we in the pitt

The days that followed blurred together in a strange rhythm.

At the hospital, nothing changed on the surface. Jack remained the same calm, commanding attending he had always been and his corrections were still delivered in that steady tone that never left any room for arguments.

"You gotta be more confident, Kid" he'd say when you hesitated on a central line.

"Yes, Dr. Abbot," you'd reply, yet again concentrated on how your hands moved. You had no idea that he caught you napping in the room, and he intended to keep it that way. For now.

But the eye contact became its own language. Every time your eyes met across a gurney, during rounds, or in the hallway, the air grew thick. He never looked away first. He never smiled. He never gave the slightest hint that he knew what you did after hours. But you felt it - that heavy, knowing weight behind his gaze. As if he wanted you to know, but took a step back every time you convinced yourself it was him. Abbot stayed cool, you on the other hand were slowly loosing your fucking mind.

Next night at the club, your anxiety was through the roof. You scanned the room, looking for the same figure with the same basic features.

You moved across the stage with practiced sensuality, but your mind kept drifting. The red set you wore clung to your body as you're spinning around the pole, legs extended in a slow split before sliding down. You dropped low into a squat, rolling your hips in smooth, filthy figure-eights, then crawled forward on all fours with a sultry arch in your back.

You wouldn't mind doing this for Ja-..Abbot. Dr. Abbot. Fuck.

Money rained onto the stage. You picked up the bills gracefully as you always do, ending the dance with a playful bow and smile. But you couldn't stop thinking about your attending. Part of you wanted it to be him, part of you was afraid for your career. What if it was him and what if he-

"Hey! Get your head into the game girl!" a customer yelled out of the corner, shaking his head. One of the bouncers was standing close by, eyeing you and him, ready to jump in if he wanted to get hands on. You had stopped moving your hips and guys are greedy so best to just smile and dance.

After making sure he wouldn't attack you, the bouncer came up to you. You never learned his name but everyone agreed on fake names anyways so it didn't matter to begin with.

"Bay three booked a dance." he muttered in your ear.

Your head turned towards the bay where customers could sit down and wait for their dancer to come. Number 3 had the curtains still open, but the lights were dimmed as always so you wouldn't see the customer fully. All you could see was a figure and how the lights reflected off its lower limbs and boots.

You crossed the floor with your best version of professional confidence. You didn't feel like delivering a private dance tonight but if you didn't, your manager would be up your ass about it. So you parted the curtains and stepped inside bay three and drew them closed behind you.

A narrow strip of light ran along the floor at the base of the small stage just enough to perform by, aimed up and forward the way these things always were. Meant for the customer's benefit, not the dancer's. It caught you in a pale wash of light while the rest of the bay stayed dim, and the chair, and whoever was sitting in it, remained mostly in shadow. All you could make out was shape and stillness while your eyes struggled to adjust.

The music shifted to something slower from outside.

You moved into it automatically, hips finding the rhythm before your brain had the chance to panic. You kept the distance professional, let your hands trace the air above his shoulders without touching, rolled your body through the choreography you could do half asleep. Smile. Arch. Turn.

He didn't move, didn't reach and didn't make a sound.

His stillness was worse. Every other man in here gave you something to work with. Not just fucking silence. This one just watched with his hands glued to his thighs, like he'd decided before he came in that he wasn't going to touch you and the decision required no effort whatsoever.

You turned your back to him, moving low and slow, and when you glanced over your shoulder out of habit, looking for any kind of hint that he liked your moves you saw that his eyes were locked onto yours.

Well, at least he kept eye contact. Yours slowly adjusted to the little bit of light but still couldn't see his face. Only his eyes and how the light reflected off them.

You faced forward again. There was one more move you could try to get something out of him. You leaned forward with your hands, towards your feet to touch them, your back arched so he could have a good look at your ass. Was he satisfied? Did he like what he was looking at?

"More confident, Kid."

His voice was low and you almost overheard it through the music coming from outside. But you'd recognize that unique voice anywhere. You stopped moving almost immediately and slowly turned around.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. For a second, just one, the composure you'd spent two years building in that club cracked straight down the middle.

"Jack-" you panted, shock stealing your breath.

"No." he answered in a soft, almost mocking tone like he'd been fucking waiting for it.

His eyes found yours and didn't move. He simply looked at you with that patient, immovable certainty and let the silence do the rest.

"Dr. Abbot," you corrected quietly, letting out a shaky breath.

Something almost imperceptible moved through his expression. Satisfaction?

"Better” he replied satisfied.

“W-what..what the fuck are you doing here?” you bit your lower lip hard enough to be painful.

“For starters, I thought I'm getting a dance, not an interrogation”

“That's not what I'm talking about!” you bury your face in your hands, trying not to die from embarrassment and anxiety. Jack fucking Abbot. Your Attending. Your Boss. If he talks to HR, you're fucked.

“Well I'm talking about it so, what about that dance, Kid?”

You stood there for a moment, heart hammering against your ribs, face still half-hidden in your hands. The sheer absurdity of the situation made your stomach twist. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

But it was. Jack Abbot sat in Bay 3 paying for a dance from you, half naked.

You forced a slow, deep breath through your nose, then lowered your hands. You could feel the heat burning in your cheeks, but you lifted your chin anyway. Professional. You could do professional. You’d been doing it for years. And he seemed more professional than ever, so why not just pretend that your world wasn't threatened to fall apart.

“Fine,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “You paid for a dance. You’ll get one.”

You turned back around and found the rhythm again, slower this time, more deliberate. Your hands weren’t quite as steady as usual, and your movements were a fraction more controlled than fluid, but you pushed through. If your legs felt like they might give out at any second, you refused to let it show.

You moved through the choreography on autopilot. Every rotation, every slow drop, every arch of your back that the light caught just right. You gave him exactly what every other customer got. No more. No less.

At least… that’s what you told yourself.

You didn't look at his face again. You focused on the music, on the mechanics of it, on the professional distance you had maintained in this club for long enough that it was supposed to be second nature by now. Supposed to be.

When it ended you stepped back, smoothed your hands down your sides, and said what you always said.

"Thank you for your time."

Your voice came out steady. Small miracle.

Jack reached into his jacket and pulled out a little stack of folded cash without looking down to count it. He held it out and you took it the same way you always did, graceful, unbothered, like this was any other night and he was any other stranger.

You turned to go, you needed to get out of this little room as fast as you could, run away and forget you just performed a dance for your boss.

"Sit down."

It wasn't a request. He used the same tone as when he needed a second set of hands in the trauma bay and wasn't interested in hearing reasons why not.

You turned back around slowly. There was nowhere to sit except the edge of the small stage or the arm of his chair and you were not sitting that close to him, so you lowered yourself onto the stage edge and didn't dare to look at him. The floor suddenly became so interesting to look at.

“Look at me”

But you didn't follow. You just couldn't. You felt ashamed, bare and a little cold. You'd like your clothes back, the ones that covered everything.

“Kid” he whispered and leaned forward, his hand reaching out. His index finger found your jaw, applying enough pressure to make you lift your head enough to no longer able to avoid looking at him. So you do. With tears in your eyes.

The silence stretched long enough but he didn't break the eye contact. “I said, look at me”

He retracted his hand and rested his elbows on his knees, now closer than he's been before.

“Why..I-..” you muttered in broken words but he shook his head.

"Take a breath," he said.

You did. It didn't help much.

"This can't-" you started, "this is going to be a problem. This is already a problem, you're my attending and I just-" you gestured at the stage, at him and yourself . "You can't have seen that. You weren't supposed to see that."

He said nothing.

"This could cost me everything," you said. Your voice stayed low but the words came faster now, the anxiety finally finding an exit.

 "My residency, everything I've been working towards. If anyone found out that you were here and that I-" you pressed your lips together hard. "I can't lose this. Can't we just pretend this never happened? Fuck! I have worked too hard for too long and I am not going to let one night unravel all of-"

"Are you finished?” he interrupted, not rude or sarcastic, just patiently waiting.

You stopped talking.

He looked at you for a moment. He had his own emotions contained and locked right behind some walls that you'd rather not break down.

"You're not going to lose your job," he then continued.

"You don't know that."

"I do." he said it with such a certainty that it made you almost angry.

"How," you said. "How can you possibly-"

"What happens in this room stays in this room," he said. "That's not up for discussion."

You stared at him. Something hot and defensive climbed up the back of your throat - the same thing that always rose up when you felt cornered, when you felt small, when someone saw more of you than you'd chosen to show. You'd rather be angry than bare. You'd always been better at angry. Anger is a great motivator for success followed by failure.

"You don't get to just decide that," you said. Your voice had changed. Steadier now, but with an edge to it. "You don't get to walk in here and watch me and then sit there and tell me how this goes. This is my job. My life. You have no say in any of it."

"I know that."

"Then stop acting like you do."

"I'm not acting like anything," he said evenly. "I'm telling you that you're not going to lose your residency. That's all."

"And I'm supposed to just take your word for it?” you blurted out almost laughing, like this was a joke. It felt like hell on earth in that moment.

"Yes."

The simplicity of it knocked the wind out of your argument for a moment. He offered certainty and he offered it plainly, take it or leave it.

It made you angrier somehow.

"You had no right to come here," you said, voice getting louder.

"This is an open space for everyone.” he tilted his head. “but i agree, picking you out of everyone was.. maybe not the best decision.”

"Then why-" his name was already on your tongue, hot and ready, and you let it go without thinking. "Why, Jack-"

Something shifted in his expression. Immediate and quiet.

"It's Dr. Abbot."

"We're not at the hospital," you said. The defensiveness had full control now, and some reckless part of you leaned into it.

"No," he agreed. "We're not." His eyes stayed on yours. "Still Dr. Abbot."

"You can't just-" you stopped. Started again. "The rules are different here."

"Some of them," he said simply. “Some aren't”

"Then I don't see why-"

"Because I said so."

It was the same way he shut down arguments in the trauma bay without ever raising his voice, the same way he could stop a room cold with two words and a look. You'd seen him do it a hundred times from a safe distance. It landed differently when it was aimed directly at you, in the dark, with no chart to hide behind and no scrubs to straighten.

You crossed your arms. "That's not a reason."

"Didn't say it was." His eyes didn't move from yours. "Still applies."

"Jack." You said it again. Deliberate this time. Testing the waters, see how far you could make it. Like a part of you switched out to the bold and reckless version of you.

He looked at you for a long moment. Let it sit there between you just long enough that you thought maybe, just maybe-

"Only two kinds of people call me that," he said low and even.

“Close friends." he paused and the corner of his lips turned into a subtle smile, the first of it's kind you've seen from him today. "And people who've had a reason to scream it."

Your eyes widen and you open your mouth but close it again right after.

"Are you either of those?" he asked and the question sounded rhetorical.

You held his gaze. The anger was still there but it had lost its footing, knocked sideways by something you didn't have a name for yet.

"That's-" you started.

"Are you?" he asked quietly, leaning in a little more and we was just a couple inches away from you now.

For some ungodly reason, you blushed. It's like he was waiting to see if you were going to keep throwing yourself against it or let yourself stop.

"No," you answered his question and the fight went out of your voice with it, leaving something smaller and more honest underneath.

"Then you know what to call me." he leaned back in his chair, removing himself from the warmth and closeness and took a deep breath himself.

You looked at him for a long moment. The low light caught the line of his jaw, the steadiness of his eyes, the absolute stillness of a man who had never once needed to fill a silence in his life and wasn't about to start.

"Dr. Abbot," you said finally.

Something almost imperceptible moved through his expression. Not smugness. Nothing as cheap as that.

"That's a start" he said. Almost like a praise and you liked it. Oh, you did. But you'd never admit it. Ever.

The silence that followed was different. The anxiety had burned itself out. The defensiveness had nowhere left to go. What remained was just the two of you in the low light with the strange, unfamiliar feeling of having been seen and not destroyed by it.

"Your manager," he said quietly. "Last week. I saw him put his hands on you."

You looked up, your brow raised. “What about it?”

"Didn't like it," he huffed. The edge was back underneath his voice, brief and controlled. "I want you to be careful. That's all." A pause. "For now."

For now.

It wasn't a threat but it didn't sound like a promise either.

"I will be fine”

“I know you will, all I'm saying is be safe. I don't want to step in unless i have to.”

He held your gaze and something told you that he was serious. He seemed to..care?

"Get back to work," he interrupted your brains workflow to overthink.

You finally stood, smoothing your hands down your sides again, trying to gather the composure that had been steadily unraveling since you stepped into this bay.

"Goodnight, Dr. Abbot."

Yet again he reached back into his jacket and pulled out another little stack of folded money and stuffed it underneath the lace of your bra before leaning back into the chair, giving you a faint smile.

"I'll see you around, Kid."

You didn't trust yourself to answer. You pulled the curtain aside as fast as you could and stepped back into the pulsing noise and colored lights of the club. The crowd swallowed you immediately, but your body felt electric. Your heart hammering with panic, stomach tight with anxiety, and a slick, throbbing heat between your legs that made every step feel dangerous.

You were spiraling. Part of you wanted to run straight home and touch yourself thinking about the way his finger touched your chin, another part wanted to hide in the dressing room and never come out again.

Dr. Jack Abbot had just watched you dance like it was nothing. And now nothing felt the same.

The roof of The Pitt was one of the few places that still felt peaceful after a brutal shift. The city lights stretched out below like scattered stars, and the cool night breeze brushed against your skin as you leaned against the railing. You picked at a lukewarm grilled cheese sandwich from the food cart outside the hospital, trying to shake off the weight of another long day. The little nap in the break room earlier didn't fix the tiredness.

The door behind you creaked open.

You turned your head and saw Jack Abbot step out onto the roof. He paused when he noticed you there.

“That’s my spot,” he said, his voice as low and calm as ever. Just a simple, factual statement. He was always like that, if you didn't know it any better you'd think he didn't have emotions at all. Or he is just good at hiding them.

You stayed where you were, refusing to move. “Didn’t see your name on it, Dr. Abbot.”

He gave a single small nod, accepting your answer without argument, and walked to the far side of the roof. He leaned against the railing, keeping a respectful distance between the two of you. Silence settled and neither of you spoke for a while. Your thoughts began to fade into the noise of far away traffic.

When you glanced over, he was already looking at you. His head tilted towards you, an unrecognizable look on his face that could've been anything.

After what felt like forever, he looked back out at the city.

“You are quiet. Long shift?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” you replied quietly “That multi-vehicle trauma was rough. Kept coming in waves.”

He hummed in quiet agreement. “You did good work on the chest tube. Steady hands under pressure.”

You looked at him again. His gaze met yours once more, holding for several seconds before he turned away again as if he was avoiding any more eye contact.

“Does it ever get easier?” you mutter under your breath before turning your body sideways, towards him. His face was still unreadable and it took him a second to respond.

“The job?”

“No. Confrontation with the inevitable. The one thing that will get us all one day. Does it get easier to see people die?” you whisper the last word and you can feel the lump in your throat building.

He sighed and pressed his lips together. When he turned his head towards you again, he could see how you were clinging onto the railing, trying to steady yourself while memories flashed through your mind.

“You just learn to deal with it, find something that takes the edge off“ he shrugs his shoulders. “Eventually, you accept it for what it is. Inevitable. So best to just…enjoy your time on this earth and make the best of it. That's all you can really do.”

You scoffed and you could feel the sweat under your fingertips. You couldn't understand how he could always stay so calm and collected, like it never phased him to begin with.

“Did you find something to take the edge off, Dr. Abbot?”

He debated for a second on whether or not he should answer that question honestly or if a lie would be easier on both of them. “Yes, i have.”

“What is it?”

“none of your business." he answered before you could ask more questions.

“wha-” you looked at him confused but he lifted his index finger into the air to silence you.

"Enough. Get yourself together and go back down. And no more sleeping in the breakroom. If you have too much on your plate, reconsider the day shift. The night shift isn't for the weak.”

And with that, he left you up there on your own, scrambled into a million pieces while trying to gather yourself together. If he knew that your side job is keeping you up on your off-nights, maybe he would've reacted differently. Or the same. It didn't matter. No one would have an ounce of respect left for you if they found out that your side gig is you working at a stripclub. Or that's what you thought, at least.

The next couple of hours kinda got lost in a blur. Nothing changed. Or everything. Jack looked at you as if he was trying to figure you out, read your thoughts but keep you at a distance. Like he cared but didn't know how to show it.

“Different angle,” he’d say during a central line.  

You nodded while changing the angle.

“Words” he muttered quietly only you could hear.

“Yes, Dr. Abbot” you replied, focused on keeping your hands steady.

During rounds, while you presented cases, his stare burned into you. He never looked away first. Never smiled. Never gave any indication that the eye contact meant anything more than professional observation. He never stood too close. And it always left you wondering by the end of every shift. Can he even stand you?

The days blurred into each other, nights became days and days nights. Friday night was your first night off in a while and you had to get ready for your job at the club. It paid the bills, that's all that mattered. Whenever your residency was over you could finally relax a little bit, is what you told yourself.

The music was loud and deep, vibrating through your body as you stepped onto the stage. You wore the deep red lingerie set you got yourself for your birthday, the one that barely covered anything important. The lights caught on your skin as you began to move.

You started slow. Your hips swaying sensually to the beat, hands sliding down your sides. Then you dropped low into a squat, rolling your hips in smooth, filthy figure-eights, back arched deeply. Money started hitting the stage. You crawled forward on all fours, ass up, before rising gracefully and spinning around the pole. You hooked one leg high, sliding down slowly while rolling your body in waves. You enjoyed the dancing, the money and good god, maybe even the attention. But at the end of the day, it's all about the money. Has always been. Your dream was to get out of this, be a doctor and eventually make enough money to buy a beautiful house and a cat. Maybe two. Who knew.

Customer after customer called you over for lap dances.

You straddled the first one with confidence, grinding down in slow circles, your hands trailing over your breasts and stomach. You leaned forward, lips parted near his ear, breathing softly as you worked your hips against him. He tucked a twenty into your lacy bra and you rewarded him with a deeper, slower grind, thighs squeezing around his lap.

The next customer was handsier, but you kept control - rising up only to sink back down, pressing your ass against his thighs while rolling your hips. Your movements were fluid, teasing and practiced. You lost yourself in the rhythm, dancing for one man after another, stacking bills as the night went on. It was a good night, you really needed this after those stressful nights at the pitt.

Near the end of your shift, as you finished the last dance of the night, a dark figure caught your eye. He was sitting all the way in the back of the room and you couldn't make out more than basic outside features.

Broad shoulders. Dark jacket. Unmoving posture.

It reminded you of a certain someone, could it be…No. No, why would he-

You took a deep breath and your manager already made his way over to you, wrapping his arm around your waist and you could smell the alcohol on his breath. There are rules for the customers but that didn't mean the manager had to follow them. He was drunk every time you came in here and you've heard the stories about how hands on he's gotten with other ladies at the club before.

Out of the corner of your eye you could see the dark figure moving, maybe even tensing up a little bit but you didn't have time to investigate - you had to give your manager his share of the bills and then make your way out of there.

Still, a little part of you was terrified that Jack might've been the dark figurine.

The next shift at The Pitt, Jack was exactly the same.

Professional. Calm. Unreadable. As fucking always. It drove you mad for some ungodly reason you couldn't name. Why did it bother you so much?

He commanded the trauma bay with quiet authority. When your eyes met across a patient, he held the stare for a few long seconds before looking away like nothing was different. Never a smile or a smirk. Only clean precision. Always.

By the end of the shift, you were completely drained. During a quiet moment, you slipped into the small break room, curled up on the couch, and fell asleep almost instantly. It was supposed to be a quick nap, if even.

But you didn’t know that Jack had stepped into the room a few minutes later. He stood there silently, watching you sleep - exhausted, vulnerable. He didn’t wake you. But he got close to your ear when he draped one of the blankets over you and whispered:

“You’ll wear yourself out dancing for all those strangers every night. Keep pushing like this… and I might just have to step in.”