pounding, and Jack kept scanning your face for any sign of happiness, his brows furrowed and his face wincing, so you sighed and tried to play along. When the twitch of your smile was mirrored on Jack’s face, it felt worth it to try and forget. 

“Are you comparing me to Robby’s late-night hookups?”

“Never,” Jack whispered, pulling you closer and slotting his mouth against yours. “You’re my whole world, baby.” 

You huffed, clutching his wrists. “Yeah, well, your whole world has a puffy face and just got reamed out by your best friend, so I need a couple of minutes before I can finish my handoff report.” 

“Want to sit in my truck for a while?” 

“Do you still have the gushers I left in there?”

“Why do you think I offered?”

You sat in Jack’s truck for approximately ten minutes, eating every last one of the gushers in the oversized bag Jack bought you on a road trip a couple of weeks ago. The air conditioning blasted the heat from your face, and you downed an entire water bottle he had left for you in the door. And while you recalibrated, Jack found Robby. 

“Got a sec?” Jack barely asked, sweeping past Robby to meet back up in the hall. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for his friend to let the door swing behind him. 

“Look—” Robby started. “I get that she’s your girl, and it can be difficult to—” 

“Wasn’t her case,” Jack interrupted, expression as neutral as he could get it. “It was Santos’. She wasn’t going to tell you that, but I will.” 

Robby paused, nodding jerkily. “Okay. Okay, my bad. I’ll talk to her.” 

“You will.” 

Robby eyed Jack. “But my point still stands. She needs to be able to take whatever this ED throws at her. She can’t have you swooping in to protect her.” 

Jack pursed his lips, nodding back at Robby to make the space feel equal. “Robby, I respect you. A lot. You’re one of the few people left that I’ve cared about for most of my life.” He took a step closer. “But I’ll protect her from what she needs protecting from.” 

The air between them was heavy and uncomfortable, and Jack couldn’t remember a time it had ever felt like that. Maybe a few months after his wife died and he lashed out. Maybe when Robby wouldn’t ask for help and Jack forced it a little too hard. Or maybe it had never felt like this—with Jack on the offensive, unwilling to let anything slide. 

Robby must have felt it too. “Heard,” he affirmed. 

“Good.” Jack went to leave the hall, patting Robby’s shoulder as he went. But he felt there was more to say, so Jack paused, looking at the wall behind Robby’s head. In a matter-of-fact tone, he said, “And if you ever make her cry like that again, I will beat the shit out of you.” 

Robby’s head turned to look at his friend fully, and Jack met him there. He lifted the side of his mouth in a fleeting smile, patted him on the shoulder once more, and then left Robby in the hall. 

When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.

He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:

Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.

The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”

Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”

“You like dark and dreary.”

She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”

“I can be charming when I want to be.”

“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”

Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.

Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.

He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.

—

The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.

First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)

Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.

Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.

But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.

Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.

Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.

And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.

Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.

You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.

Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.

And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.

Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?

Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.

Just not directed at you.

He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.

Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.

“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”

Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”

“No. You offend people on purpose.”

“True.”

You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)

“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”

“Disturbingly so.”

“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”

“Do you really need me for this conversation?”

You level her with a look, but she just groans.

“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”

“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”

Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.

“Should I talk to him?”

She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”

“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”

“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”

She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.

Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”

The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.

Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?

You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.

Also, it’s just driving you crazy.

Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!

But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.

It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.

What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?

It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.

The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.

Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.

You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.

You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.

It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.

But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!

Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.

Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.

Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.

Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.

You turn, give him a little smile.

Again.

Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)

(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)

Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:

“Here, give me that.”

And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.

Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.

—

“He took your beer?”

“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”

“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”

“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”

Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”

You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”

“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”

“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”

“So? I know your type.”

You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”

“Hate sex is a thing.”

“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”

She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“

“Shut up Trinity!”

You both snicker.

“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”

“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”

“You’re not helping.”

Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”

“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.

He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”

“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“

“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”

You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.

She’s right.

You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.

Easier said than done.

—

It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.

Damn.

So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.

“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”

He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.

He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.

He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.

“Did I do something wrong?”

For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.

“Why do you think you did something wrong?”

“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”

You pause. “And you took my beer!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.

He’s laughing.

Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.

You honest to God want to kill him.

“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“

“How else was I supposed to take that.”

Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”

He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.

“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”

Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.

Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.

“You hate confrontation.”

Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”

“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”

You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”

“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”

“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”

The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.

“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.

“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”

“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”

Jack just hums.

“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.

He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”

Your skin prickles again. “No.”

“Lying again.”

“Shut up.”

He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.

Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.

—

If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.

He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.

When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.

Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…

…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.

But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.

Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”

Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.

So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.

So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.

Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.

“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”

‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’

Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.

“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”

It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.

Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.

“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“

“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”

You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”

She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”

You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”

You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.

Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.

You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.

Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.

Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.

You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”

“In the men’s bathroom?”

“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”

“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”

Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“

Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.

“Clearly.”

You stumble forward. “I need to go—“

“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”

“There’s an attending’s lounge?”

“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.

“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”

“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”

“Ah.”

“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”

You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”

Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.

He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.

Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:

“Find another bathroom.”

“But I have to—“

“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”

The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.

You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.

“That seemed a bit extreme.”

“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”

“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”

Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.

He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.

“What am I going to do with you?”

His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.

“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“

“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re drowning.”

Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.

Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?

When you don’t speak, he does.

“Did you think no one would notice?”

“No one has.”

“Am I no one?”

You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.

“You’re nosy.”

If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.

He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”

“What, exactly, am I doing?”

“Pretending.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”

You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”

“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”

You scrub a hand down your face.

“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”

Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.

The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.

“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.

“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”

“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.

“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”

Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.

“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”

You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Okay.”

You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.

—

Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.

(“You can’t send me home.”

“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”

“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”

“…”

“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)

The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.

So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.

It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.

Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.

“Why the fuck are you still here?”

You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.

Jack. Again.

He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.

Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”

Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.

“How long until your bus gets here?”

You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.

“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”

He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.

“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”

Jack just sighs.

“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”

You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”

He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”

“No…?”

He shakes his head.

“Come on. You’re coming with me.”

—

“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.

Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.

Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.

Probably both.

“Where did you think we were going?”

Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.

Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.

“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”

“What would I even be writing you up for?”

“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”

The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”

Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:

“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”

The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.

You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.

It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”

“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”

“Yes…?”

“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”

“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”

Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.

“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”

The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.

He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”

“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”

Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“What?”

“Read your book.”

“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”

He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”

You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.

“How did you even know I like diner food?”

“Because I pay attention to you.”

You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.

Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”

It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.

"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."

You scoff. "No you wouldn't."

"I would."

“Do you hate me?”

Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.

“No.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

—

“You did what?”

You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.

“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”

She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”

“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”

“No it doesn’t!”

It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.

Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.

"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"

"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.

"Yeah, after an MCI."

What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.

"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."

It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.

Not that she needs to know that.

"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"

You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."

You do know. He told you. Explained it.

It doesn't make sense.

Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.

"Whatever. You two are impossible."

She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.

Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.

Your phone vibrates again.

“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”

Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.

“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”

“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”

You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.

There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.

“Oh.”

You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”

“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”

“What!?” You screech.

You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.

You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.

(It was funnier at the time.)

Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.

“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.

“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”

“I don’t know!” You cry.

“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”

“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”

“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”

He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.

He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:

“He asked what you’re doing today.”

Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”

“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“

“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.

“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.

“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”

“Just give me the fucking phone.”

Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.

hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”

“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“

“There will be no wedding!”

“That’s just what you think.”

Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.

Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.

Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.

“What’s he saying?”

“Go away!”

You tap out a quick response.

Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me

Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?

You stomach flips.

nooo I’m fine i get them all the time

That’s not exactly reassuring.

I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal

Who?

if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?

Yes.

Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.

then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really

they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff

So your plan is just to destroy your liver?

pretty much

We need to work on your planning skills.

we?

I’m not doing all the work.

Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.

this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls

Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.

You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.

“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”

“He said what?”

—

You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.

Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?

“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.

“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”

“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”

“I take care of myself plenty.”

He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.

“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”

“That’s different.”

“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”

You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”

“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”

You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”

“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”

“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”

Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.

When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.

The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.

It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.

You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.

“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”

“Mm.”

“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”

“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”

“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”

“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”

“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”

Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.

“Like what?”

Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.

“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”

Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”

“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.

“Get going then.”

You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.

—

The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.

Things could be worse though!

Kind of.

It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.

It’s bad.

Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.

“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”

“Mel asked.”

Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”

“What exactly are you asking me here?”

“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”

“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me.”

Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.

By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.

Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.

It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.

“You don’t look too good.”

“I’m—“

“Don’t say you’re fine.”

“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”

“Okay.”

There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.

You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.

“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”

“I don’t work tonight.”

You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”

Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.

“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”

Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.

“What’d you do that for?”

The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”

Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“

“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”

You nod once.

“Words.”

“Uh— yeah. Yes.”

“Good.”

Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.

He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.

“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”

It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.

You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.

“Yes.”

Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”

The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.

“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”

What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.

“I know.”

“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”

It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.

“You like being told what to do.”

Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.

“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”

You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.

“Makes sense.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.

And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.

Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.

So you do what you want to do.

You relax.

—

In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.

He starts pulling back.

It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.

But then you realize what he’s doing.

Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.

He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.

It feels more intimate than sex.

After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.

“What’s this?”

“A thank you card.”

You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.

“What for?”

“It says it in the card.”

You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.

But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.

—

It’s the card that does him in.

Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.

He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.

He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.

He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.

He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.

And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.

He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.

He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.

Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.

Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.

Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.

As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.

One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.

So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.

You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.

“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”

“No one’s heard from you in three days.”

You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”

His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”

“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”

“Jesus— I’m coming in.”

“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.

Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.

“Do you have headache relief?”

You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”

While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.

“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”

“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”

“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”

“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”

“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”

“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”

He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.

“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”

The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.

“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”

“Mhm. I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.

(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)

He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.

You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.

You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.

“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”

“Of course you can.”

After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.

He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.

And then he gets to work.

Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.

He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.

And then you pause.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Did you clean my apartment?”

He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.

You’re crying.

He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.

“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”

“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”

You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”

“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”

You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”

“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”

Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”

“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”

“Get used to it.”

You sigh, dramatic and long.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”

You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.

“This is romantic, right?”

He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.

“Yes.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“You need confirmation?”

“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”

He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.

“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”

You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.

and after you hugged them all goodbye and promised to not be such a stranger, you couldn’t help but keep thinking about it as you walked home alone from the bar.

their words and your own tumbled around again and again in your head, growing crueller with each stumbling step you took. you needed to stop living scared and actually do something out of your routine for once. it didn’t have to be crazy; maybe a holiday weekend away or just going to the movies after work one evening. hell, maybe you’d ask that cute guy from the coffee shop out finally—

you stopped walking.

somehow, it was both the standard and wildly unexpected to see the devil of hell’s kitchen in person. though you supposed you weren’t often out to so late and you didn’t go out of your way to commit crimes, so it wasn’t like the opportunity to meet him often presented itself. plus, for the last few months it’d seemed like daredevil had packed up his suit and retired or moved on to protect a new city, no reports of sightings in the bulletin or on any social media sprouted a suspicious buzz among the locals and an ever growing brazenness from criminals.

well, you were no bulletin journalist, but you could happily report that he was, in fact, still in hell’s kitchen. you were looking right at him.

it was weird; knowing he was out scouring your neighbourhood at night while you were in your jammies watching psych was different to actually seeing him in action. the suit had always seemed so scary in photos, but looking at it now, you just had the urge to touch, like you were a kid with a scratch and sniff book again.

jesus, how many rounds had lisa ordered for the table again? you blinked slowly.

it was rare it ever happened, but you were at the level of drunk were instead of setting off your fight or flight instincts, classic warning signs had your curiosity piquing and your feet leading you off the beaten path without a second thought.

you could blame your friends for the quick drinking pace at the bar for your current inebriated state, but you knew you’d encouraged it. in fact, you’d bought the third round because seeing your friends smile always got your heart thumping more than the loud music. it wasn’t often that you all managed to make time to get together anymore, maybe monthly, whether they were busy with packed job schedules or growing families or you were playing hard to get to leave the house; it made it too easy to give in to wanting just a little more time with them while it was in reach.

so with all of that in mind, when you’d heard a gurgled choke; the drop of a metal pipe; and, finally, a heavy thud and a drawn out groan, you’d stopped and tilted your head towards the depth of the dark alley like a dog hearing the crinkle of a wrapper and watched avidly as daredevil wiped a tired hand over his mouth before sharply huffing, his breath visible in the evening cold.

you walked towards him without a second thought and didn’t make out the bodies on the ground until you were within arm’s reach of them. looking down, their avtf vests swam in and out of focus, causing a headache to begin to build at your temples.

blearily, you turned to the side to see daredevil himself slouched against the brick, his chest lifting with every ragged inhale as he stared back up at you.

“hi.” you felt your cheeks heat at your sudden loss for words, feeling dumbstruck and just plain dumb stood in front of the vigilante; but the feeling was quickly shadowed by the butterflies running rampant in your tummy when daredevil’s mouth split into a bloody grin. you didn’t want to think too much about why exactly the violent image got you so quickly flustered.

“hey,” he said back, clearly amused even as exhausted as he was. “nice night we’re having, huh?”

“i think it’s, uhm, technically early morning now,” you corrected, as you shuffled in place, your voice a little slurred from the alcohol. you turned your back towards the agents on the floor to focus on him as best you could, leaning towards him tipsily only to overcorrect your posture ramrod straight with an unsteady shuffle.

he tilted his head, as if studying a new piece of information he’d gained about you, filing it away somewhere safe in the back of his mind. “s’ppose you’re right. nice morning then.”

“do you need a hand?” you asked ignoring his correction, feeling fidgety under his pointed gaze. it was heavy even if his eyes were covered and you stood now between his stretched out boots looking down at him. he licked his lips before nodding, lifting a hand lazily from his lap to grasp yours when you eagerly held it out.

you braced yourself to tug him up with both hands wrapped around a thick, covered wrist, but in your tipsy state you did barely anything to help lift him and going by the grunt he let out as he stood, he felt it.

he stumbled forward once he was upright, his hands landing at your waist to steady himself. for a second you thought the pair of you would fall, feeling clumsy in your own skin at that moment, but his legs must have locked as he kept the pair of you stood upright. he held you closer than necessary, but you didn’t notice, your own hands hovering over the thick armoured plates on his ribs.

he ducked his head and huffed a shaky breath into your neck. it felt like an eternity with his warm breath raising goosebumps across your skin and you dared not move even as your fingers itched to touch. one of the horns on his mask brushed along your temple as he straightened back up after a minute and you shivered.

as he moved to step away, you dropped your hands to cradle his ribs carefully, trying to commit the feeling to memory to brag to your friends, inevitably letting them slip to his waist a second later as he pulled out of reach, his own hold on you falling away.

“thanks,” he whispered gravelly.

you swallowed thickly. “sure. are you ok?”

“oh, this?” he pointed to his split lip and pretended he wasn’t having to lean on his good knee. “i’ve got somewhere i can go.”

you nodded, staring at his lips longingly before a large, sudden yawn split your jaw with a crack. you belatedly covered your mouth with your hand and blinked up slowly at the amused vigilante.

“why don’t we get you home, sweetheart? i’ll escort you, make sure you don’t run into any trouble,” he offered. he looked down at the unmoving avtf team behind you and grinned unabashed, satisfied, “well, any more trouble.”

you nodded sleepily, your eyes getting heavier by the second.

you’d read your fair share about daredevil in the papers, but not even the most complimentary of journalists had ever talked about him taking the time to escort women home safely on dark nights. they focused on his bigger, flashier escapades.

it was nice of him, you thought as you struggled to get your apartment key into the lock. a broad hand steadied yours. it was nice that there was someone looking out for the smaller stuff going on, not just the increasingly frequent alien invasions. it was nice to not feel forgotten about by larger than life heroes.

—

when you woke the next morning, it was with a dry mouth and a pounding head, still wearing your clothes from the night before but tucked carefully under a blanket on your couch. you had vague memories of the red suit, men laid bleeding on the floor by your feet, but you didn’t linger on it, too busy nursing your sensitive tummy and sleeping on and off during the day. you felt too old to be drinking like that now, you didn’t recover like you did in your early twenties. you texted your friends the very same and laughed as they messaged back their own suffering.

what you didn’t tell them was that when you closed your eyes you dreamt of daredevil; how he walked you home and insisted on riding up the elevator with you to your apartment door, how you recognised now while sober that his smirk held a tint of concern as he made you promise to lock the door behind you and drink a glass of water before you crashed.

you looked at the half empty glass of water on the coffee table and declined to comment, even just to yourself in the empty apartment.

—-

2.

the second time you saw daredevil it was after a stint of murders near the docks earlier in the week. more avtf agents.

you were walking home from your late shift at work and you’d bought the newspaper on a whim after seeing daredevil’s blurry photo plastered across the front page, thanking the man running the stand distractedly as you hurriedly flipped to the right page for the full story.

they’d barely held back with the photos, a massacre on a two page spread, but it was just that one same blurry photo of the man guilty of it all framed at the side.

you read a couple of lines, but quickly grew to have had enough when you realised it was a paper owned by fisk, the writing heavily biased and trite. you didn’t like death and you didn’t necessarily agree with daredevil being the judge, jury, and executioner of these people, but you weren’t going to waste time reading about the avtf being innocent either. you’d seen the damage fisk and his task force were doing first hand in the city; how marginalised people were coming face to face with the negative impact more directly. the task force scared you and you weren’t going to fall so easily for the propaganda of ‘men just doing their duty’ when you could spot an excuse to act on prejudice a mile away.

as you walked down the emptying street, chuntering under your breath, you hadn’t realised just how distracted you were while scowling down at the paper until a voice spoke from over your shoulder.

“you should watch where you’re going,” he said softly into your ear. “there’re all sorts of bad people on the streets this late that could take advantage.”

you flinched in surprise, spinning around clumsily to face him, but his familiar broad hand steadied you at the waist and his chest pressed briefly to your shoulder before he let you go again. he fell into step beside you as though this was routine.

“oh, yeah? and are you one of them?” you asked daringly, heart rate still pounding. you waved the open newspaper in your hand.

he froze seeing the article before smiling a little stiffly, forced ease replacing his previously gentle teasing demeanour as he looked at the photos, of fisk sat in his mayoral office placed purposely away from the carnage on the page.

“depends on if you believe everything you read.”

you hummed at his answer and continued to walk, secretly pleased when he kept pace beside you.

maybe it was a slow night, and he had time to kill walking you back through the quiet streets again. maybe he had a soft spot for you.

you folded the paper back up messily and crammed it into the first bin you passed, sneaking a look at him as you went back to walk among the shadowed edge of the sidewalk. it made you want to laugh, seeing him act so normal, as if he wasn’t dressed head to toe in red kevlar as he walked down the quiet street with you. you supposed he’d have been less likely to join you if the evening had been livelier, the street not composing of just the two of you.

you were both quiet as you walked, but it didn’t feel awkward.

no, what put you on edge was the weight of his gaze that flickered to you every so often and the brush of his glove against the back of your hand when your gait would bring you close enough to whisper a touch. it felt like a live wire, and trying to guess when the next brief moment would happen and those butterflies back with a vengeance.

a nudge of his elbow brought your attention back from your wondering and he nodded to a cut through he’d stopped in front of, dark and dingy and the sort of street you knew you’d never set foot down.

“cuts out half of your walk,” he said.

your frown pulled ever slightly deeper. you didn’t want to know why he knew where you lived.

instead you just stared at him with raised eyebrows, putting all of your facial muscles into accurately conveying the ‘you’re fucking kidding, right?’ feeling you got when your eyes flickered to his proposed shortcut. disbelief wasn’t strong enough a word.

he laughed, grin stretched wide and teeth glinting in the muggy light of the chilled evening.

“you’re with me, i’ll keep you safe,” he promised, reading into your hesitance immediately.

“lucky me,” you mumbled sarcastically, growing bashful when he heard and snickered.

despite having no real reason to trust the vigilante, you felt no unease around him. so you followed, sticking close as he led you behind and between looming buildings, scuttling past squeaking rats.

“why are you targeting the avtf?” you asked suddenly. the quiet was suffocating with the sound of traffic feeling muffled the further you branched away down the alley.

“they’re bad people,” daredevil said simply. you frowned, finding the answer empty. he peered over his shoulder at you, “what, you disagree?”

“i— no…” you paused as you tried to find the right words, “but doesn’t it feel like there’ll always be more avtf agents no matter how many nights you spend… you know,” you stuttered out the last part, unable to say it out loud.

you didn’t want to acknowledge that he was murdering people and you weren’t running in the opposite direction when he was then offering to walk you home the very next night. it felt thick on your tongue to say what he was doing and you weren’t sure your conscience was ready to face agreeing with it. this vigilante’s life was so extreme, so starchly black and white in comparison to the quiet life you lived.

“doesn’t it feel endless?” you continued. sisyphus’ killing spree, you thought glibly.

“maybe.” he shrugged carelessly. “but wilson fisk isn’t so easy to get to and i don’t want to make him a martyr. i know it’ll be pissing him off seeing his toys get offed one by one.” he watched you as he spoke again, “plus it’s fun; kinda hope he doesn’t run out of assholes just so i can keep killing ‘em.”

your breath hitched, stomach swooping with thick dread and something less damning you daren’t name as you stared back. your lips thinned and you looked down at your shoes as he chuckled.

he didn’t have the same reservations as you, it seemed. but why would he when he was the one out there doing it? not just talking around it.

did you disagree with his methods? he was murdering people. people with families, friends, lives. he was a killer, simple as that. but… you’d seen the damage the avtf continued to do the more they got away with it; the alleged murders they just dismissed as disappearances, you knew they weren’t good people either. they were the bottom of the barrel angry cops, assholes with grudges and egos and a free-for-all pass to use violent force against an already suffering city. and although it felt out of character for daredevil to be suddenly leaving trails of bodies behind after so many years of leaving them to the police, maybe it made more sense not to trust the system with their own at the moment.

you felt your stomach roll as you came to a sobering thought. maybe you were ok with him killing fisk’s men if you didn’t have to see.

what did that say about you?

the flickering of streetlights had you looking up from your shoes, bringing you back from your moral quandary, and you realised you were already turning onto your block.

“martyr or not, i’d like to see wilson fisk found cold in an alley,” you mumbled suddenly without thinking, still focused on your spiralling thoughts.

as your tired brain caught up to your mouth, your lips pinched in contrition and your eyes flickered to daredevil where he stood silently beside you; a sentinel even as you deliberated over his actions. you worried for a second that he’d judge you, but it was naught as your brief admittance had his grin grow slanted, like he was impressed, and you had to avert your eyes once more as that unnamed feeling from earlier came back tenfold.

you could feel the weight of his gaze behind the cowl and regret pooled thick like honey at the back of your throat.

“look at that, a woman after my own heart,” he cooed.

heat flooded to your cheeks and you started to walk towards your apartment without looking back.

“thanks for walking me home, i should be getting inside,” you said, flustered, stubbornly facing forward even as his laugh broke through the still evening air.

—-

3.

the next time you saw him it wasn’t even dark out. instead, midway through the afternoon on your day off you were stopped by the sight of him running in the opposite direction across the street.

he ducked in between apartment buildings, the police mere steps behind him until he threw something over his shoulder with a grimace and knocked the first two officers out; the object bouncing off of one officer’s head and flying into the other’s. the pair dropped like flies and face planted the ground hard.

you flinched even as you stared, watching from across the road as daredevil scrambled up a fire exit, three more officers still on his tail, but slightly behind now. you felt tense, almost scared for him. it felt uncanny seeing him in the light, he was a monster meant for the shadows and moonlight. meant for late night walks.

a small crowd had begun to gather with you at the commotion as well as at the entrance of the alley near the fallen officers. their concern was palpable, but you watched entranced as a third officer dropped before he could even get a hand on the ladder.

the last two officers were on the steps with him now and you felt the need to call out a warning as one raised her gun to shoot up through the grated steps, but you held your tongue and kept your shoulders taut.

you didn’t blink, and you were grateful you didn’t as you watched daredevil throw a knife out diagonally only for it to pinball off a drainpipe and land in the officer’s wrist. the gun dropped as she cried out and you took in a shaking breath.

daredevil had reached the roof, no longer visible from your view on the ground, but you saw as a rock bounced over the lip like a targeted projectile as it smacked into the soft back of the last officer’s head, careening him forward into headbutting the steps. he didn’t move afterwards and you distantly heard his fellow officer call his name as she struggled to pull the knife from her hand.

you blinked and turned to continue on your way to the library.

there was a book you’d had on hold for a while and it was finally back in stock so you didn’t want to waste any time picking it up. maybe you’d stop on your way back to get a ginger ale to settle your stomach and a little treat from the bakery on 8th; you’d recently been meaning to go back when you had time.

—-

3.5

you think the fourth time seeing daredevil happens that same week; and though technically, yes, it is daredevil, it’s not your daredevil.

it’s on an evening again so it feels a little less like an intrusion to your usual boring life and you smile involuntarily when you notice him.

it was weird, you’d seen him more times in the last three weeks than you had the last three years living in hell’s kitchen. maybe it was because you were looking for him, he had always been there but you’d been too wrapped up in your own stuff to notice. it’d make sense considering you managed to spot him on a rooftop.

he was crouched low, holding onto the edge of the roof, his head tilted as if listening to the cry of the city. you wanted to laugh at the moody posture, especially when you knew what his personality was like, but still your heartbeat stumbled as you looked up.

it was far away so you couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t look like he was wearing his usual suit, no little horns catching in the streetlight from below. you recognised the black suit from his early days, back when papers were doing their best to catch photos and print stories on the new local hero tidying up the streets.

you watched him a moment longer and held a shaky breath when his head tipped towards you. hesitantly, you raised a hand and smiled a little, waving up at him.

a second later he turned away sharply and moved to the other side of the roof away from your view. you dropped your hand quickly, embarrassed at yourself and started walking once more with your head hung low to avoid any judgemental stares from passersby. you pouted in embarrassment as you headed into your favourite takeaway spot to pick up your order and made short conversation with girl behind the counter as you waited. you left a tip as a silent apology, feeling sorry for yourself but not wanting to take it out on one of the few people you usually liked to catch up with.

when you got home, you ate your food and skipped over the news channels when they continued to focus on fisk, the devil of hell’s kitchen, or the recent hunt for some disgraced fbi agent. you skipped onto a random movie channel and settled in when you saw it was a shitty horror from the early 2000s, the perfect distraction.

—-

4.

the real fourth time you see him is only a day later.

you were starting to feel like you’d had your fill of daredevil. you were oversaturated and still a little sore over him ignoring you the evening before even if you knew logically he probably just hadn’t seen you on the busy sidewalk. and it’s not like you could tell where his eyes had been looking behind the mask.

but still, as you walked home after work at a decent time for once, a growing part of you was still thinking about it, him, and wished he had seen you and had acknowledged you.

“penny for your thoughts?”

you jumped, your elbow swinging back wildly only to be caught with an unmoving but gentle grip before it could make any impact.

“fuck me,” you huffed, ignoring his amused smile. “you scared me, i need to put a bell on you.”

you didn’t think you’d ever get used to just how quiet he could be when he wanted to either. it felt supernatural, especially in comparison to the barking laugh you’d pulled from him before, or the haunting chuckle and low growl you’d caught on the wind when he’d been mid fight.

you’d spent many nights laid awake running the sounds of those bodies hitting the floor over and over again in your mind, left distracted at work because you couldn’t fathom how he never seemed to miss. but more shamefully, thoughts of his smile and his voice had kept you awake for just as long, if not longer.

“defeats the point if you can hear me coming,” he joked.

you hummed as your heart slowed back to its normal rate, your breathing not so shallow. you looked at him properly and frowned.

“you got your suit back already?”

his smile faltered, you could tell he was frowning behind the cowl even if the mask was moulded to a perpetual frown.

“never got rid of it,” he said stiltedly.

“i saw you yesterday, you were in the old one, no horns,” you said and lifted a hand to playfully tug at the adornment. he tilted his head towards your hand as it had gotten close, letting you gently shake him as you spoke, even smiling softly at you.

you let go self-consciously, biting back a smile of your own, and shoved both of your hands in your coat pockets to keep them from straying again.

“figured this was at the dry cleaners or something,” you finished lamely with a shrug.

“where’d y’see me?” he asked, his voice lower as he kept his head ducked towards you.

“over near the bodega on 40th,” you said, unsure why his jaw tensed when you mentioned the area. “you looked busy, must have missed me in the crowd.”

he paused and took a slow breath through his nose. he cracked a hollow smirk.

“i’m sorry, i don’t know how i could ever miss you,” he said softly, his charm back and laid on thick. “you’re bright, like the north star.” he watched you for your reaction as though that should mean something.

you simply smiled closed-lipped and shrugged again. you turned to start walking once more as the wind picked up, keeping your eyes on him to see if he’d be joining you and you felt butterflies when he didn’t hesitate.

“i realised though, that i take the same routes every day; it’s why we keep bumping into each other,” your tone was light and joking, not noticing how he went a little stiff as he hummed along. “i figured i should probably start switching up my routine, you know? just in case some weirdo decides to start following me home.”

you expected him to laugh, poke fun back at you for never shooing him off or to play into the not-so-faux stalker role you’d made him out to be but instead daredevil stopped and took hold of your wrist.

with his face devoid of emotion and his voice flat he rubbed a thumb distractedly along your pulse. “i’d get rid of them if they tried.”

“oh, i meant—“ you stopped. it didn’t look like he was in his usual playful mood tonight and although you liked the back and forth teasing the pair of you had, you didn’t want to push him while he was acting oddly. you still didn’t really know him, even if you felt like you did. you swallowed. “i don’t doubt that.”

he nodded, satisfied and squeezed your wrist once before letting go and continuing to walk by your side again.

your wrist felt hot from his touch and you stuttered through conversation with him. you didn’t hesitate to follow him down the shortcut. you didn’t know him, but you trusted him all the same.

—-

5.

it was a month to the date of the first time you’d met daredevil, you were once again out after your girls’ night, though decidedly sober after the memory of last month’s hangover still haunted you. this would be the fifth and final time you saw that signature grin beneath the mask. and like the first time you met him, daredevil was injured.

you got a sense of déjà vu when you spotted him, the way he was slumped against the same wall you’d first spotted him sat against. this time there were no avtf agents surrounding him and you could see he was bleeding profusely from beneath the helmet.

you were quick to kneel beside him, hands hovering over his cheeks, scared to touch for the first time and to accidentally make his injuries worse.

“looks like you’ve had a busy night,” you said nervously.

“you should see the other guy,” he coughed.

you huffed an laugh and looked up at the rooftops gingerly. “yeah, speaking of, they’re not following you here, right? or hiding around the corner waiting for you?”

“nah,” he shook his head, “disposed of ‘em. dropped his tail. came to find you.”

you froze, confirmation that he’d done his best to see you even in his woozy state was a boost to your ego and had your cheeks heating.

“that so? you know i’m not a nurse, right? i’m not sure i should be your first point of call when you’re beat to hell like this,” you cautioned, smiling softly at him and hoping he didn’t notice hos you could look at the blocked out cowl eyes for too long. even hindered eye contact felt too flustering still.

“‘s girls night, need to walk you home. you never take a taxi,” he slurred, voice growing tired and slow. your heart skipped a beat. you wanted to ask how he knew your schedule well enough to know you met your friends every month and that you always preferred to leave them with the pre-booked car, but his haggard breathing and lolling head were worrying you more in the moment.

you clicked the little latch on his cowl beneath his chin and felt his hand paw at your leg next to his in response. it flailed higher to nudge at your elbow and halt your hands where they were close to pulling off the cowl.

“don’t,” he whispered.

“you’re bleeding too badly, i can’t leave you like this,” you whispered back.

“‘m fine, just tired, promise.” he nudged his face into your hand, kissed the heel of your palm.

your lips thinned as you pressed them together tightly. your heart thundered in your chest.

“you’re not half as stubborn as i can be, so don’t even try,” you said finally, voice pitchier than you’d have liked, but still firm. he sighed and you started to lift the cowl.

his hand lifted again to rest lightly over your eyes.

“don’t look,” he asked again.

“do you think i’ll tell people what you look like?” you frowned behind his fingers, offended at his lack of trust but closing your eyes behind his hand all the same. you pouted when you heard him laugh at your petulant tone.

“careful or i’ll kiss that pout right off your lips, sweetheart,” he hummed.

you sputtered, cheeks heating beneath his gloved hand and only encouraging his cocky laughter. you nudged the cowl up just enough to reveal the hair at his nape and reached one hand back to tug meanly, cautious of his injury but a little pissed at him. he groaned at the light pain.

“you’re not helping my restraint,” he said shakily, almost breathily. he took the cowl off, dropping it by your side and with his free hand he guided yours to the cut on his head an inch in from his hairline.

your fingers jerked and flinched at the warm wetness, your breath stuttering at the gross feeling of the shallow cut. he hissed as you gently prodded around the area but he didn’t pull your hand away. it was superficial, a heavy bleeder but nothing serious and you sighed in relief.

“wasn’t expecting him so i had the helmet off, got me good but the rest was all through the suit.” you heard him pat at the suit, groaning lightly as he touched a sensitive spot too heavily when trying to indicate his other wounds audibly to you. you weren’t joking when you’d said you were no good at being his point of call for first aid, but you could assume his wheezing was from the hits he’d taken to his ribs and stomach. you couldn’t see, but he fingered at the new tears and cracks in the suit as he continued to speak, “damaged it pretty bad, i’ll need to patch it up or find a new one,” he muttered. “or maybe it’s a sign to hang it up for good,” he laughed drowsily.

your lips pinched, unsure of what to say and whether you needed to or if he was just letting out his frustrations after a bad night. like the vigilante equivalent of saying you’d quit your job after a shitty shift even when you knew you’d be back the next morning come rain or shine.

“looks worse than it is,” you said finally, letting your hand drop. “you should still clean it and put a butterfly bandage on it though.”

“that your expert opinion, doc?” he asked and you knew even with your eyes closed that he was wearing a shit eating grin, though perhaps more tired than usual.

“i worry about you,” you admitted. it felt too serious for the jokes he was making, his relaxed posture against your tense body, but you didn’t want to take it back.

he smiled, but not his familiar cutting and teasing look; his eyes immediately turned soft and dopey, half lidded as he stared up at you when your words registered.

you were curled towards him protectively without realising, your covered eyes stopping you from realising how close you were growing, and a soft pout formed once more. not being able to see his expressions, even just from half of his face had anxiety slowly grow, the possibility of having overstepped the boundaries of this relationship - you didn’t really know what to call what was going on between you - and potentially fucking it up was hellish.

“yeah?”

but it all vanished in an instance at his tone of voice; deep and longing and appreciative and aimed just at you.

you shrugged.

“maybe you should get a new profession or hobby… or whatever this is.”

he snorted.

“just give me a little more time, ok? just a little.”

you nodded behind his palm even though you didn’t know what he needed the time for, lifting your bloody fingers to keep his trembling hand steady against your face when it slipped from the motion.

he let his hand linger a moment then, slowly, he lowered it from your eyes, but you kept them shut loyally. his cowl was still on the ground by your knee and you weren’t going to betray his trust after all that, you could give him time. you felt and heard the helmet move as he sluggishly scraped it along the cracked asphalt and then pulled it back on with a groan, hissing at the unforgiving pressure against his wound once more.

patiently you waited for him to tell you to open your eyes, but instead he leant forward to ghost a kiss over your cheek, more delicate than you’d have ever suspected him capable of. you finally opened your eyes to look at him as he cupped your jaw and smudged the blood he’d left behind on your skin across your cheek, his mouth open and expression wanting as he looked at you.

“let’s get you home, you can tell me about what you got up to with your friends on the way. i’m tired of talking about my night,” he said finally, pulling away to try to push himself up to stand.

“ok,” you whispered, clearing your throat before taking hold of his arm and pulling him up with you.

—-

+ 1.

you tapped your middle finger against the book in your hand rhythmically but not impatiently as you waited in line, staring up at the list of drinks available despite knowing you’d go for your usual as always.

it was only a moment longer before you were at the front and you smiled at the barista behind the counter.

“iced caramel latte please, and a blueberry muffin too. thanks.”

“add on a black coffee, it’s on me. thanks,” a familiar voice spoke behind you. you span around, half expecting to see the flash of the red suit even in broad daylight, and faltering when you came face to face with a handsome man instead. you blinked, second guessing your presumption.

“thanks,” you said weakly as he leant by you to pay.

“no problem.” he grinned and your eyes flickered down. a smile of your own started to spread, an automatic response by this point, and you looked back up at his eyes. hazel. you’d always wondered what colour they were.

“haven’t seen you around in a while,” you said as you stepped to the side to wait for your order. it took all of your strength to take your eyes off of him for even a second. you felt excitement fizzle in your fingertips having him so close and so open for the first time.

“we should catch up then, huh? i can tell you about my new gig.”

you nodded eagerly.

“could even start by giving me your name,” you teased.

he blushed and dropped his head slightly, embarrassment meeting pleasure turning his expression bashful as he nodded and met your eyes again. he stuck his hand out.

He’d ran into you one too many times at the cafe you liked to do work at to continue being a mere stranger, becoming a daily patron there in hopes of catching you. Although you came in pretty often—often enough for the baristas to know your order and name—whatever it was you did held you for long, irregular periods during both weeks and weekends, much to Dex’s dismay. He had hoped your professional schedule would be a little more predictable, but he made do and quickly caught onto your habits. He’d figured out what hours on what days you liked to sit and work or read. Sometimes, you’d do nothing at all.

Your job must be tiring. His, too.

While you weren’t the type to initiate small talk, he had observed that you generally always reciprocated. Some days it was the barista, others it was the elderly man who came in each morning. Sometimes, it was a guy hitting on you, thinking he deserved any of your valuable time and attention, to which you’d smile politely and decline. Dex would wonder if you had a boyfriend each time this happened, but he knew you didn’t. You always went home, and you always went alone.

For the past six months, however, you no longer went home alone. Dex would be right beside you, waiting for you to unlock the door to your small but homey apartment, right in Hell’s Kitchen. The first few times, you’d shyly kissed his cheek and softly shut the door, and your tiny smile would be burned into his retinas for the rest of the week. Eventually, you’d grown bolder and invited him inside your apartment, among other warm places.

He was rather surprised how good he felt with you. Sure, the sex was beyond fantastic, but you’d been more gentle with him than anyone else in his life had. And he never intended to date you. He just couldn’t figure out a better way to enter your life, but it gave him an excuse to be near you constantly.

It was odd, though. You cared about his opinion and asked about his hobbies, although he answered that you were his hobby, and you thought he was joking. Really, though, before you, he didn’t really have many of those. Baseball, maybe, at one point in his life and nearly his career, but it had begun to bore him, being so good at it. He liked music: eighties bands from his shitty childhood. It would help calm him down when he felt like he was spiraling, but since meeting you (officially), it had been awhile since he’d felt that way. Perhaps being extraordinarily gifted at sharpshooting could also be considered a hobby, one he’d fostered since childhood. And not that he’d brag, but he was likely second to none in that regard.

He liked being the best.

“It’s not—not like that,” Dex defended to you, swallowing the awful lump forming in this throat.

“Then explain, because I sure as hell don’t get how you’d recall my whereabouts two weeks before we even met.”

After several blissful months, and with his bad habits (Of, yes, kind of stalking.) surprisingly at bay, he had finally slipped up. And what a simple, idiotic mistake it was. So simple, in fact, that you’d have hardly noticed had you not been looking at your calendar, making plans for an anniversary.

You couldn’t remember the exact date you met Dex, but you did remember that you saw Sentimental Value exactly two weeks before. Two weeks because you had been looking for tickets right before you met that day. Because you’d loved the movie so much, you wanted to see it again, even just two weeks later.

He remembers it well. He had sat a row behind you in the dim theater, way off to the side, so he could clearly see you. The film didn’t really speak to him the way it did you, with your bright eyes that grew teary when the movie revealed the main girl previously tried to kill herself. Been there, done that, he thought. But he imagined you turning your head, eyes and arms searching for him in the dark for emotional support.

“And I’d appreciate some honesty, Dex,” you added for good measure. “For once, apparently.”

He didn’t like the insinuation that he had been anything but truthful to you. Obviously, he conveniently left out all the, admittedly, creepy parts about his fascination with you back when you were no more than just two people who frequented the same cafe. But you seemed to change something within him that no one, not even Dr. Mercer or himself, could’ve predicted.

“You must’ve mentioned it at some point,” he reasoned, gesturing into the air before running a nervous hand through his dirty blond hair. “How else would I know?”

You scoffed like he’s made a bad joke. “Oh, cut the bullshit. I feel like I barely know you sometimes, yet it seems like you know everything about me! My daily routine, all my favorite food spots, where my dentist is—I haven’t even been this year! All this time, I just thought you had a really great memory, but how does someone run into their girlfriend in a random part of Brooklyn that neither of you once spoke about together? Obviously, you had to have been following me. You’re not a very good liar either, which is making me feel a little more stupid now. Guess I just wanted to believe you.”

“I’ve not lied to you—“

“All those times at Vivienne’s Coffee…” You exhaled slowly, blinking back the threat of angry tears. “Is your real name Fate or something? Were you only there because I was?”

He tried to swallow, thinking it might make the awful, awful fear curling around his throat go away.

“Yes,” he answered truthfully. “I went there every day because you did. Because you were sweet and beautiful and you paid for that homeless woman’s breakfast each morning. And I didn’t understand why.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Because people need to eat, Dex.”

“But she doesn’t do anything in return for you.”

“By living another day, she does.” You huffed, frustrated arms practically flailing out to aid your point. “The city doesn’t give a shit about her or anyone else out on the street. Someone has to.”

“Why you?”

“Why not me? Why not you? Why not any of us, huh? We’re all people. What do we get out of not helping one another? We get to be alone and miserable for the rest of our lives like you sound right now.”

“I’m not alone.” Dex adamantly shook his head. Whether he’s saying this to reassure you or himself, he wasn’t so sure. “Or miserable. Not anymore because of you.”

“Well, congratu-fuckin-lations. Not everyone is so lucky.”

No, you’d not given him the direction he craved, like he thought you would. Under the guidance he received from Dr. Mercer in his childhood, he attached himself to you and your goodness, not expecting how firm your morality was. How strongly you felt about Wilson Fisk’s imprisonment, how unfair it was that a career criminal could get to live in the penthouse of the Presidential Hotel when there were people on the streets. He deserved to rot inside a cage for all the lives he’s destroyed, for his sick infestation of the city he called home.

And if the FBI needed to keep him safe, why give him a penthouse of all places?

You’ve never been very fond of the FBI, nor the police, nor pretty much any kind of authority. When he first told you about his occupation, you tried your hardest to mask your disdain but failed. If it was anyone other than you, he’d have been a bit more offended about it. He knew a lot of people in the city didn’t like the cops or the like, but he believed he was making a difference. At least, it gave him purpose and power, the reason and authority to pull a trigger. He wasn’t worth much else.

You apologized for your reaction immediately after, not revealing that you’d have probably not agreed to go out with him had you’d known well into your relationship. But you liked Dex well enough to continue entertaining his advances, despite your reservations regarding his line of work. Maybe you’d seen something inside him that no one else ever did: a fully functioning, capable heart.

But even if it did exist, it ran off with you when you left him that day.

“Jesus, you’re twitching.” You glanced over at Dex on your right, making a face. “The milkshake can’t be that good, can it?”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpanned, tapping his long fingers on the diner bar’s shiny metal counter. “It’s pretty good.”

You let out a long huff of air, spinning the bundled silverware. “Fine, I’ll indulge. I’m blaming you if I get a tummy ache though. Oh, finally, she’s coming over now.”

When the waitress came to take your orders, you happily ordered a burger, fries, and a vanilla milkshake. Dex got the same order but with a banana milkshake instead. Once she scurried away to the kitchen, he crossed his arms, laying them on the counter. The fabric of his dark blue bomber jacket strained against his biceps, catching your eye.

You looked back up at his face and smiled. Dex didn’t see it as a good sign. “Banana, huh?”

“What?” He sighed, half amused. “You got something against bananas?”

“Just didn’t peg you as the type. It’s interesting. Learn something new everyday.”

“And you got vanilla. It’s boring.”

“It’s reliable,” you argued. “Chocolate’s too rich for me. Strawberry tastes artificial.”

“And that’s why you’re weird.”

Your lips spread into a devilish grin. “Like calls to like.”

“Like calls to like,” he echoed, wrapping his arm around your neck. Your grin was immediately infectious. He pressed his mouth to your temple in a delicate kiss.

You stole a few of his fries later when he wasn’t looking, not like it bothered him that much. There was something so alarmingly disarming about you and the way you played into your childishness around him, like it was the only way you knew how to build a rapport with someone. But it was effective, because in the same way it made you feel closer to him, he felt closer to you.

They say, sharing is caring.

“How’s the… work thing?” you asked, sipping your shake.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Work thing?”

“What else am I supposed to call it?” Then, you lowered your voice. “The FBI’s not really in a favorable light to New Yorkers right now, even in Staten Island. And they used to love him.”

“Shitbag’s being annoying as always.” Dex shrugged at you. “Won’t shut up, even to eat his dinner. Just because I saved his life doesn’t mean I wanna chat.”

“Pft, I’m sure the dickhead talks just to hear the sound of his own voice. Men like him get off on it.” You paused, twirling your red straw through the thick drink. “It’s so weird that you have to see him every day. I don’t know whether I’d be pissed off or grossed out. Or both.”

“Both,” he answered for you. “Always feel like I need a shower after.”

“No wonder you get so needy after work. Sure the bald man doesn’t turn you on?” you asked teasingly.

Dex’s face fell at your words, scrunching into unbridled disgust. “Now, I really need that shower.”

Passing a bottle around was not exactly how you thought this day would go, but you also didn’t expect it to be so shitty either. Some days were fine. Some days weren’t. And some made you forget you were a person at all.

You and Dex were slumped against the wall of your tub, shoulders pressed firmly together, and asses growing sore the longer you sat on your thin bathmat. A dim, warm light from the hallway brought a quiet glow into the open bathroom. Your fingernails danced across the skin of his knee, inches below the hem of his gray shorts.

You swiped the back of your other hand over your mouth after the liquor you sipped threatened to drip off your face. Maybe you’ve had too much. Or not enough. Sleep tugged at your eyelids, making them fall shut for just a moment to quiet the world. Your eyes fluttered back open when the soft timber of his voice reached your ear.

“You’re good.” The way he said it made it sound so simple, like it’s a known fact of life. “Better than me.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” you whispered sullenly, leaning further into his warmth and the intoxicating scent of sandalwood and freshly washed skin. His thick arm wrapped around your shoulders, grounding to some kind of reality. “You know, comparison is the thief of joy, or some shit.” You exhaled long and slow. “I don’t feel like I’m doing anything important with my life. You’re out taking down bad guys, and I’m just… here.”

Dex snorted. “What happened to ‘comparison is the thief of joy’?”

“Well, my joy has certainly been stolen.”

“How can we steal it back?” He tried to be more comforting, but knew he couldn’t. It wasn’t what you expected either, so he only held you tighter, nuzzling into your cheek to breathe you in.

You didn’t answer for awhile, trying to come up with a fitting response. Nothing worked. You shook your head.

So instead, you talked and you talked, all your worst fears and doubts spilling out like waterfalls. Like dreams that never got to come true, but maybe, just maybe, if either of you said them aloud, you could speak them into an existence. If they died, then they could also be mourned.

“Would ya look at us?” Mirthless laughs left your mouth before you can stop them, tapping the rim of the empty bottle to your chin. “Pity party of two, Poindexter.”

When the Sandman finally came to ferry you to the dreamland, Dex spent a few selfish moments relishing in your presence before bringing you to your cozy little bed.

You are still you. You still have your own heart, your own mind, your own love, your own mercy. But under your skin, behind your eyes, there is something divine and monstrous that wants to turn every sinner it touches into dust.

Like every other Ghost Rider before you, you have the penance stare.

It forces a a sinner to feel every bit of pain they have ever caused. All of it comes back at once as punishment.

Dex has seen you do it.

He has seen what happens when the Rider takes over and your skull is on fire. He knows the smell of smoke and burning leather and the way your voice stops sounding like one person and starts sounding like a chorus of dark angels hunting for a thousand damned souls.

He has watched your flaming skeletal hands grip AVTF agents by the jaw and make them look into your eyes. He had seen them scream. Most go catatonic. Some hearts simply stop because the body could not survive the weight of its own sin.

So yes, Dex knows what lives inside you. And you know what lives inside him.

Because the Spirit doesn’t look at Benjamin Poindexter and see your boyfriend. It sees a man who needs to pay for his actions.

See, you can smell sin on people, and Dex is drenched in it.

Dex, who has thought terrible things, done terrible things, wanted terrible things. Dex, who would do more terrible things if someone gave him a reason and a clean line of sight.

The Spirit takes one look at him and goes: Sinner.

And you internally go, I know.

The Spirit says: Guilty.

And you say, I know.

The Spirit says: Burn him.

And that is when you bare your teeth and say, No.

Because you love him so much it is making you blasphemous. You love him so much you are arguing theology with the Spirit of Vengeance living in your ribs.

You love him so much you are standing in front of divine punishment saying, yes, I know he is guilty, yes, I know what he has done, yes, I know what he might do, but he is mine, he is my home, he is the only person who touches me like I am still human after the flames go out.

And Dex loves you for it. 

In his defense, when he first fell in love with you, he didn’t know about the Ghost Rider.

He just thought you were a pretty girl with pretty eyes he could get lost in. A pretty girl whose voice made his whole world narrow down into one fixed spot. He didn’t know there was hellfire under your skin. 

Then one day your eyes turned orange and your flesh burned away and suddenly the girl he loved was vengeance itself.

And Dex should’ve run.

He didn’t, because he knew you were still in there.

And honestly? He couldn’t care less about the Spirit of Vengeance.

He cares about you.

Dex loves like tunnel vision. Once you are the centre, everything else is just noise.

The Spirit hates him? Fine.

The Spirit wants him dead? Fine.

The Spirit wants him burned for every sin he has ever committed? Fine.

You warned him multiple times. Told him, “Dex, it wants to kill you.”

And Dex, an awfully devoted man, just looked at you like you had handed him a challenge, and boy does Dex love a challenge. Especially when the prize is loving you.

Still, there are good days and bad days.

On good days, when Dex is almost docile, Zarathos stays mostly silent as you go on your flamed bike and go hunt some other guilty soul instead.

But on bad days, when Dex kills and thinks about killing, he knows that loving him hurts you.

And he hates that.

Because for all the terrible things Bullseye has done, he wants you obsessively safe. Locked-door, checked-window, hand-on-your-back-in-a-crowd safe. He wants to protect you from every bad thing that has ever existed.

Except most of the time the bad thing is him. Because he is the one waking up the ancient spirit inside you. On these days, you actively have to bargain for his life to the Spirit. 

And Dex is not selfless enough to leave. He loves you too much, wants you too much, needs you too badly to do the noble thing and disappear for your own good. He can’t. He won’t.

But it still wrecks him.

It’s obvious when he comes home bloody.

The second he steps into the apartment, everything changes.

The whites of your eyes disappear and they go black instead of orange. Then, you just stand there, staring at nothing.

Dex freezes in the doorway, blood drying on his skin, and his stomach churns because he knows you are fighting on his behalf. 

You are somewhere inside your own head, teeth bared, pushing hellfire back down your lungs because Zarathos has seen him and smells blood.

SINNER.

You grit your teeth in your head. I know.

HE HAS KILLED.

I know.

HE WILL KILL AGAIN.

You cannot deny that.

You know Dex too well to think of him as innocent. You know the blood on his will never truly wash off. But the spirit lives in you. So if it wants to judge Dex, it has to go through you first.

The windows rattle.

The lights flicker.

Your eyes are somehow darker, darting back and forth as you are fighting a battle in your mind. 

Dex is behind you now, blood drying on his sleeves, hands settling at your waist. 

Zarathos snarls. HE BELONGS TO VENGEANCE.

No.

HE BELONGS TO JUDGMENT.

No.

HE BELONGS TO ME.

You bare your teeth inside your own skull.

You chose me, you hiss. You live in my bones. You use my hands. You wear my face. So listen to me for once.

In the physical world, Dex presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. Your fingers twitch.

You will not touch him.

HE HAS BLOOD ON HIS HANDS.

So do I.

In the real world, he presses another kiss, lower this time, through the fabric of your shirt. Dex’s mouth lingers there like he is trying to call you back.

HE IS DAMNED.

Then damn me beside him.

Dex’s arms fully slide around your waist. His forehead rests against the back of your shoulder.

“Baby,” he murmurs. “Come back to me.”

Zarathos roars.

The lights flare.

The air heats so quickly it feels like the apartment is about to catch on fire.

And then Dex, Benjamin fucking Poindexter, the man covered in blood, the man divine vengeance wants dragged screaming into punishment, kisses the side of your neck and almost whines. “Come on. I want a cuddle.”

Which is so ridiculous.

The Spirit of Vengeance is awake in your bones. Hellfire is crawling up your throat. An ancient force of punishment is trying to seize control of your body so it can burn your boyfriend’s soul clean out of him.

And Dex is behind you asking for a cuddle like a clingy housecat.

But that’s your Dex, alright.

And somehow, it works, because the Spirit is losing its grip on you. 

Zarathos roars, all fire and ancient hunger.

But Dex kisses your shoulder. Then just under your ear.

These were little kisses. Sweet, stubborn, selfish kisses from the world’s most guilty man.

Insane.

Because what do you mean you are arguing with divine vengeance over Bullseye? What do you mean the Spirit wants him punished and you are standing there saying no?

The Spirit snarls.

YOU WERE BORN FROM WRATH TO DRAG SINNERS INTO THE FIRE.

I know.

Dex kisses your cheeks as his hands tighten at your waist.

But not this one.

The black in your eyes starts to break as you come back to the real world. You suck in a breath like you just crawled out of a grave, and Dex turns you around before your knees can give in

“There you are,” he whispers.

You are mostly you now.

Mostly.

Your breathing is still shaky. Your hands are still gripping his shirt. The apartment still smells like smoke and the windows have just stopped rattling. The lights are still pulsing.

But your eyes still have a flicker of orange there.

Zarathos, the spirit of vengeance, is quiet, but it’s not gone.

It’s watching and Dex knows it.

Of course he knows. Dex notices everything, especially when the ancient entity inside his girlfriend is staring at him like it’s time for dinner.

He knows Zarathos could kill him. He knows that thing could drag sin out of him and burn him hollow. He has seen what you can do. He knows the Spirit does not bluff.

And still, he smiles against your lips, that smug little fucker.

Because as far as he was concerned, The Spirit of Vengeance is being forced to watch its vessel kiss its prey. And Dex is just awful enough to enjoy it. 

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, then your mouth again.

This time it’s slow and hot and a little mean with it, like every kiss is aimed at the orange glow behind your eyes.

“Dex,” you breathe, half warning, half plea, as if to say please don’t antagonise the ancient power in me.

He hums against your mouth, not even pretending to be sorry. 

Because he loves that the Spirit wants him punished, and instead has to sit there in the back of your eyes while you let him pull you into his lap.

Such a fucking Dex thing to do.

He looks right at that little orange flicker and smiles, like he is baiting it. Like he knows exactly what he is doing.

Like he’s saying, look! Look at her choosing me again!

His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it aches, and his forehead presses to yours.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

And you melt a little, because fuck does he know how to bring you back.

So you kiss him again, blood drying on his shirt, your hands still trembling against him, the Spirit burning silent and furious behind your eyes.

Dex loves making it watch.

Because every time Zarathos reaches for him, you come back to Dex.

Every time.

And Dex loves that he is winning.

—