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Your first night shift is where order goes to die.

You know the schedule for interns—two weeks on days, two weeks on nights, flip-flop in perpetuity. As for your R2 year, there might be more leniency, depending on where the attendings want you placed and how you work with the other residents as your responsibilities increase. The problem is your first night shift rotation happens to coincide with Shen's vacation, three nurses absent in what's shaping up to be a "sick out" strike, and two other residents calling out right before shift change.

Robby looks like he's been put through the meat grinder when you come on at seven, and Jack looks infinitely worse. 

The last week, you've been avoiding him outside of work, afraid to dissect your last conversation, which breaks every professional rule in the book. To be fair, you're also putting in backbreaking hours in the Pitt, and while Collins has praised you and Robby's given you two separate pats on the back, you're exhausted and drowning. Double boarding sounded like a good idea at the time you applied for residency, but now? You feel like you can't keep up.

When you're not at work, you're studying procedures and mapping out the human anatomy down to the nerves and minor blood vessels in the shower. Sleep evades you, your anxiety is taking up residence in your teeth, which you catch yourself grinding, and you eat out of takeout cartons over the sink when you remember to feed yourself. 

You know that, statistically, emergency physicians have the highest rate of burnout across the board. Still, after living your life as a gifted kid, a control freak, constantly driven by your need to excel, you hoped you'd be better off than this. Stronger, at least. 

Hubris. Pride cometh before the fall, or whatever the ancient proverbs say. 

"Alright, listen up, Nightcrawlers," Jack announces after you've all gathered at Central for handoffs. "We're down two nurses, two residents, and one attending. Mercy had a small explosion in their ER bathroom—"

"Explosion?" Santos interrupts. "Like a fucking bomb?"

Immediately, some of the nurses start chattering, the staff immediately on edge at the idea of a terrorist attack in Pittsburgh. Your pulse skyrockets. After COVID, the job of the healthcare professional has become more dangerous, and the political tensions alone are enough to make an urban emergency center feel more risky to work in. Being someone who reads too fast and too much, you're very good at catastrophizing, a thousand possible headlines playing rapid-fire in your mind's eye. 

Jack raises his voice, the picture of calm. "A patient on oxygen decided he wanted a cigarette and snuck one into the bathroom. No one was seriously hurt, but a pipe blew, and the ER was shut down for the next eight hours. All minor emergencies are being diverted to Presby, but we're the only major trauma center open right now."

Oh, fuck. This is bad. For a weekend, on a summer night following the holidays, where firework injuries are still coming through the Pitt at all hours of the night and day, you can only imagine what things will look like minus a hospital and a quarter of the staff already approaching skeleton crew status. 

Jack keeps talking. He's a hell of an actor, for a guy whose left hand is shaking ever so slightly. The tremble causes a glint where the light catches his wedding ring. "We can't afford unnecessary tests, because we don't have the staff. For the next two hours, our primary focus is going to be getting patients through the ER as efficiently as possible. Dr. Robby, bless his heart, has offered to stay—"

Robby pushes his reading glasses on top of his head, rubbing the back of his neck like the weight of his fifteen-hour day just doubled in size. "I'm the Chief of Emergency Medicine, brother, I didn't offer shit—"

"Let me talk you up, asshole," Jack interrupts. "Robby's gonna be here for more OT than is probably contractually allowed or obligated. Let's try not to need him too long. Santos, I want you with Ellis, med students in triage and sutures, Doctorpedia, you're with me, and if you get in over your head, call for a nurse first, then an attending. Fuck knows the nurses know more than I do half the fuckin' time anyway. We clear?"

The group gives a collective nod, and Jack is rushing off before you can get your bearings in the chaos. 

"What? No chant?" Ellis grumbles.

"There's a chant?" Trinity asks, following her to Curtain Six.

You jog until you catch up with Jack, who looks like a man on a mission.

"Where do you want me?" you ask.

"I'm giving you Fiat power," he answers. "See triage? Clear all non-emergent patients."

Rooted in the Latin phrase for 'let it be done', Fiat power is the authority to give unilateral executive orders. You remember the term from your political science classes. Hell, when you and Jack were at the museum, you told him about your interest in debate over a painting adapted from Plato's Symposium. 

Basically, Jack is about to let you write blank checks. If you're hearing this right, that is. "Shouldn't a more experienced resident handle that?" you stammer.

"I don't have any," he replies, passing you a tablet with a chart pulled up. "It's a Saturday night, and after ten, trauma cases spike. A lot of these guys are boarders, need stitches, which med students have handled, or they have no insurance and just need a doctor's note or a script for a runny nose. Write them." "Don't I have to clear that with an attending?"

"Hence the Fiat power," he quips. "Look, kid, I don't have time to explain my reasons to you, but I need Ellis in the curtain area, and Santos needs a senior resident. Robby and I agreed that, under the circumstances, you're our pinch hitter."

"Did you seriously just use a baseball reference?" "Are you the doctor I think you are or not?" Jack demands. "Look, we're working on finding extra hands down here, but in the meantime, I need your big, beautiful brain. If you get in over your head, I'm here. Got it?"

You nod.

"Go get 'em, baby," he says, and then he rushes off to an exam room before you can even register that he called you baby. 

The first hour is an assault on your senses. Triage is a barrage of screaming babies and bodily fluids, but everything Jack warned you about turns out to be correct. By hour two, you clear most of the patients, and Lena, the charge nurse on nights, checks in on you periodically. At one point, just when Robby's found a free moment, he listens to you summarize your last twenty patients with no notes, an unmistakable proud smile ghosting across his features. 

You're exhausted, in a way that gives new meaning to the word. When you were in college, you worked your ass off to graduate early and pull forty-hour weeks at your awful minimum wage job. In med school, you functioned on no sleep all the time, because that was what it took to perform at the highest level and finish top of your class. You thought you knew what it meant to be tired, what it meant to exhaust yourself. 

You were sorely mistaken.

Trinity hasn't been shy about complaining about her stress, and the two of you have been sharing meals and laundry responsibilities to keep your heads above the water. Most of the time, you just listen to what she has to say, offer sympathy, and make her an extra shot of espresso in the morning. 

To her, to the whole Pitt, you're Doctorpedia. You translate when she needs it, act as a soundboard for differentials, answer questions during rounds, and get called into traumas all the time. She's more happy for you than jealous, but you know she expects you to be together, to keep acing the tests and telling her about all your saves and cases. The senior residents let you figure things out on your own most of the time, and Robby treats you like his golden goose, always there for a challenge.

You've started losing your hair, and the bags under your eyes are growing more pronounced every day. You don't know how you're going to keep going like this without cracking under the pressure, and whenever Ashleigh or your dad calls, you lie through your teeth because you're their genius daughter, the one they don't have to worry about.

The Sistine Chapel is full of cracks, but you can only see them if you're looking too closely.

But you don't have time to fall apart. So you don't.

Once you've cleared enough patients from chairs and Robby's signed out for the night, you take it upon yourself to restock some of the supply carts, which is mostly a med student's job, but you need the monotony. You knock back a Monster from the vending machine, your eyes bleary as you squint at the board. It's still a mess, full of patients and codes, but it's better than it was at the start of your shift.

It's a quarter to eleven when all hell breaks loose.

First, a psych patient gets loose from his soft restraints and runs around naked and pissing all over the floor, being dosed with Haldol and restrained to the gurney by every limb. Then, a motorcyclist without a helmet gets brought in DOA, occupying a bed in Trauma for organ donation. You administer two doses of Narcan, one to a college student roofied at a party, another to a homeless man found in the park across the street. The junkie is the one who makes it, and asks if you kept his needle when he comes to. You can hear the scream of the girl's mother all the way across the ER when Jack tells her her daughter was unable to be resuscitated. 

This is the flow of the Pitt. You've come to expect it, in the time you've been here. You know the pace, how many patients come in and what their chief complaints are. You never judge anyone who walks through the doors, even if they're uninterested in help from social services or spit in your face. That doesn't mean you don't care for every patient, mostly because your memory means you don't really have another choice. 

You're charting at Central when Lena makes the announcement. "Abbot, we have three traumas coming in. Two kids, one adult. One stable, two critical. Adult GSW to the head, one possible TBI with skull fracture, and another kid with several broken bones and possible pulmonary contusions."

"How far out?" Jack asks.

"Three minutes."

"Fuck," he groans. "Okay, page surgery, now, get neuro down here, I need the organ donor out of Trauma One, put him in peds and keep him monitored. Prep the trauma rooms with pediatric equipment, chest tube trays, the works. Ellis, Santos, I need you in Two; you're meeting surgery, and if they aren't here in five minutes, Santos, you will drag them here yourself, understand?"

Trinity nods, a bit stunned. 

Jack calls your name next, and you're relieved he didn't call you Doctorpedia. Not right now, when you're barely holding your own and feeling anything but brilliant. "I want you close. Once we see how stable the kid is, I need you to watch him while I handle the others. Could turn at any second. Clear?"

"Yes," you say.

The ambulance bay doors burst open, and three gurneys wheel in simultaneously. The first is a man whose head has been blown open, half of his face shredded, skull fragments and gray matter being held together by bandages and a prayer. The medic is bagging him, but the monitor is asystolic. The guy is dead as a doornail, but what catches your attention are his knuckles, bruised and split.

It doesn't take a genius to put the pieces together as his sons come in behind him.

The paramedic carting the father briefs Jack first. "Marcus Jakobs, forty-six, BAC of .27, lost his pulse en route, down time of approximately thirty minutes, no spontaneous resps, asystole on the monitor."

"This man is a cadaver," Jack snaps. "Call it. Time of death, 23:18. Cover him, call the morgue." 

A little boy, no older than five, lies still on the next gurney. They're bagging him, but his eyes are closed, one side of his face swollen shut, his jaw busted, a handprint burned into his throat. He is, "Andrew Jakobs, five years old, unconscious on the scene, BP is crashing—"

"Trauma Two!" Jack whistles at Trinity and Ellis, who spring into action as they transfer little Andrew to the bed and start buzzing around him, grabbing supplies, working hard to stabilize him.

The last patient is an older boy, seven, named Tommy, who's cradling a broken arm, crying. "Andy wouldn't stop crying. He gets so mad when we cry. It's over faster if we don't cry—"

"Tommy," you say gently. "I need you to lie back, sweetie. We're gonna take good care of your brother, I promise."

Tommy's face is splattered with blood. You don't think most of it is his. "I didn't mean to kill him, but he wouldn't stop—" 

Oh, Jesus Christ. Tommy's shoulder is dislocated, and his collarbone definitely fractured, because he shot his own father. High-caliber GSW, probably a sawed-off shotgun with an extra kick to it. His pulse on the monitor is wild, and he's hyperventilating beneath the mask.

Jack is giving orders to the nurses, but you're standing still, Tommy's tiny hand squeezing yours as hard as he can, desperation painting his face as it contorts in fear and agony. All you can do is wear a mask, talking him down, starting your differential diagnosis.

"Abbot, he's coding!" Ellis screams from Trauma Two.

"Keep him calm, keep him talking," Jack orders before he leaves you in Trauma One with Tommy.

"I want to see Andy!" Tommy wails.

"I promise you, you will see your brother very soon, but we have to make sure he's okay first, Tommy," you assure him, trying to keep your voice calm, soothing. "Tell me where it hurts, okay?"

You start your exam, running through every step in your mind as you push the morphine. He's probably a candidate for an exploratory laparotomy, because the tenderness in his belly suggests internal bleeding, not to mention the trauma to his chest. You have no idea how he's still conscious, given what you're seeing. He's a tough kid running on adrenaline, for sure.

"Did your dad hit you first?" you ask. "Where?"

"My back, and my tummy." He sniffles. "He hit Andy more."

"I want you to hear me," you say softly. "No one is ever going to hurt you again, okay? You're safe. You don't need to protect Andy, okay? Understand? We've got him. I'm gonna give you something for the pain, and we're gonna take some X-Rays, alright? I need you to stay still, to make sure you don't shift any broken bones."

Just one look at his torso, at the purple and black bruises and the healed yellow-brown tones of old ones, he's probably got some broken ribs. If you can get him calmer, you can discern between what is pulmonary trauma and what is the result of anxiety. You can't give him too much pain medication, or his resps will crash, and this is really not a situation you should be taking point on. 

Tommy whimpers. "I don't want to go to hell."

You gently squeeze his hand. "You won't go to hell, Tommy. You saved your brother, you hear me? You're a hero. Who's your favorite superhero, hm?"

"Superman," he answers.

"He's a great superhero," you say.

"He's brave."

"But you're braver, you know why?"

Tommy shakes his head. 

"Superman isn't brave, he's indestructible. He knows if he punches the asteroid, he's gonna be okay. But you? You did a brave, brave thing even though you were hurt too." You push some of his hair out of his eyes, guiding him through a focal neuro exam. "That's so much braver than Superman, buddy."

He nods, sniffling. A monitor starts beeping, and his gaze gets a bit hazy, like he's fading fast. 

"Sats are dropping," one of the nurses shouts. 

"Hey, Tommy?" You rub his sternum as his eyes slip closed. "Tommy!"

"He's crashing!"

And across the hall, so is Andy. You can't get a good view from where you're standing, but you get the gist. It's not looking good, and you're alone.

"Where the hell is surgery? I need another doctor!"

"Surgery's been paged," someone says.

"You!" You snap your fingers at a med student. "Run. Do not walk, RUN! Get me a trauma surgeon, now!"

Your hands are trembling. The world is tilting off its axis. Everything is narrowing to this moment, to the tiny body on the gurney in front of you and the room full of people all asking you what to do next. 

Tommy is going to die, unless you doctor the fuck up.

"I need an intubation tray. Give me cricoid pressure," you bark, angling the scope. "Dammit, there's swelling. The cords are…"

One of the nurses, Vivi, chimes in, "Do we need to crike him? I can get the kit."

"Not yet," you decide. "More pressure. There. I'm in. Bag him!"

There's a moment where his O2 sats are climbing again, but it falls once more. You breathe in and out, tuning out the rest of the world as you listen to his chest. The heart sounds are muffled, and you don't have time for an ultrasound.

All you have are your statistics.  

"Tension pneumothorax," you realize. "Get me a chest tube tray. Now! His lung's collapsed!"

You look over at the other trauma room, where Jack is dripping sweat over Andy's body, and the whole team looks like they've come to the conclusion the kid is too far gone. You don't believe in a god, and practicing medicine won't make you start now, but you believe in Jack, who's a great doctor, and you believe that there has to be some fairness in the world that wouldn't mean Andy dies, and his brother committed patricide for nothing. 

You can't lose Tommy either. Not like this. Not when he thinks he's going to hell for trying to save his baby brother. But your hands are shaking, and everything is too loud, too much, all at once, and you don't know if you can handle this, because if you're not careful, you could cut into him for nothing and—

Breathe, you tell yourself.

"Where is surgery?" you ask again.

"I don't know," one of the nurses says, "but you're all he has."

And so you plunge the needle into his chest, and the air rushes out as his lung reinflates. His oxygen levels climb, and his heart stabilizes, with the bilateral sounds of his breathing dramatically improved for both you and the nursing staff. Just as you're stepping back from the table, the surgeons arrive, your med student breathless beside Yolanda Garcia, who looks both horrified and impressed.

"Took you long enough," you croak.

She raises her eyebrows. "Jesus fucking Christ."

The next ten minutes are a blur. Tommy and a now stable Andy are both taken upstairs to surgery, and you're faintly aware of the nurses congratulating you, Ellis giving Trinity notes as they debrief, the Pitt continuing to move at a thousand miles an hour around you. The white noise in your head builds to a crescendo—almost a scream. A phone is ringing, monitors are beeping, a patient is shouting for a nurse, and you feel like you've plunged to the bottom of the ocean. Everything is happening around you at a distance, like you're slipping further and further into the abyss. 

"I need some air," you manage to say, to no one in particular, before stumbling into the ambulance bay.

You collapse onto the sidewalk, and then, when you're blessedly, completely alone, you finally let yourself shatter.

You've never been very good at feeling your feelings. For most of your childhood, you regulated your mom and worried about the bills and keeping everything paid up on time, since you had the penchant for numbers. You achieved excellence until it was expected of you, and you rose to the challenge. Whenever you had a difficult feeling, you'd dissect it and take it apart like an autopsy of the soul until it was so intellectualized to death you were detached. 

You never cried much, never admitted defeat. How could you? Someone had to hold the world up, and you refused to shrug the Atlas.

It wasn't until your mom died that you truly learned what it felt like to grieve, and you cried oceans in your sorrow. After Jack and that fateful summer, you cried some more, let yourself feel twenty years of bottled-up emotions, and then packed it all away when you left for Columbia. You've kept it together, played it cool, performed and danced and ticked like a perfect machine.

But now? Now, you fucking sob. 

You don't know how long you sit there, stethoscope clutched in your shaky, sweaty hands, tears pouring down your cheeks and snot bubbling under your nose. You cry until your ribs hurt, until your body is so tired of weeping it gives only empty hiccups instead of sounds. The panic crashes over you like a wave, and you're caught in the rip current of anxiety, struggling to get out.

Then you hear your name coming from far away.

Then louder.

And then up close.

Hands close around your cheeks, cradling you. Jack's hazel eyes swim into view. "Hey, sweetheart, look at me. Look at me. I'm right here. I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me, baby? Can you breathe?"

He's out of breath, and you realize he must've sprinted out here to get to you the second he noticed you were gone. His leg's been bothering him all shift; you've watched him lean onto his good side, gripping his thigh when he thought no one was paying attention, and still. 

Still. 

He ran to you.

"Come on, breathe with me," he urges you, putting your hand on his chest as he inhales for an exaggerated length of time. "In. Hold it. Yeah. There you go. Out. One more time. That's it, baby. Doing so good for me. In. Out. That's it. One more time. You got it. Uh-huh. In…"

He coaches you through it with that patient, tender tone of his you've only heard him use when talking to you. Like he melts, and all his hard edges dissolve into softness just to meet yours. 

When you finally calm down, he dries your tears with his sleeve, wiping your nose with gauze pads and a light chuckle. 

"I'm an ugly crier," you whisper, voice hoarse.

"Nah," he corrects you, "you're still beautiful. Even covered in snot."

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Talk to me."

"He almost died," you tell him. "Jack—"

"I heard he crashed, and you intubated him, diagnosed and repaired a tension pneumo, and got him to the OR stable," he replies, patient but firm. "I also heard you kept him calm, comforted him, and handled a solo trauma better than most R3s would have. As a first year. You're brilliant."

"I never should've been in there alone," you argue. "This whole day, I've been… I'm just an intern. And everyone wants me to be the brilliant Doctorpedia, handling everything, and I'm still learning and I can't fucking do it—"

"Hey," he cuts you off. "Slow down, sweetheart, you'll work yourself up. I know. And I promise you, Robby and I are gonna make sure this doesn't happen again. The staffing issues are unacceptable, and if it were any other intern, today would've been full of bad outcomes. That doesn't mean we should expect that of you, okay?" He gazes into your eyes harder, imploring, like he needs you to see him. Hear him. 

You nod. "Okay."

"Today was a one in a million," he assures you. "But I am so fucking sorry I put that kind of pressure on you."

"I can handle it."

"You shouldn't have to," he insists. "You're already extraordinary, even without giving everything you have and then some. And if this is you as a fucking intern, sweetheart, I'm already in awe of the doctor you'll be by the time you're an attending."

You nod. Everything inside of you feels massive and important and messy, and all you've got are abstractions and vague feelings you can't put into words. All you can focus on is him, and he becomes the fixed point you use to ground yourself in freefall. He's your parachute when you feel like you'll never stop falling.

"I'll make sure we give you time to get there," he continues. "But as your attending, I'm here to teach you, yeah?"

You nod again.

He hugs you tightly, and you fist his scrub top tightly in your fists, still shaking. His breath fans across the top of your head as he kisses your forehead. "Hell, baby, I'm pretty sure you're teaching me a lot more," he murmurs. His lips find your temple next, his face barely pressing into your hair like he's breathing you in.

You half expect him to let go, worried someone might walk out and see this, but he doesn't. You greedily indulge yourself, soaking in the moment, terrified that in the next one, he'll be distant again, and you won't have Jack to anchor you. Once you go back inside, it's over, and you go back to pretending this is strictly professional.

But under the night sky just before midnight? He's your Jack a little longer. 

"You gotta say 'when', by the way," he whispers in your ear. "'Cause when a pretty girl is crying in my chest, I ain't letting go first."

An ambulance siren howls in the distance, gradually getting closer and reminding you of where you are and the job you have to do. So, you give him one final squeeze and whisper back, "When."

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THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE!!! Whether you’re a tumblr or an ao3 reader, I see you, I love you, etc !! I’m always posting more Crash Course content on TikTok [at] fxckingjo_ and Instagram [at] jofayewrites so follow me there ;)

how are we feeling, gang? what do we think is coming next? i cannot wait, personally.

Jack's tactical vest is draped over the side of the railing, the metallic flecks in SWAT catching the light of the setting sun. Golden hour makes the silver in his hair brighter. His shoulders are rigid, hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn't turn around when the rooftop door creaks open. You're not even sure he knows you're there. Not at first. 

"Not in the fuckin' mood, Robby," he snaps.

"Not Robby," you reply gently, unaffected by the bite in his tone. 

He turns around and softens at the sight of you, some of the tension bleeding out of him. "Sorry, sweetheart," he sighs. "Didn't know it was you."

"You're on the wrong side," you say. "You could fall."

He laughs bitterly. "Not worried about it."

"Well, I am," you argue, your voice shaking ever so slightly. Then, "Please."

In most of the time you've known Jack, he's never once faltered. You imagine it takes a lot to shake him, like he's this unbreakable mountain of a man. Yet somehow, as you're pleading with him to take a step back, he looks surprised. His brow crinkles, and then slowly, he throws one leg over the railing and comes back to the other side of it.

You all but sag with relief. 

"I wasn't gonna jump," he tells you.

"I know," you murmur. "But you're acting like someone who wants to see how close he can get to the edge without breaking."

The sun dips lower in the sky, and a breeze chills your skin, raising goosebumps on your arms. You shiver. Suddenly, your scrub top feels like it's made of paper, and when Jack looks at you, you feel stripped bare, like you're naked and under the hot lights of an examination room, every secret painted in your skeleton. It occurs to you, for a second, that maybe he feels that way too; you don't run from connection because you're comfortable.

"So why're you here?" Jack asks, not unkindly, but not mincing his words either.

"Robby wanted me to get the contact information for Wayne's next of kin, and your sergeant."

"I'll handle it. That all?" He's never spoken to you so coldly before, using indifference as a shield, retreating behind his defenses instead of falling apart. Instead of feeling. 

You shake your head, tugging your lip between your teeth as you find the confidence for words. "I wanted to see if you were okay."

His reply is too clipped to be convincing. "Peachy." 

"Bullshit," you reply, sighing with exasperation. "Your friend just died in our trauma room. We cracked his chest. We did everything we could, and it wasn't enough—"

Jack doesn't have to shout when he cuts you off. The cool, flat delivery is just as precise as a razor. "I was there." Your name follows, trembling from his lips. "I don't need the play-by-play." 

"We couldn't do anything else," you reason. 

You haven't read over the chart a second time or given the books another scan, but you took every cue in that trauma for Robby, who's been around the ER for thirty years and most definitely knows what he's doing. Hell, even Dana said you handled it well, and you can't think of a single thing that could've changed the outcome. Deep down, Jack knows that. He must. 

"What do you know?" he spits. "You're an intern!"

You bristle, but you don't lie down and take it. You push back, because that's all you know how to do when it comes to him. Push and pull, give and take. "And yet, you let me do the chest tube, so clearly you do trust me," you argue. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, sucking in a sharp breath. "I'm sorry. You're right. This isn't fair of me. I just wish…"

You step closer, until you're separated by a couple of inches. Not even a whole foot between you. Close enough to count his freckles, to memorize the lines in his face. There seem to be new ones. Or maybe they just disappear when he smiles. 

God, you'd really like to see him smile. To know he's alright. 

You ramble, to fill the space, "With my memory, I never forget anything, so I remember every moment of my day, every second, every procedure. I run them back in my head and follow all the moves I could've taken, until I'm sick of it—"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Like playing chess."

"Like chess," you confirm. "I keep turning this one over, and I can't think of a single book or case study where the outcome was different. He was gone en route. We did everything right, and you gave him a chance before you even made it past the ambulance bay. You did good, Jack. And you taught me something. That matters. In that room? Down there? That's everything."

He scratches his jaw absently. "Too bad we couldn't save him."

"Not this time."

Those hazel eyes shift downward, to the paved surface of the roof, then up at the golden hour sunset. When they finally find your face again, he's looking at you like he isn't sure you're real.

"You're a good doctor, sweetheart," Jack says. 

"Learning from the best," you return. 

When you finally tear your eyes away from his, you see the sweat staining the grey of his undershirt, which clings to every muscular curve of his frame. Beneath it, a few red spots have started to bleed through. Fresh blood. Not Wayne's.

"Jack, you're bleeding," you say. "Let me see."

He reaches up, absently touching his shoulder. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing."

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn't fight you when you wrap your hand around his elbow, turning him to use the fading sunlight to inspect the wound. You push his sleeve up, realizing he's already plastered a gauze pad to his skin with medical tape and a prayer. The bandage is soaked through.

"You need stitches," you say calmly, as you peel away the remnants of the dressing. "At least four."

"I can do them."

"But I need to practice my suturing," you reply. According to Robby, you don't, and while you're sure Jack is more than capable, thinking about him doing his own stitches, without anesthetic, or letting the wound sit and fester, makes you ache like the pain is your own. 

"You're impossible, you know that?"

"Just let me help," you insist. 

He nods. "Fine."

"Come down with me."

He shakes his head. "And deal with the paperwork from SWAT and the heat from Robby? No thanks."

"Then I'll get a suture kit and come to you," you say. "While there's still light out."

"Don't need the novocaine," he adds as you turn to go. 

You roll your eyes, throwing your response over your shoulder. "Alright, tough guy, your macho card won't be revoked if you let me numb it. You got shot. You've suffered enough. Give it up."

There it is again, that almost-smile. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

You run down a couple of floors to get a suture kit, and then take the stairs two at a time to get back to the roof. You're a little out of breath when the metal door slams open ahead of you. Even though you believed him when he said he wasn't planning to jump, a small part of you was still terrified you'd come back and find him gone. 

In your experience, people you care about tend to disappear in the blink of an eye. Once, you thought he'd be the exception. Now you're not certain of a damn thing.

He sits down, and you curl up beside him, folding your knees under you as you hold up the fabric scissors. "You want to sacrifice the sleeve or lose the shirt?" you ask. Your pulse thrums in your throat, heart fluttering as if reminding you what a spectacular view it is to see Jack Abbot shirtless.

"You trying to get me naked, doc?" He raises a brow.

"Already have," you reply breezily. Then, realizing what you've just said, your eyes widen. "You know what? I'm sorry—"

He chuckles. "I got plenty of shirts. Just cut what you need to."

It's probably best that he preserves his modesty anyway. You might be a little distracted by the view, which means sloppy suture work. You snip away the fabric, about six inches up to his clavicle, exposing the laceration. It's not too deep, but definitely a gash. 

"How'd this happen?" you ask. A million scenarios run through your mind, most of them involving needing to update his tetanus shots. You're trying to fill in the blanks, imagining a warehouse shooting or a car chase. All of them terrify you. 

You shouldn't care this much about Jack. You spent enough years trying to forget that summer, how you fell for him, how you never stopped falling, because now you're looking at him and it's like no time has passed at all. 

"Bullet just grazed me," he says dismissively. 

That stops you cold. "You got shot?" 

"Shot at mostly. It happens."

You're torn between your professionalism and the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until his good sense is restored. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" you demand. 

"Sweetheart, I've been taking bullets since you were learning the ABCs," he drawls. 

Oh, you definitely have issues of the Freudian variety, because that turns you on a lot more than it should. What the hell is wrong with you? 

You distract yourself with the task at hand. Irrigate, cleanse, prep for stitching. You know how to do this like the back of your hand, so you focus on the steps, and not the heat of Jack's skin, the heady blend of sweat and cologne and his detergent.

Your brow furrows as you blot gently at the edges of the wound. "Doesn't it scare you?"

"It scared my wi—" He cuts himself off. You fill in the blanks, but you don't push, don't ask too many questions. "I could've done another tour, even after I lost my leg, if I really wanted to, but we had a deal. So instead, I bought a house in Pittsburgh and started playing it safe again."

Playing it safe. Is that what this is? Safety? "That's what SWAT is for you?"

"The SWAT thing is new. Only been doing it about, uh, four years?" he guesses. "My therapist said I needed a hobby."

The timing isn't lost on you. Did he start the SWAT thing after you slept together? Is it some kind of self-flagellation? A new reckless behavior to substitute the stupid fling he had with you? Your ego is probably making this seem bigger than it is. It probably has nothing to do with you. 

But what if it does? A small part of you whispers back. You shake it off. Steady your hands. "Hell of a fucking hobby, Jack."

"You got a filthy mouth, kid."

You roll your eyes as you finish cleaning the wound. "I'm not a kid."

"I know," he murmurs. And somehow? It feels loaded, the way he says it. 

You inject the lidocaine without warning, and he doesn't so much as flinch. As you thread the needle for suturing, you realize he's not looking at your hands—he's looking at you. At your face, carelessly falling loose from the braid you put it in twelve and a half hours ago. At the curve of your neck, the way you tilt your head as you concentrate on placing the sutures.

"You're not gonna check my work?" you manage to ask, voice quiet, as if afraid speaking louder will make your words shake. 

He shrugs his other shoulder. "Don't have to. Steadiest hands in Pittsburgh, right here."

"Ha."

"I'm serious. You're good," he assures you. "Real good."

You tie off the last stitch and dress the wound again, wrapping the bandage around the meat of his thick bicep. "All done. Avoid getting it wet, come back for removal in a few days, avoid strenuous activity, blah, blah, blah."

"Fantastic beside manner. I'll be sure to leave an excellent patient satisfaction survey."

"I'm just glad I don't have to chart this," you reply, gathering your things and placing them back into the suture kit. 

"Hey." His fingers brush your cheek, following the curve of the bone down to your jaw before tilting your chin up. Your eyes meet his. "Thanks," he murmurs softly. 

"You're welcome," you whisper back. 

There's a heartbeat, where you almost lean in a little closer, where you almost cross another line and kiss him, or maybe he's thinking about kissing you already. You've gotten pretty good at reading all of Jack's microexpressions, learning everything that makes him tick, but there's still so much you don't know. But you'd like to. Until you have your own language, until you drown in him. 

He clears his throat, pulling back just enough to draw the line in the sand. "You better get back downstairs. Robby probably needs you."

"And you have to call the family and your sergeant."

"Right," he says. "Yeah."

"Yeah," you echo. 

You walk away first, while you still can. 

You take the first elevator back down to The Pitt, and Jack waits for the next one. Even though Dana knows where you went, and Robby told you to follow him, there's still the imaginary standard of propriety to follow. Roles to stick to, and all that. Not that anything happened on the rooftop, not strictly anyway, though the vibes of a cataclysmic bad decision were there. Still, you're pretending.  

The more you see of Jack, the more confused you feel. Sure, he runs hot and cold, and whenever you think you're getting close, he pushes you away. His actions are loud, though. He cares about you, enough to teach you, to assemble your furniture, and take you to baseball games. So why would he take your virginity and leave? He probably doesn't even know he was your first, but he also doesn't strike you as a guy who just takes what he wants and leaves. It's a piece that doesn't fit, but no matter how much you want an answer, you're terrified to ask.  

You sit down next to Trinity at the computers, working on your charts. She's dictating, rubbing her temple with the telltale slump of her shoulders that signals a bad day.  

You nudge her shoulder with yours. "You good?"  

  She nods, yawning. "How was the GSW?" she asks. "Heard you got to put in a chest tube." 

"He had DIC. Bled out." 

"Damn. Still, you got to be in the room." She's doing her best to hide her jealousy, and guilt swims in your stomach. You'd tell her you tried to get Robby to switch you out, but she'd probably hate the pity. "Triage sucks balls. The most exciting thing I did was fish a condom out of some poor girl." 

"What?" you sputter. 

  "Two virgins walk into a gas station..." Trinity sing-songs. "Guy bought some Magnum XLs, so I had to go fishing. What a magical V-Card experience, right?" She snorts derisively. "McKay gave them some freebies in the right size. Thank god I'm a lesbian." 

You're tired, half paying attention, and your filter is shot to hell, which is why you let the comment slip without realizing you're opening the door to follow-up questions. "My first time wasn't that bad." 

As if the universe needs to mock you with more ill timing, Jack walks back behind the Central desk, passing some contact information to Dana while he dials. Your cheeks burn, and you look away.  

  Trinity pauses her typing, intrigued. "Sounds like there's a story there." 

  "No, Trin, we're at work. Jesus." If you could kick yourself without drawing more attention, you would. Central is already buzzing with energy since hand-offs are still underway. Some of the day shift staff have left already, but you're still hanging around, working on your notes and keeping an eye on Jack.

She raises her eyebrows. "Come on, don't be such a nun. How old were you?" 

You sigh. "We're not doing this." 

Trinity Santos is nothing if not relentless. She's got a massive heart to back it up, and a bit of an ego too. She's also terribly nosy, and that's why she's not going to let this go. You gave her the inch, and she's swooping in for the mile. "If you don't tell me, I'm just gonna keep nagging you until you give up." 

Part of you wants to tell her. She's your first female friend, a true friend, in your life besides Ashleigh, and Ashleigh, being your stepmom, isn't someone you can compare notes on sexual experiences with. For more reasons than one.

"Fine. I was twenty," you answer.

"TWENTY?" Trinity gasps, like you've scandalized her. 

You could die, right here and now. "Dude, keep your voice down."  

She seems to realize where she is, and as the nurses shift their attention away, she lowers her voice. "Sorry, I just... Twenty as in 2-0?" 

  "Uh-huh. I was a late bloomer. It was the summer before med school." 

You watch her process the information, silently doing the math in her head. "So you're...?" 

"Twenty-four." 

She whistles. "Jesus, you're like a baby. Can't even rent a car."  

"I'll be twenty-five soon," you reply, a bit defensive. Sure, you are one of the youngest people here, and you've gotten used to being the youngest person in most academic settings. You don't advertise it, mostly because you're so aware of how naive you must seem in comparison. "Besides, you're, like, three years older than me, not a fossil." 

She nibbles on the end of one of the PTMC ballpoint pens, scanning your face like she's reading your secrets. There may as well be a cartoon sign over your head that reads, 'I had sex with Jack Abbot, and I liked it'! "So you waited until you were twenty to pop your cherry?" she prods.

  "I just didn't find anyone I wanted to do that with," you explain, your face heating further and further, veering into fire-engine red territory.  

  She leans forward, her stool creaking. "So who was he?" 

  You decide the best way to handle the situation is to answer her questions as directly as possible with as little detail as necessary. "A friend of my dad's." 

She chokes on her next breath. "What?" 

"Trinity, I swear to god—" 

  She doesn't let you finish, because she's rambling now, like this gossip session gave her a second wind even espresso couldn't compare to. "My bestie, the Doctorpedia, good girl protégé, lost her V-card to her dad's friend? How old?" 

  It takes everything in you not to look at Jack. You refuse to turn around and glance over your shoulder, out of fear you're going to spell it all out and expose the truth. "Forty-ish." 

  Trinity guffaws. "Ish? Holy shit, you just got a lot more interesting. Maybe I should call you Lolita instead."

  You bury your face in your hands, groaning. "Trin, stop. Please. Doctorpedia is bad enough." 

  She raises her hands in surrender. "Fine, fine, no new nicknames, but you have to admit Doctorpedia suits you, and it's catching on. Besides, this is way better than a chest tube procedure. I expect details later. Over tequila." 

  "I'm not telling you anything else." 

She pouts. "Come on. You're the only one getting to play doctor for real. Give me something—" 

You shake your head, deflecting. "I should go find Robby, ask what he wants me to add to the chart for the trauma—" 

"Robby's tied up," Jack says, and you startle, nearly falling out of your chair. "I can help you finish the chart, if you need help." 

You don't know how long he's been off the phone, standing within earshot of the two of you, possibly hearing every word of this conversation. You won't be shocked if Princess and Perlah start circulating it through the rumor mill. You're just praying they don't discuss it.

"Oh," you squeak. "Um, it's fine—" 

  Jack leans over you, hand gently pushing yours out of the way as he finds the mouse and scrolls. He squints for a moment, reading, and if you were alone, you'd joke about him needing reading glasses like Robby does. Finally, he hums in approval. "You have everything here, just need the attending's notes. It'll kick it to him once you hit submit." 

"Thanks," you manage, before clicking the green 'submit' box. 

  "Sure," he replies. "Got all your other charts done?" 

  You nod. "Langdon told me to stay on top of them, so I wouldn't be here all night." 

"Must be nice," Trinity mumbles. 

"Your supervising resident should handle most of the heavy lifting," Jack tells her. She opens her mouth to respond, but Jack just whistles before shouting across the room. "Hey, McKay!" 

"Yeah?" Cassie asks, her backpack slung over her shoulder. Her hair is loose, down from her usual ponytail, and you realize Trinity is definitely checking her out. "Harrison has a soccer game tonight. I'm trying to catch the end of it—" 

"Charts aren't done," Jack interjects. 

"Santos said she's got them," McKay replies, winking at Trinity. "Right, Trinity?" 

Trinity, for the first time ever, seems flustered. It might be a trick of the light, but you're pretty sure she's even blushing. "Yeah, uh, totally. Have fun at baseball." 

  "Soccer," McKay says, eyes bright. "I'll come in early tomorrow, Abbot. Swear." 

"I'll hold you to it," he warns. 

She waves over her shoulder as she leaves. Jack, satisfied, turns back to the pair of you. You gather your things, swiping your badge to log off before letting it reel back to your hip. You're still not used to seeing your name and photo tagged Doctor, Emergency Resident.

  "Just a few more notes," Trinity says. "I was just complaining for no reason. Don't wait up for me. Seriously. I'm good." 

  "You sure?" you ask again, shifting from foot to foot and awkwardly hovering. 

  "Yes, so stop asking. Shoo. Be free or what-fuckin-ever." 

  You take only a couple of steps before pausing. "I'll make you dinner. Text me when you're off." 

"Yes, yes, you're wifey material," she says, returning to her dictations and shooing you off. "Patient presented with—" 

You stop listening after that, making a 180 toward the locker room. You don't make it far before Jack calls your name. Last name, like a professional. Like he doesn't know what you taste like or what you sound like when you come.

"Hey, hold on a sec!" he calls after you, jogging to keep up. His weight drags a bit, and guilt twists your stomach. His leg must hurt. You notice the momentary wince, so brief anyone else would miss it.

The two of you are alone in the hallway by the lockers. Even without the eyes on you, you feel exposed, vulnerable to gossip or worse, something intimate. You busy yourself by fiddling with the combination, like avoiding his eyes will mean he doesn't ask what you know he's going to.  

  "How come you didn't tell me you were...?" He trails off, but the unspoken part of the question hangs there, like a cloud of smoke.  

"Wasn't important." And because he probably wouldn't have done it if he'd known. Maybe he could negotiate with his antiquated sense of duty without your virginity factored in. Truthfully, you didn't want to make it a big deal. You never believed in the Puritanical importance of your maidenhead, or whatever, and you weren't holding onto it by choice, so much as lack of opportunity. That much was true. Sure, a small, romantic part of you wanted the whole nine, but Jack took care of you, and for that hour or so, it was almost love. It felt like it, at least.  

  "It's important," he insists. "If I'd known—" 

"You wouldn't have bailed without leaving a note? Or you wouldn't have used me for sex?" You hiss the words, but they land as hard as they would've if you shouted them.  

"It wasn't my choice," he replies. "Sweetheart, believe me, if I could take it back—" 

  One of the night shift docs, Ellis, comes running into the corridor, out of breath. "Abbot, we need you in Trauma 2. Penetrating trauma. Two guys Shish Kebab-bed. Some Final Destination type shit. It's nasty." 

  "Say no more," he calls back. "Grab Santos. She looks like she needs to see some action."

Ellis nods her chin in acknowledgement. "You got it, cap!"

You fight a smile. Thank goodness Trinity will finally see a trauma room. You know she needs it. And of course, Jack sees it too. He's so perceptive and thoughtful, and it makes you want to throttle him and kiss him all at once. 

"Later," Jack promises you, squeezing your shoulder before he's gone too. The Pitt waits for no one, and everything moves at a thousand miles an hour. 

As you settle into your car for the drive home, you decide you won't hold your breath about finishing this conversation. No good ever comes from dredging up the past. 

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"I think I'd be happier in geriatrics," Trinity says, over shots of tequila and light beer in her apartment. "Seriously. What the hell was I thinking?"

"I coded a toddler for half an hour, and Abbot knew it was hopeless."

"Fuck, dude," she mumbles. "I'm so sorry." 

"It's the job. I mean, I did a pediatric oncology rotation, and I helped with a couple of trauma cases with kids in the ER, even did a family medicine rotation. I love peds. I know I'm good at it, but this…" You trail off, shaking your head. "This was terrible." 

She tips her beer in your direction. You switched to beer after the second shot, for the sake of work the next morning. "Heard you had a good save, though." 

"Pretty sure Langdon hates me for it. I kinda went around him. Collins backed me up, but still."

"Men are stupid, and I don't respect them," Trinity remarks. 

You stifle a yawn, stretching your arms over your head. Your back is sore, but it's a welcomed ache, like breaking a gym PR. It's the discomfort that comes with working hard. "We should be sleeping. Gotta do it again tomorrow."

She shrugs. "Or, we can keep drinking."

"I think I'm gonna call it, actually."

Trinity nods. "You good?"

"Yeah, I will be."

You let yourself out and head back into your apartment. When you switch the lights on, you're surprised by the sight of an assembled coffee table. When you run into your bedroom, your bed frame is put together too, and your bookshelf is assembled in the office. Did Ashleigh send someone? She's the only person you complained about your Ikea woes to, but it doesn't make any sense. Momentary panic hits you like a train as you contemplate calling the police. 

What would you even say? "A burglar put my furniture together?" The cops would laugh at you. Nothing is missing, and if anything, it's cleaner in here than it was when you left for work. 

It takes you a second to see the note on the dry-erase board you have stuck to your fridge.

Ashleigh gave me the door code. You can change it if you want. Let me know if you need help with anything else. —J

It's so hard to hate him. Even when you should.

You mean to unpack more of your things, but the second you get into your bedroom, you collapse in bed like a puppet with the strings cut. You drag yourself out of it just to brush your teeth and change out of your scrubs. The only shirt you can find is the Pirates tee, and you ignore the pang in your chest as you pull it over your head and bury yourself under the covers bare-legged and exhausted. 

Before you can overthink it, you send a text to Jack. 

You: thanks for setting up my furniture

You: you didn't have to do that.

He replies faster than you expected he would: a chime twinkling from your phone speakers. Old Man Asshole DO NOT CALL: You're welcome.

You: And I'm sorry about earlier. I should've been more professional.

You change his contact name back to Jack, just because your anger has faded, and he is your teacher, at the end of the day. You'll be working in close proximity for several years, so you need to get over yourself. Put it away. Shove your feelings down. 

He types for a few seconds, the three telltale dots appearing on your screen. They appear and disappear, like a flickering light. Finally, he replies. Jack: It's okay. It was a rough case. Get some rest, sweetheart. 

You give the message a thumbs-up and shut off your phone before crashing into an exhausted slumber.  

The next morning goes the same. Your alarm startles you awake, you peel your drool-covered cheek off the pillow, do your yoga flow, and then shower, dress, and make coffee for you and Trinity. 

When you get to the hospital, you're right on time. Frank is waiting at Central, talking to Ellis about a patient in Curtain Four. When he sees you, he pauses, and then goes back to the conversation. After a moment, he walks over to where you're standing, surveying the board.

"I wanted to apologize about yesterday," he says. "I can own it when I'm wrong. I shouldn't have dismissed you so quickly. Could've cost the patient his life."

"And I should've talked to Robby about it," you reply. "But hey, today's a new day."

He nods. "You do have to trust your instincts, you know? When it comes to this job, your gut is usually right. And when you're not sure, there's nothing wrong with checking in with an attending. It takes a village. Real kumbaya shit."

You snort. "Well, the Fourth is coming up. I'm sure we'll get a fire or two to sit around."

Frank laughs. "Yeah, you'll fit in just fine."

Jack comes out of one of the trauma rooms as a patient is being wheeled upstairs to the ICU. He stops when he sees the two of your standing together, the proximity between you and Frank, and the fact you're both smiling. His jaw clenches for a moment before he barks out, "Langdon, walk with me. Need you to take over for the med student in Exam Two."

"Disimpaction? Isn't that an intern job?" Langdon replies.

Jack crosses his arms. "I asked you. Move." 

"What about rounds?" 

"I'll let Robby know." Jack hikes his thumb in the direction of the small room. "Don't make me ask again."

Trinity walks by, muttering, "What crawled up his ass and died?"

"No idea," you say, but if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was jealous. 

Logically, you know that doesn't make any sense. Frank is married, and he told you about his two kids yesterday, a proud smile lighting up his face. You know he's not flirting with you; every other sentence is Abby this or Abby that. Maybe Jack just had a bad night. Rough shifts are part of the job, and you can tell his leg is bothering him. His steps are a bit slower, his weight favoring his good side.

Jack calls your name, pulling you into an exam room. The curtain squeaks on the rod as he pulls it around. You were expecting a patient to be occupying the bed, but the room is silent. 

You frown. "Why…?"

Jack's tone is flat at first, revealing almost nothing. There's a slight edge when Frank's name comes out. "How's Langdon treating you? Heard you butted heads yesterday."

"It wasn't a big deal." At least, you're pretty sure it's not. You already moved past it, and with the hundreds of patients who roll through the Pitt on a given day, it's not constructive to dwell on any cases. 

"Ended up being a good pick-up, I hear," he adds. "Type-A aortic dissection. Nasty work. Good instincts."

"I was looking for a zebra and stumbled onto it. Could've easily been nothing."

"With you? No. I'd trust you sooner than anyone," Jack replies. "You're certainly the most well-read, and came into the program with the highest honors."

"Those are books, not practical skills," you argue, cheeks hot. The flush spreads down your neck. "But I'm glad we were able to help him."

"You wanna know how he's doing?" he asks.

You nod. "How'd the surgery go?"

His dimples make an appearance, a proud twinkle in his eye. "Excellent. When they got in there, they said it was a miracle he was still alive. He's sporting a new titanium valve, but they extubated him an hour ago. It's gonna be a long road ahead of him, but he's still here, thanks to you."

"And Dr. Collins."

"Dr. Collins," he echoes. "She's very good. Gifted physician. Robby's got his eye on you, too, you know. He's impressed. Keep it up." His hand finds your shoulder, squeezing, and the heat of his palm sears through your scrub top. All at once, you're doing the math, every square inch of his hand, the layers dividing his touch from your bare skin. 

You're dizzy, but you blink away the haze and say, "We should get going. Rounds."

"Sure, sure," he says. 

The moment you're outside of the quiet exam room, back into the chaos of the Pitt, the game begins. You get through rounds, and thankfully aren't the only person answering Robby's questions this time around. Trinity is sent out to sutures, where four patients are waiting. Her shoulders slump as she walks away. 

"I want you with Dr. Mohan today," Robby tells you. "Fair warning, she's got a tendency to spend too much time with her patients. With your pick-ups, I think you'll help her get some good momentum. Keep the ball rolling." You don't miss the visible annoyance underlying his words. You don't know Dr. Mohan well yet, but she seems sweet, thoughtful, in a way that almost feels out of place for a cutthroat arena like an ER. 

"Yikes. Good luck with Slo-Mo," Frank mumbles, picking up another chart. 

You shake off his words and follow Mohan to triage. 

As hectic as it was running trauma cases yesterday, triage is much easier. You see what Robby means about Mohan's pace, but she accomplishes something a lot of doctors don't—she makes patients feel listened to, not just heard. It's an important distinction you heard several times in med school, but watching it be put into practice is a different matter entirely. 

Shortly after noon, Collins pulls you away for a dislocation, walking you through the procedure. From that moment on, Trinity takes your place in triage, and you're running procedures for the rest of the shift. You even get to assist in another trauma, which floods your system with that jittery adrenaline you can't get enough of. Even if you're being run ragged, you're kicking ass. 

You can tell Trinity wants to be in the center of the action, to prove herself, and you feel a little guilty for all the hands-on experience you're getting and she isn't. When things seem a bit slower, you approach Robby nervously. His readers are sliding down the bridge of his nose, his eyes warm but discerning.

"You need something?" he asks, without pausing his charting.

"I was hoping I could do some suturing, actually. Maybe trade out with Dr. Santos? I, uh, want to keep up my skills."

Robby stops, folding his glasses as he leans back in his chair. "What's the ideal suture material for the face?"

"5-0 or 6-0 Nylon or Prolene. I prefer Prolene." 

He considers this. "What about deeper wounds? On the limbs or torso?"

"3 or 4-0 Nylon has greater tensile strength."

He hums, nodding. "You're fine. Look, I know you two are friends, but this is my ER. So far, you're showing me you're right where you belong. She'll get her trauma experience when she's ready. Okay?"

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he replies, "but prioritize your education. We have another trauma coming in, a third-grader hit by a car coming home from school. I want you with me."

He stands up and walks without looking back, expecting you to follow. You do, of course, trying to shake off the guilt for Trinity's sake. You're finally making friends and finding your people, and the small child inside of you that claims shameful, suppressed feelings in your vulnerable moments is scared you'll lose them. 

The little girl is terrified. Open fracture, displaced pelvis, internal bleeding, and a budding tension pneumothorax. 

"On my count, one, two…" The medics transfer her from the gurney to the bed, rattling off her vital signs. Right away, you notice the deviation in her neck, the way her oxygen seems to be rapidly plummeting. 

"What first?" Robby asks.

"Pain management and breathing. We have to relieve the air in the pleural space and intubate to get her Sats back up."

Robby lifts his chin. "Do it."

You pause. "You want me to…?"

"I'll walk you through it. What drugs for sedation?"

You step closer to the bed. "Let's get some morphine on board. Hey, sweetheart, I'm gonna take care of you, okay? Just calm down, let's get the pressure off your lungs." 

Her hand shoots out, and you hold it gently, smoothing her hair as Princess passes you the tools for decompression and the thoracostomy. She takes over the hand holding, and you watch the pain medicine start to take effect. 

You've read about this procedure a hundred times, and when you did your ER rotations in the past, you witnessed plenty of chest tubes placed for a variety of purposes: air, fluid build-up, all of the above. You never actually placed one. You intubated a few cadavers, but never someone so small. Not in a trauma case anyway. Once or twice in pediatric oncology, with your mentor guiding your hands. This time, you're the doctor, and all you have is a teacher speaking to you, but you're in charge of your own hands. 

Robby speaks softly, but firmly, shadowing your movements. "Slow, steady hand, there you go. Perfect." 

The air hisses as it begins to pull from her chest, allowing the lung to inflate. You place the tube under Robby's supervision, and move to address the other issues. She goes under, and you intubate her as you stabilize the pelvic fracture and restore the blood flow to her leg where her femur has been displaced. Robby asks you what labs and films to order, and he has nothing to add to your assessment. 

By the time surgery comes in, Dr. Garcia and Dr. Park both seem impressed with your performance. You rattle off the details of the case without missing a beat, catching them up at rapid speed. 

"You know, I've heard good things about you," Dr. Garcia says. "Have you considered a surgical elective?"

You hesitate. "I mean, maybe? I'm already double-boarding in peds."

Garcia nods. "Just a thought. You could be a good surgeon. Sharky here even thinks so."

"You handled the fracture work well," Dr. Park admits, his face stony with a hint of begrudging approval. "Not bad for an intern."

"On day two, no less," Robby calls over his shoulder. "I think we'll keep our Doctorpedia down here."

The surgeons leave with the little girl. At the nurse's station, Perlah is searching for the girls' parents, combing through the school's emergency contact list. You wish you could do more to help, and part of you wonders what'll happen to her next. If she'll be okay. 

"They don't call him the Shark for no reason. Most of the time he eats interns for breakfast," Collins tells you. "Don't let them poach you. You're doing great where you are."

You've always been a little sheepish when it comes to praise and accepting positive feedback. Probably more side effects of the raging daddy issues. No amount of healing now can fully take that back, but you're trying your best. You're centered, and even if it's only the second day, you know this is the right choice for you. You belong in the ED, helping kids. 

You think back to the girl you were when you were a wide-eyed virgin, thinking you'd become an oncologist or something quieter. When Jack was a stranger, and his gentle suggestion of becoming an emergency doc was just an abstract maybe. Now? You're in a place that's entirely unexpected, and it's okay. All the best-laid plans fall to pieces, and the point of it all is to build them into something better. Bigger. 

"SWAT called," Dana announces. "GSWs, one stable, one trauma. Abbot radio'ed it in."

"Just when I thought I'd get a chance to piss," Robby grumbles. "Tell Jack to take it to Mercy next time."

Dana rolls her eyes. "You tell him that yourself."

My Jack? You wonder. Since when does he work for SWAT?

Then you realize you've started to consider him yours, and it's a dangerous, dangerous feeling. 

You barely have any time to process, running over the steps of a GSW trauma in your mind, before the doors of the ambulance bay burst open, and in comes Jack, dressed in camo, his tactical vest emblazoned SWAT in huge letters. He's bagging a patient bleeding profusely from several holes. 

Jack's rattling off his vitals, estimating the amount of blood volume lost in transit, approximating what kind of rifle at what caliber created the wounds. Even with the leads attached, and his clothes cut out of the way, there's so much blood. You gown up, gloves snapping into place as you stand closely behind Robby. 

At any time, the human body of an adult man contains about 5-6 liters of blood, culminating in 7-8% of total weight. You're not sure how much has already been lost. He's already losing the color in his skin, shaking as he slips closer and closer to hypovolemic shock. 

Robby's saying something to you, but the words don't land. The sound doesn't register. 

"W-What?" you stammer.

"What do we do first?" he asks.

"Central line and set up for a transfusion. O-Neg, type and cross for exact matching, get a full panel, CBC, Chem 7," you rattle off the checklist from memory, thankfully not missing anything. 

"BP's crashing!" Jack announces, his voice shaking ever so slightly. It's a tremble most people would probably dismiss, if they even noticed it. You don't miss the crack in his composure.

This is his friend on the table, you realize.

Robby's voice is gentle, but firm. "Brother, maybe you're a little too close to this one. We should get you checked out."

"I'm fine!" Jack snaps. "Keep bagging for me. We need to reduce the bleeding in the chest cavity or he's never going to make it up to the OR. Get me a rib spreader, let's get a chest tube tray. Doctorpedia!"

You still, almost surprised that he's addressing you directly.

He hooks a finger in your direction, ushering you over. "Come here, I'm gonna teach you how to put in a chest tube."

"An intern doing a thoracostomy?" Princess whispers under her breath in Tagalog, her gloved fingers rhythmically squeezing the bag to keep the airflow steady. 

Perlah replies with visible surprise as she watches you take your position beside Jack. "Guess so," she replies, in the same language. 

You noticed the nurses who gossip in Spanish stopped promptly after you translated for Trinity's patient weeks ago. You decide not to reveal you've picked up quite a bit of Tagalog, not when it might mean information later. Maybe it's a little shady, but you have to keep some cards close. 

"Scalpel," Jack says.

Dr. Abbot, you remind yourself. Right now, he's your teacher, and you can't think about how close he is. You can practically taste the sweat on his brow, feel the heat of his breath across your shoulder. You grab the blade, positioning it accordingly. Mid-axillary line, one thing at a time, cracking his ribs to spread them just enough to place the tube. Jack's behind you the whole time, one hand on your wrist, guiding you, his voice a rasp in your ear.

You can feel him shaking as he talks you through the thoracostomy. 

But the second his bag is hooked up, blood starts pouring from the chest tube like a faucet. The monitor starts beeping frantically, a run of V-Fib flashing over the screen. Everything feels so loud, like a cacophony forged by an ER orchestra, moving at an accelerated pace that defies reason. 

But you can't freeze. You can't stop. 

"He's in V-Fib, start compressions!" Jack shouts. "Let's push some epi. Now!"

The nurses move, pushing the drugs into the line. You see them in your periphery, but you don't turn your head. You can't stop looking at the patient's face, gaunt and slack, a tube helping him breathe. He's cold too, the same way the kid was: a cold that crawls through the gloves and chills your veins.

You step up, over the patient, hand over hand as you deliver compressions to the chest. There's a crunch of his sternum giving way under your hands. If you keep going, you're going to break some of his ribs. It's nothing like the dummies in labs, or other codes. You've never been covered in blood like this before, feeling it coating your gown, spilling from the three wounds along his body. His leg is tourniqueted, blood sluggishly pulsing from a wound on his thigh. There's a shot to his abdomen, another to the chest, just narrowly missing the heart. 

"Paddles!" Robby calls out. "Charge! Clear!"

You step back, and Robby shocks the man on the table. The whole room seems to hold its breath as you glance at the monitor. 

"No change," Jack grunts. "Charge again. Clear!"

The defibrillation dance continues with the same steps: compressions, meds, charging the paddles, placement, the shout, the jolt, and then, the waiting. Watching a monitor to see no change. 

"There's oozing coming out of the IV," Robby reports. "What does that indicate?"

You're out of breath, continuing to press against the patient's chest, remembering the pace they taught you in health class freshman year of college. All the signs are bleak. The patient has long since crashed, and every spot on his body is oozing with blood. What little he has is slipping from his wounds, and the transfuser can't keep up. 

 "His body is having trouble producing clotting factors," you answer. "He's in DIC."

DIC. Disseminated Intravascular Coagulation. It happens after severe traumatic events, like gunshot wounds. Uncontrollable hemorrhaging is bleeding him dry. You scan your brain for all the studies, everything you've learned and read about, hoping to find a way to counteract the DIC. 

"More epi. We should do a clamshell thoracotomy, get me more blood!" Jack shouts. He hovers over the man on the table, his chin quivering ever so slightly as he steels himself and looks at his closed eyes like they'll magically reopen. "Come on, don't do this, Wayne. Come on, man. Don't die on me now."

"Abbot," Robby says. "He's not clotting. There's no change on the monitor. Not even with the epi."

"We just need to give him more blood. Get him more blood!" shouts Jack. Sweat continues to trickle down his temple. "Charge again. Now!"

"Jack," Robby says, more firmly this time. "We have to call it."

"No," Jack replies. His voice cracks. "No, come on. His wife is pregnant. He's got two kids. One more round of epi. One more shock."

"He's in Asystole, man," Robby tells him, his hand on Jack's shoulder. "Call it."

Jack pushes Robby away with a hard shove, shaking his head as he removes his gloves and storms out of the trauma room. Robby blows out a breath, snapping off his gloves. "Time of death, 19:02." 

The nurses start in on the death kit. Dana runs in before you can get your bearings, a little frantic, "Shen's got his hands full in Trauma One. We need you in Two."

"Where are the residents?" Robby asks.

Dana crosses her arms. "Langdon's running a code, Collins is elbow deep in Shen's massacre. Come on. With the turnover happening, it's a jungle out there." Someone calls her away, and Dana's gone just as quickly as she came. 

"Never gonna get to fuckin' piss," Robby mutters as he hustles towards the next trauma room. "Doctorpedia, find Abbot, get the contact information for Wayne's family and radio his sergeant!" He's gone before you can say another word. You peel your gown off, unsure where Jack even went, or if it's a good idea to approach him this soon after a code.

You step out into the corridor, the smell of blood burning under your nostrils. 

"Pro tip," Dana yells from Central. "He's probably on the roof, getting air."

"Thanks," you say.

"Don't mention it," she replies. "You did good in there."

And you still couldn't save him. You don't want to argue with her, even if you don't know how to take the compliment, so you just give her a brisk nod and take off for the elevators. You hit the Roof Access button on the panel, sucking in a sharp breath.

You have no idea what state Jack will be in when you get there, and frankly? You're scared you'll cut yourself on those sharp, exposed edges.

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THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE!!! Whether you’re a tumblr or an ao3 reader, I see you, I love you, etc !! I’m gonna start posting more Crash Course content on TikTok [at] fxckingjo_ and Instagram [at] jofayewrites so follow me there ;)

how are we feeling, gang? what do we think is coming next? i cannot wait, personally.

It occurs to you when your alarm goes off at 5:30 in the morning that you have no idea what today is going to look like. You hated school until you finished your GED and went to college, so it wasn't until later in life that you got excited for the first day of school. The butterflies, the anticipation—you thrived under it. Preened under academic pressure, sort of like a peacock.

Now you're at the bottom of the food chain. And in less than two hours, you have to look Jack Abbot in the eye at handoffs. 

You roll out your yoga mat, and when you bend into a pretzel, you stare at your unbuilt coffee table and cringe. For all of your genius, you and wrenches don't mix, so you and IKEA are sworn enemies here on out. You exhale your frustration in a back bend, and finish your twenty-minute flow feeling more antsy than when you started. High-strung and uncertain, that's you.

You shower, braid your hair to keep it out of your face, change into your scrubs, hang your stethoscope around your neck, and slide your feet into comfortable tennis shoes. They're a chunky, orthopedic pair that give grandmother vibes more than anything, but if you wind up pulling a twenty-hour day, you'll thank yourself later. You step out of your front door with two steaming travel cups of espresso from your machine: a graduation present your father got you. Trinity was jealous the moment she saw it.

She takes the mug from you and yawns. "Doctorpedia, you're my hero."

"Don't thank me yet. I could've burned the beans. No idea how hot they're supposed to be."

"It's perfect, and I hate you," she cuts you off. "Making fucking lattes in your kitchen? Is there anything you can't do? That's the stuff of dreams, babe."

She's devouring her coffee, and you can't help but snort. "Glad you like it."

"Might have to give me a spare key."

"Mmmm, we'll see." You nudge her shoulder with yours, heading to your cars. You thought about carpooling, but depending on the residents and attendings, you don't know if you'll be off at the same time. 

Petunia's engine turns over as you switch the stereo on. The right playlist can set the mood, so you curated one carefully last night. The upbeat tune is a nice grounding tool as you cruise down the road, the music occasionally broken by your GPS chirping directions at you. Your new parking pass hangs from the rearview mirror, swinging as you enter the parking garage at PTMC. On your way in, you notice Jack's truck, and steady your breath as you park. It's a bit of a walk down to the ED, but you catch up to Trinity in the stairwell.

"You ready?" you ask her.

Trinity shrugs. "I was born ready."

"Next, you're going to tell everyone danger is your middle name or some shit."

"Unless you've seen my birth certificate, you don't know for sure." She wiggles her eyebrows at you, swiping her badge and holding the door. "After you."

The hospital, outside of the emergency department, looks like an idyllic catalog, the sort of corridors that belong on a brochure. The ED? You think comparing it to the Purge would be an understatement. The moment you step in through the staff door, you're assaulted with stimuli, lights flashing, and patients screaming. 

A woman thrashes on a gurney, hands in restraints, arms covered in track marks. "I'LL KILL YOU, YOU BASTARDS! I'LL KILL YOU ALL!" 

"She seems nice," Trinity mumbles once you're out of earshot.

The central desk is a hub, lined with the giant TVs that form the Board, with rooms, patient numbers, and brief abbreviations for chief complaints. Nurses are milling around the area, a tech delivering labs and racking an iPad, and a Black doctor dictating notes. You're reminded of a beehive, and you suppose that means you should start looking for the Queen.

When a tall, blonde woman with stern features pushes her sunglasses up on top of her head, you immediately notice the Charge Nurse badge clipped to her scrubs. 

The night shift charge nurse greets her with a smile. "Dana, thank god you're here. I've had to pee for the last hour and after four kids…"

"Don't gotta tell me twice, Lena," Dana says. "Go. We'll debrief when you're back."

The other nurse, who you now know as Lena, scurries off with a nod. 

"Suddenly regretting the coffee," you mutter drily. "Damn diuretics."

"I'll wear a diaper if I have to. No fucking way I'm getting through today without my bean juice."

"I feel the same way," a new voice says. The pair of you turn to see an Asian man in black scrubs with an attending badge clipped to his hip. He sits down behind one of the computers to chart, eyeing the two of you. "You must be the new interns. John Shen. Attending. The zombie over there is Parker Ellis, senior rez."

The Black woman pauses her dictations, groaning. "Don't forget I bite, Shen."

Shen holds his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm not the one who had a hot date yesterday. Not my fault you didn't get your beauty sleep."

"Bite me." Ellis rolls her eyes and continues rattling off her notes for the chart.

"I'm Trinity Santos, R1," Trinity says. 

You introduce yourself, and Shen's eyebrows raise. "The double boarder, yeah?" he asks.

You nod.

"Can't wait to have you on nights. None of us is that good with kids, except maybe Abbot, but he's the Senior, so he's pretty busy most of the time." He pats you on the shoulder. "When Robby gets in, we'll do rounds."

You nod, and Trinity glances over at you, elbowing you. "Already showing off."

"Just wait until they see you with a scalpel," you reply. "Then they'll really be impressed."

Dana, the charge nurse, walks over to you with the confident stroll of someone well established, even in the chaos. "New interns, huh? Welcome to the Pitt. I'm Dana Evans, the charge nurse on days, most of the time. And you are…" You introduce yourselves again, and she beams warmly. "It can be a lot at first, but trust that if you matched here, you're meant to be here. You can do this."

When she turns her back, Trinity mutters, "You think other interns have quit the first day?"

"Definitely," you whisper back.

You can find the med students immediately, who look a little lost, a little young, and it's strange to think that was you, not two months ago. You exchange the obligatory introductions, trying to breathe. Out and in. 

And then he walks out of Curtain Area 2. "Get the full work-up. Shotgun approach, all the labs. Robby will take over when he's in. You're gonna be okay, Mrs. Baker." You don't hear the patient's reply over the rush of blood in your ears as your heart slams into your ribs and stops. Because Jack's eyes are on yours. And it's like the whole world slows down for a second before he looks away.

Dr. Robinavitch enters looking a bit run ragged, his hair messy, his beard streaked with grey, but even still, there's warmth in his brown eyes. He and Jack exchange one of those handshakes turned hugs that must come in the guy handbook, and all the residents from both shifts gather at Central. 

"Welcome to the Pitt," Dr. Robinavitch says, clapping his hands together. "I am Dr. Michael Robinavitch, and I'm the Chief of Emergency Medicine at PTMC. Everyone calls me Dr. Robby, or just Robby. My senior attending, the VP of this shitshow oval office, is Dr. Jack Abbot, who primarily works nights."

Jack straightens his shoulders, and you try not to admire the way his scrub top strains over his chest, curving around his full biceps. Sweet Jesus, you could die from the fantasies alone. 

Robby continues talking, oblivious to the way you and Jack keep stealing looks at each other. "The ringleader of our circus is Charge Nurse Dana Evans. If you can't find an attending, she is a wealth of knowledge. Stay on the nurses' good side, and they'll save your asses. Don't? You'll be wiping asses until the end of your residency and won't be crying about it to me."

He goes through a few more housekeeping items, the basic how-to, and the functions of the Pitt. Then, you start looking around at the other residents. A handsome, tall man with blue eyes and a cleft in his chin, introduces himself as Frank Langdon, R4. Another R4, a Black woman with short dark hair and warm dark eyes, introduces herself next as Heather Collins. Samira Mohan is an R3 with bronze skin and curly hair who offers you a reassuring smile that makes you feel more at ease. An older, dark-haired woman in a hoodie calls herself Cassie McKay, R3.

You introduce yourself after Trinity, and Robby's eyes light up with recognition. "The pediatric doc, that's right."

You nod. "Yeah, that's me."

You start your rounds around the curtain area, where a small child is still waiting for a bed, doing a breathing treatment with a nebulizer device that spans half his body. 

Robby listens to the kid's chest, his smile soft. "Who can tell me the most common causes of pneumonia in a child under five?"

"RSV and bacteria, specifically Streptococcus pneumoniae," you answer.

"And what is accomplished by the nebulizer? Perhaps one of the students?"

Both of the med students stare blankly at Robby. One of them opens his notebook, frantically flipping through the pages like it'll give him the answer in a heartbeat. 

You hold up a finger and answer shyly, "Opening his airways, clearing mucus, and preventing further bronchospasms."

"And his Sats are climbing," Robby says. "Come on, keep it moving. Who can tell me the average wait time for an emergency room before seeing a physician?"

"Two hours?" one of the students guesses.

"In urban hospitals, over four hours," you mumble.

Robby nods. "Right again. We see patients in order of severity, prioritizing critical cases. We see people when we can, as fast as we can, and if a patient complains about the wait time, kindly remind them waiting means they'll live to complain another day."

A few people chuckle. You work through the rest of the patients, and every question that Robby asks, you wait before answering. No one likes a know-it-all, so you try to give the others the space. Inevitably, he always looks at you out of curiosity.

"Doctorpedia strikes again," Trinity remarks, though not unkindly.

Robby pairs Trinity with McKay in triage and tells you to stick around for the incoming trauma, an MVC pile-up with two criticals coming in five minutes. The rest of the residents disperse, and you wait at Central, running over the steps for navigating a trauma in your head. 

"Doctorpedia, huh?" Abbot remarks when she's walked away. "Suits you."

You shoot him a sharp glare, warning him with your eyes. A silent warning not to advertise that the two of you know each other. You introduce yourself, holding his stare, and offer your hand.

His eyes twinkle with mischief, but he plays along. "Jack Abbot."

You drop his hand, trying not to remember what his touch feels like, how he held your face at the baseball game and kissed you like he meant it. Like a promise. Too bad it was a promise he wouldn't be able to keep. 

"You look familiar," he adds. 

You bite your lip. "Can't imagine why."

He stands back, head cocked as his eyes skim over your face. He's assessing you, for a fragile second, before backing off. "I'll see you in twelve hours for handoffs," he says at last. "Doctorpedia."

At least it's not sweetheart, you think to yourself, as he walks away with his bag and jacket slung over his shoulder. Before you can think twice about it, the medics burst through the double doors of the ambulance bay. You glove up as they rattle off vital signs, looking at the middle-aged woman on the stretcher, her neck held in a C-collar, a huge gash bleeding above her brow. Small nicks from shattered glass paint her cheek, some pieces still wedged beneath the skin.

You glove up, gown up, and get to work.

Robby walks you through an intubation, and you correctly diagnose the splenic laceration causing her respiratory distress. Her pulse is tachy and thready, and you run the fluids at Robby's instruction, stabilizing her just enough to get her up to the OR. After the trauma, you remove your gown and gloves, and Robby nods his approval.

"Fantastic work with that trauma," Robby says. "You'll be working with Dr. Langdon today. He's one of our senior residents, and I trust you'll learn a lot from him."

"Frank," Langdon says, shaking your hand. "Let's move."

The first six hours of your day are a blur. 

Any emergency department is pure chaos; that's just the job, but the Pitt is a different beast entirely. Urban trauma centers are always underfunded and understaffed, and the burden on doctors increases when homeless populations and low-income families come in without insurance. It breaks your heart and contributes to the brutal wait times. 

Langdon is a cowboy. A lot of emergency physicians are the shoot-first, ask-questions-later types who act on instinct and experience rather than on calculated diagnostics. Nine times out of ten, it pays off. You fear the one time. It's why you're usually careful in a trauma, relying on what you've read. Statistics are your edge. You stick with the numbers, the careful approach.

Langdon is a good teacher, and he's funny too. A bit ADHD, bouncing around the place, but he guides you through an intubation and listens to your feedback when ordering work-ups for patients. 

You're charting at Central in the early afternoon when Trinity comes by. "Hey, Doctorpedia, I need a favor. Translators were paged an hour ago, and this woman only speaks Spanish." 

"One sec," you say, before signing out and walking over.

The patient is an older woman, possibly with an altered mental status, but you sit with her and patiently ask her questions in Spanish. By the time labs are ordered, translators have come down, and you have more patients to see.

"Gracias," the woman says. 

"De nada," you reply. "Vamos a cuidar bien de ti."

"You speak Spanish?" Langdon asks when you come back to Central. 

You nod. "French and ASL too. I pick up languages fast, I guess. Plus, the only satellite channels we got in our trailer were telenovelas. You'd be shocked how much you can learn from a good soap."

"I'll take your word for it," he replies. "Update me on Curtain Five?"

The patient's name is Andrew Gallagher, and his teenage daughter brought him in after they were weight training and he felt a tearing sensation in the chest. Otherwise, he's perfectly healthy. Non-smoking, no drugs or alcohol. He teaches history at a local high school, and despite his pain, he seemed to be in good spirits. 

"I think we need to do a CT," you begin hesitantly, "he has no risk factors for aortic dissection, but he's not having a heart attack, and the pain level is disproportionate to any non-cardiac causes. The ultrasound was also a little muddy."

"Muddy how? You probably did it wrong," Langdon says. "The guy probably just pulled a muscle in the gym. He's only forty-two, in good shape. The EKG was normal."

"I just think a CT is warranted." Your tone sharpens a bit, and you stand straighter. Jack would tell you to advocate for yourself, to assert your opinion, and fight for the patient. You know the test is expensive, even for an insured patient, but you're willing to bet on it. 

Langdon sighs, shaking his head. "Look, I get that you're smart, but you're looking for a zebra when it's just a horse. It's okay, it happens, but we need the bed, and he's doing fine. Get him a cardiology follow-up if pain persists, and send him home. Robby will tell you the same thing."

He walks away before you can say anything else, and you mull it over, frowning. 

Dr. Collins glances over at you from her position in front of the board. "How sure are you?"

You blink a few times, a bit confused. "What do you mean?"

"You think it's an aortic dissection, even if the evidence says otherwise," she replies calmly. "How sure are you that it's a cardiac emergency? Enough to subject him to a longer wait and a CT scan?"

You consider it for a moment, then nod. "I think it's worth the scan. To rule it out. Because if we send him home, he could deteriorate, and if it is a dissection, especially Type A, he could drop dead before making it back to the ER."

"I'll sign off," she says. "My first week here, I had an instinct, and my resident ignored it. The kid had an aneurysm that burst and killed him. CT was clean, but if we'd done an angiogram, we would've found it. Could have saved him. It's hard, being a woman in medicine, but trust your gut."

"I'll order the scan," you decide. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me until you're sure it's a Zebra. I'm putting my neck out for you." 

An hour later, you're working up a patient near Central when you hear Robby at the board. "Hey, what's up with Curtain Five? I thought we were discharging him. Why's he still there?"

Dana shrugs. "He's Langdon's."

"And he should be discharged," Langdon says, frowning. His eyes find yours, accusatory. "Why the hell is he still here?"

"I ordered a CT."

"Who told you to do that?"

"Collins said—"

"Collins is not his doctor, I am," Langdon interjects. "You've been a doctor for five minutes, and now you've wasted his time and subjected him to more unnecessary tests. For what? Not to mention, you went behind my back—"

Dr. Collins rushes over, holding one of the tablets with test results on the screen. "CT's back. It's a Type A. He's bleeding into his chest cavity, and the damage is only increasing. He's getting redlined up to the OR."

She hands the iPad over to Robby, who whistles. "That's a nasty one. Good pick-up, Doc, but next time, run a disagreement with your resident by me first. Talk to an attending, okay?"

You nod. "I apologize."

"Don't apologize for advocating for your patients," Robby says, squeezing your shoulder. "Keep those instincts. Langdon's fantastic, but seniority does not always mean right."

Langdon's jaw clenches. "You got lucky, okay?"

"I know."

"Just remember your place," he says. "Mr. Sandoval needs a rectal. Handle it."

You know you're not above rectal examinations and disimpactions, but you also know he's doing it on purpose. The timing is too deliberate to be ignored. Still, you handle it like a pro, and just as you're ready to discharge him, another trauma comes in, and Robby yells your name.

"What do we got?" Robby asks, gowning up. 

"Active labor, thirty-nine weeks, symptoms of pre-eclampsia." The medic rattles off more vitals as they transfer the patient, a sweaty woman covered in blood, howling in agony.

You tell her your name, helping place her O2 mask. "What's your name?" 

"Emily," she stammers out. 

"Okay, Emily, we've got you. We have to get this baby delivered to minimize the risk to you," Robby says, snapping his gloves into place. He calls you over. "What do you see?"

"Fully effaced and dilated," you report back.

"That means we're delivering."

Another contraction hits Emily, and she screams. 

"You can do this," a nurse, you think her name is Perlah, tells her, smoothing her hair. "You ready to meet your baby?"

"Page OB, now!" Robby hollers. 

Emily nods. "C-Call my husband."

"He's on his way," Perlah says. "I need you to breathe."

Robby nods, helping you position the patient. "Hold her legs. That's it. On the next contraction, we need you to push."

What you don't expect is shoulder dystocia. The baby's head comes out first, but catches on the pubic bone. You panic for a fraction of a second, but Robby moves you out of the way and maneuvers the baby smoothly, expertly. She's out in two more pushes, and you clip the umbilical cord, relieved when the first tiny cry pierces the air. After the placenta is delivered and meds are pushed to stop the pre-eclampsia, you stabilize Emily in time for OB to take over. They move her and the baby upstairs in record time, and you stand there, reeling.

"On my first shift as a med student, I delivered a baby in the backseat of a car. I wasn't even supposed to be out front, but I got sick from a trauma. Degloving. Nasty stuff," Robby says. "I delivered a beautiful baby boy, and I knew I was in the right spot. True story. Kid's in college now, but I still get a Christmas card."

"Wow," you say. 

"Hold onto your wins from today. It'll help when you lose your first patient."

You barely have time to process the birth before the next patient needs your attention. Everything in the Pitt runs at a breakneck pace, and you can't afford to slow down. By the time seven o'clock rolls around, and the night shift is coming in, you're exhausted, but adrenaline is surging through your veins.

"We have a drowning victim coming in. Three-year-old, unsupervised in the bathtub," Dana informs you. 

Robby and Langdon are already wrapped up in a different trauma, a cop with a GSW to the chest, and you're the only resident near Central, desperately searching for an attending. 

Jack drops his backpack at the desk when the gurney rolls in. "Doctorpedia, you're with me," he orders, jogging to meet the paramedics. You run after him, horrified when you take in the sight of the little kid they're bagging. Or trying, rather.

The boy looks so small, his lips blue, his skin the grey pallor of someone already dead. His mother is hysterical, and Dana holds her back as you move him into Trauma Two. The look in her eyes says it all. 

This is honest-to-god pediatric trauma. Brutal and unflinching, hitting you like an ambush when you've just found your footing. You signed up for this, but for whatever reason, it hasn't felt real before now.

"What's his downtime?" Jack asks.

"Not sure, twenty minutes?" the paramedic guesses.

You know the stats, you know his downtime indicates brain damage. The likely outcome is not good. The prognosis is bleak. 

"Push epi," Jack orders. "I need you to check his pupils, check him out."

"Fixed and dilated," you report back, after a moment. "Oh, god."

"Take over compressions," Jack tells you. 

You're shocked at how much force is required to get the heart moving. You can feel his ribs, the crack as his chest gives from your compressions. "Shouldn't we shock him?"

Jack shakes his head. "Not yet. Gotta see if he'll give us a rhythm we can work with—"

"Come on, kiddo," you whisper. "Come on."

You can hear his mother screaming, a tortured sound that chills your blood. You do your best to tune it out, focusing on the rhythm of your hands, the pace required for CPR. Even through your gloves, you can feel how cold he is.

Like a cadaver. A dead body, DOA. 

But you keep trying. ERs are places built on medical marvels, on everyday people on their worst days, enduring brutal trauma and working miracles anyway. When death is a question, not a finality. 

For the next half hour, you do everything you can to bring him back. You push epi, you perform CPR until you're exhausted and sweating, and Jack guides you through the whole nine. You do everything you can, but you know it's a foregone conclusion.

That doesn't stop you from trying. 

"Okay," Jack says. "It's time to call it."

"We could push more epi," you protest.

He shakes his head. "He's been down too long. He's gone. It's time to call it."

"Ja—Dr. Abbot—"

He says your name, softly, his hand on your back between your shoulders. "Call it, Doc. It's time."

"Time of death," you whisper. Then you clear your throat, speaking louder. "Time of death: nineteen forty-two." 7:42 pm, a child dies, and you're the final hands that retreat from trying to save him.

You pull off your gloves, a ragged sound pushing from behind your teeth. Your breath is shaky. "We have to tell his mother."

"I can handle that," Jack says. "You take a breather, okay? Take a seat in the break room."

You don't remember the walk to the doctor's lounge, or sitting down on the sofa, or even registering how long you've been sitting there, staring at the wall and trying to forget the sound of his mother's wails. 

You witnessed life today and brought a child into the world. You saved a father with a difficult, rare diagnosis. You did great things.

And you watched a boy die.

Jack comes in slowly, almost hesitantly. "You're off, sweetheart. Go home."

"In a second," you whisper. You reach up to find your cheeks are damp. You're crying? When did you start crying? 

He sits down beside you on the couch, close, but not dangerously slow. Not in a way that breaches the boundary between attending and resident. Intern, actually. You're brand-new, and he's your boss, or close enough.

But you don't want Dr. Abbot. You want Jack. 

"Next kid you get, you'll save. You'll save thousands by the time you're done with residency. This is peds, and it's brutal, but it's the job. You were excellent. Couldn't have done a better job myself."

"But he's dead," you remind him, and a fresh tear slides down your cheek. 

"We couldn't have saved him. He was dead when he came in," Jack tells you. 

"So why did we try anyway?"

"To learn the procedure for a drowning victim," he answers. "I wanted to walk you through all the steps, show you how to run a code."

"You knew it was hopeless?"

"I did."

Your anger is white-hot, clawing up your chest. "Why would you do that?"

"To teach you. Because sometimes we do get them back."

"It's cruel, giving his mother hope."

"It's not," Jack corrects you. "That kind of loss is devastating, and we saved her for a few moments longer. And you learned something."

"I learned something," you spit the words. "You know what? Screw you. That was fucked up, and you know it."

"I know you're emotional, and I'll forgive this one, but at the end of the day, I am the attending, and you need to trust me as your teacher. You want to keep it professional? Act like it." 

You feel like an admonished child, and you don't know if it's because of the case or your history. Everything feels loaded and uncertain here, and you can barely breathe without being aware of him, every part of him, just inches from you. 

"Got it," you say bitterly. "Crystal fucking clear, Dr. Abbot."

A beat. Silence where you just sit and breathe, and he breathes with you, his hazel eyes heavy and piercing as he watches over you, making sure you won't break. 

"Take care of yourself. It doesn't get easier, but you get better at handling it," he tells you. 

You don't say anything else. Don't trust yourself to. So you walk away silently, replaying every minute of the code over and over again in your mind. 

Feeling zesty? Save the official crash course soundtrack on Spotify!

I am still writing my pilot spec script for a night shift spinoff of The Pitt. I will post it as soon as I'm done. Maybe we could get the writers on it, idk!

THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE!!! Whether you’re a tumblr or an ao3 reader, I see you, I love you, etc !! I’m gonna start posting more Crash Course content on TikTok [at] fxckingjo_ and Instagram [at] jofayewrites so follow me there ;)

Really, you should've seen this coming.

You can't get the hell out of Jack's house soon enough. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results out of it, and you've ridden this carousel one too many times.  

  You know there's physical attraction, sure, but if sex were all Jack was after, he'd have a much easier time getting it from a nameless, age-appropriate stranger at a bar. The guy's hot. Anyone with eyes can see that. And even if he was medium-ugly, he's a homeowner with a gym in his condo. You don't know much about middle-aged bachelors, but you have to assume he's the cream of the crop. The unicorn: anomalous and screwing all the data for the rest of them.  

Your mom dated enough losers for you to be discerning about men. Most of them aren't intelligent enough to keep up a front longer than a couple of weeks, and bullshit, much like all things subjected to the basic laws of physics, rolls downhill. Everything catches up eventually. 

You've spent enough hours around Jack to know what kind of man he is, and it made you fall for him the first time around. He just had to be so damned good, to his core. It's also why he never lets himself get too close, too real. Every time he lets you in, he pushes you away further. You can empathize—you've got more baggage than an international airport—but you've decided you're done with Jack. Done hoping. 

You get a confirmation email from the moving company early Monday morning, before Jack is even home, the chime of your inbox waking you from a fretful, dreamless sleep. One Uber later, you're reunited with Petunia and a deceptively full truck with all your worldly possessions and some furniture you couldn't talk to your dad out of buying. The building manager gives you your keys and a code for the electronic lock on your front door, and you do a little dance in the elevator with relief. You have keys! You have your own place! You're not down the hall from Jack anymore, which is for the best, as far as both of you are concerned.

The movers make short work of unloading the truck, and when you offer to help, they refuse. Since you feel awkward waiting around in the hall as the movers walk in and out, you decide to sit on the couch, new and a bit too firm, thick with the smell of the plastic cover it was shipped with, and read a journal of emergency medicine, like it'll calm your nerves. 

In about half an hour, it's just you and your endless sea of brown boxes. Your first order of business is to mount a key holder to the wall, but one look at your brand-new drill has you a bit confused. Command hooks, it is. Petunia's keys hang proudly on your otherwise bare wall. Somewhere in the abyss are posters and paintings, but you'll have to read the labels to figure out which boxes hold what.

This is a welcome distraction. You can handle this. 

Well, mostly. Anything that requires power tools, on the other hand, might be a little trickier. 

Several hours later, your apartment has been sorted into five cardboard islands: living room, bedroom, office—which is a generous way to describe the small nook, more like half a room—and yoga studio, bathroom, and kitchen. You're glad you color-coded the labels with a Sharpie, which has made the task more bearable, and all the furniture is labeled with a picture of the item (assembly, regrettably, not included) and emblazoned with the company logo, so it's easy to place. 

You start with the important stuff like toiletries, towels, and your scrubs, before moving on to the less important things, like your record collection, which isn't nearly as impressive as Jack's, and all the random remotes and cords that live in a junk drawer. By dinner time, your stomach is growling, and you're kicking yourself for not stealing some essentials out of Jack's kitchen. 

A loud crash, barely muffled by the wall between your apartment and your neighbor's, startles you. You almost miss it over the sound of Hole blaring through a Bluetooth speaker, Courtney Love's rasp familiar. Your mom loved grunge, especially riot grrrl rock. 

"Motherfucker!" A voice cries out. "Jesus fucking—"

You decide to be brave and open the door to introduce yourself. Maybe you'll offer a helping hand too, since the riot girl next door seems to be having trouble moving an awkward piece of furniture. The first thing you see is the futon, shoved halfway into the front door of 322. You're in Unit 323, which sits at the corner of the complex. The angle on this end of the hallway is a bit steep.

"Hello?" you call out.

A head of dark brown hair pops out from behind the futon. "Hi! Sorry if the music's loud with the door open. I'll turn it down when I get this stupid fucking couch inside." She huffs, blue eyes sharp, even in the light of the hall. "I'm Trinity, by the way."

You introduce yourself. "I'm 323," you add, gesturing to your open door. "You want some help with that?"

"Didn't you just move in too?" Trinity asks. "Aren't you, like, tired or some shit?"

You shake your head. "My dad hired movers."

She whistles. "Too rich for my blood."

"Between us, I tried to help them too."

She snorts. "Well, I don't know if you can work miracles, Neighbor, but I'm pretty sure this stupid thing isn't going to make it past the threshold."

You eyeball the door frame, then the couch, doing the math in your head. "Hold it at a hundred and ten degree angle. Like this—" You lean over, pushing the couch up and then back. Mercifully, it slides inside.

"That was a weirdly specific number," Trinity observes. 

You shrug. "I like math."

You finish pushing it the rest of the way, until the futon has a comfortable spot in front of the flatscreen TV, which is just sitting on the floor for now, unplugged. She's got a decent amount of boxes, too, in various states of unpacking. Her apartment is a mirror image of yours, minus a giant speaker for music on the kitchen counter, still playing in the background.

"Glamorous, huh?" she says, deadpan tone hiding a hint of self-consciousness. "I had enough for the move and the deposit. The intern salary hasn't kicked in yet, so I'm really looking forward to those pennies."

"Intern?" Your tone brightens. "Are you a doctor too?"

"Too?" she replies. "No shit!"

You can't believe your luck, winding up living next door to a fellow doctor, especially one who's also starting off her career. It's a relief. You don't imagine you'll have much time for cultivating relationships outside of the hospital, at least for the first year, so having someone to relate to in the same boat might just keep you sane. 

"I'm starting in the ED at PTMC, tomorrow actually," you tell her.

Her mouth falls open, brows shooting up in wonder. "Small fuckin' world! Guess I know my competition now." She doesn't say it in a mean-spirited way, already joking like the two of you are old friends. Your mother always said if you made at least one on your first day, you'd be alright. Up until this point, you've never been very good at making friends, but maybe you're turning the corner. 

"I wouldn't call it competition," you joke back.

"As long as you're not trying for a surgical elective too," Trinity says.

You shake your head immediately. The idea alone is making your blood pressure skyrocket. When you first interviewed, you were totally into it, but now? Now you’ve got too much going on to seriously consider it. "Nah, I'm already double-boarding. I really don't need to add more to my plate."

She nudges your shoulder with hers. "God, I hate you already. Double-boarding in what?"

"Pediatrics and emergency med," you answer.

"I hate kids," she says. "More power to you."

Your stomach growls again, reminding you of the reason you took a break from unpacking. "Hey, do you know any good places to eat around here?" you ask her. "My treat."

"Free food? Say less, Neighbor!"

Half an hour later, the two of you are splitting a pizza in your apartment, sprawled out on the couch with a cardboard box serving as the coffee table, since you have no idea how to put yours together. 

Through a mouthful of pepperoni grease, Trinity asks, "So where'd you go to med school?" 

"Columbia."

"You bitch!" But there's no malice in her words. "So you're smart-smart."

"So are you, because you matched into a program like PTMC," you tell her. "What about you?"

"UW," she says. "Seattle."

"Now the grunge music makes sense."

"Courtney speaks to me, what can I say?"

You've always liked grunge music because it's what your mom enjoyed. Something about the thrash of the guitars and the rage always felt raw and honest, in a way other genres didn't. You've always been an omnivore in terms of taste, but rock holds a special place in your heart, especially because she's gone. "Half of my childhood was spent listening to my mom sing along to 'Miss World' on a loop," you say with a smile.

"No shit. She sounds so cool."

"She was the best."

Trinity doesn't miss the past-tense to your words, and her smile softens with sympathy. "I'm sorry. When did she pass?"

"Before med school. About five years now," you answer. "And it's okay. It's part of life."

"Now I feel like an asshole for all the times I wished my stepdad would die."

You know there's a story there, a wound scabbed over that bubbles up under the words, but you don't pry yet. You just met, so sharing trauma seems a bit extreme for the moment. "If he deserves it, don't feel bad. Just hope he never codes in front of you."

She laughs so hard that soda sprays out of her nose. Which, in turn, makes you laugh harder, until both of you have moved past the heaviness of the earlier conversation. 

"You from around here?" she asks, changing the subject.

"California, actually."

"Huh. I wouldn't have guessed that."

"Why? No tan?" You've never been the bronze, surfer girl stereotype, which suited you just fine, since most of your time was spent in the library or working shitty minimum wage jobs. While the Golden State is your home and a part of your story, you can admit you're not the quintessential Cali archetype.

"It's just your vibe, you know." Those blue eyes narrow, like she's reading your aura in real time or something. "What's your star sign?"

You tell her, rolling your eyes. "I'm not sure I believe in all that."

"Very on brand," she replies, wagging her finger. "So, was PTMC your first choice? I was kind of hoping for Hopkins. I did an elective rotation at their pain clinic, but this was my second rank."

"I thought about UCLA, to be closer to my siblings, but this place just felt right to me. I guess I could've tried to stay in New York, I interviewed enough, and I loved Columbia, but it wasn't meant to be. For whatever reason, Pittsburgh was the only choice. I don't know where I'd be."

Most of the time, you second-guess everything you do, every decision you make. On nights when you can't sleep, you visit your memory palace and turn every choice over and over, inside out, as if you can suddenly make a different call. It's agonizing. Somehow, Pittsburgh was the only gut instinct you didn't doubt. 

"I'm liking it so far," she admits. "At least I finally know someone here."

"Yeah, I get what you mean." It's a weight off your shoulders you didn't even know you were carrying. If the only person you had any connection with was your dad's middle-aged best friend turned situationship, you're pretty sure the hospital and the city would eat you alive.

"Are you nervous for orientation?" she asks.

"Not orientation so much as everything else," you admit, wincing. "I mean, I did the rotations in med school, and I survived all kinds of brutal clinical placements and asshole doctors, but now all of a sudden, I'm the doctor. I'm the real adult."

"I know, right? I'm scared I'm gonna forget all the steps of an intubation in front of my attendings. I keep having this recurring nightmare about it," Trinity tells you. "The dream always ends with that I forgot to wear pants plot twist from hell."

You've definitely had those dreams, too, born out of anxiety and too many hours cramming on three hours of sleep. "I'm more afraid of freezing during a trauma. The memory part is easy."

"What's your trick?" she asks. "Numonics? A song you made up?"

You could lie, but you told yourself that a fresh start means owning yourself. Including your weird, fucked-up mind, and all your little neuroses. "I don't, um, have one."

Trinity's head tilts in obvious confusion. "What the hell do you mean you don't have one?"

"I have this weird memory thing," you say shyly. "I remember everything I've ever read."

"Like a photographic memory?" She sounds suspicious, which is fair. The few kids with eidetic memories grow out of it by the time they're teenagers, so statistically, it's pretty improbable to make it to your twenties absorbing everything like a sponge. Improbable does not mean impossible, though, and with all the strange coincidences in your life, all the choices coming together in the strangest ways, you've learned life is a lot bigger than numbers.

Which sucks. If only everything could just be math. 

"Eidetic," you correct her.

She shakes her head. "No fucking way that's true."

"I wish. Sometimes it's the worst."

She pauses for a moment, thinking it over. You're pretty sure Trinity has a fantastic, built-in bullshit detector, and she's currently trying to suss you out. She leans a little closer, and you fight the urge to giggle. "Mmmm. Let me test you," she says. "Annals of Emergency Medicine, latest issue, page twenty." You rattle off the first several lines of the article, including the footnotes, and she follows along on her phone, eyes almost boggling out of her head. "What the fuck? Okay, when was Kennedy assassinated?"

"November 22nd, 1963." Easy question, you tested out of AP United States history in the eighth grade. You also watched a lot of Jeopardy! as a kid, since satellite TV is bare-bones programming, and you were always too broke for cable. Hell, you were too poor for WiFi until you were old enough to pay for it. Between trivia shows and the library, you're full of useless information. 

She switches gears, almost bouncing with excitement. "The chord progression in Taylor Swift's 'Shake It Off' is…?"

Everyone has a Swiftie era. You're just a girl, after all. "Am, C, G Major."

A pause. Trinity theatrically taps her chin. "Name the bones in the feet."

It's an easy question, and she probably knows the answer since she's also fresh out of med school. You frown, but you indulge her anyway. "Talus, Calcaneus, Navicular, Cuboid, Medial, Intermediate, and Lateral Cuneiforms, Metatarsals, and Phalanges. In total, there are twenty-six in each foot, for a cumulative fifty-two together." 

"How far away is Mercury from Saturn?"

You love getting to revisit one of your favorite science classes from undergrad, and since Stella loves space, the knowledge is especially fresh. "That's a trick question. They orbit the sun at different speeds, so it varies. At minimum, it's approximately 850 million miles, and at maximum, it's 1.01 billion miles. In Astronomical Units, abbreviated as AU, the minimum is 9.14 AU, and the maximum is 9.87 AU."

"Dude!" Trinity exclaims. "Can you remember Pi. Like, all of Pi?"

"Not all of Pi, it's an endless number."

"Jesus H. Christ, you're un-fucking-believable. Anytime we take a test, I'm copying off you."

You snort. "I'm glad you're amused."

"Doctorpedia over here," she remarks. "I can't decide if I hate you, want to be you, or be your best friend."

"Hopefully the third one?"

She nods. "Deal."

Orientation goes off without a hitch. 

You and Trinity ride in together, deciding that carpooling is more eco-conscious and gives you an excuse to pass the AUX back and forth so you can judge each other's taste. Your favorite band of all time is Queen, and hers, of course, is a tie between Hole and Nirvana. You both had a boy band phase, but when you were a One Direction girl, she leaned towards 5SOS. It's crazy how easy it is to be friends with her. You always felt like a fish out of water, so being around someone who matches your weirdness is everything you've ever wanted.

You take your ID photos, marveling at the way your badges say Doctor on them, followed by your names and the PTMC logo. All of the R1s across every department are crammed into one auditorium for the presentation about the hospital, the history of the program, and a little humble bragging about the prestige and cutting-edge research of the institution. 

The tour and presentations are all finished by the afternoon, and you and Trinity head back to your respective apartments, trying to get everything unpacked before residency officially starts. Having no free time and being constantly on call will make it impossible to get anything done after today. 

Unfortunately for you, memorizing the instructions for using a drill doesn't make you any more sure about how to actually use it without injuring yourself, destroying the furniture, or forfeiting your security deposit by punching holes in the drywall with a drill bit. Sure, you might think you're smart, but when it comes to handyman stuff, you're clueless. 

Ashleigh calls to check in around eight o'clock your time, the FaceTime request lighting up your screen as you inspect the different pieces of your tool chest from Amazon, like maybe one screwdriver will jump out at you above the rest. 

You answer the call and slam the box shut with a little too much force. "Hey."

"Sissy!" Sam screams, barrelling into the frame with a chubby smile, chocolate smeared across his chin. Stella squeals, close behind him, trying to shove her way onto Ashleigh's lap and into the frame. 

"Guys, you're getting way too big for this," Ashleigh protests.

"There's always room on Mommy's lap," Stella replies, her bottom lip curled into a pout.

"I'm not sure that's true," she says, but she holds the phone further back anyway as the twins snuggle on.

"Hi, guys," you say, softening. All the tension in your body falls away at the sight of the twins. It's impossible to be in a bad mood when Sam and Stella are around. They think the world of you, and being their sister is your greatest joy. You never imagined being an older sibling, but now you can't imagine your life without them. 

"How's Pittsburgh?" Ashleigh asks. "All unpacked?"

"I can't figure out how to put any of this shi—stuff together," you admit. "So my mattress is just on the floor, and all my books are piled next to the shelf pieces. I'm probably going to have to hire someone to put it all together."

"Did you ask Jack?" 

Your heart drops so low it almost falls out of your ass. Your blood is rushing in your ears, pulse timed with the syllable of his name, over and over again. Jack, Jack, Jack reverberating around your skull. "He's busy."

The twins, now bored with this conversation, wriggle off her lap and scurry away. You can hear the thumps of their bare feet on the hardwood floor as they run off to play. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind," Ashleigh says. You know she's right. Probably. He hasn't texted you since the kiss turned into a fight, and you haven't reached out either. It feels like handling a live grenade that could go off at any moment. You don't want to face him, don't know how, and, unfortunately for you, you're about to be working together. 

Tick-fucking-tock. Running out of time.

"Uncle Jack?" Sam asks, off-screen. "Is he coming to visit?"

"No, no. He lives in Pittsburgh," Ashleigh answers. 

Sam sounds so disappointed it almost makes you sad, but four-year-olds tend to bounce back from this stuff pretty quickly. "Oh." 

"Ash," you say, gently but firmly. "He's done enough for me already. Seriously. I'll figure it out."

"Okay," she replies, drawing out the word. Oookayyy. "Your first shift is tomorrow?"

"Seven am sharp." You show her your badge. "It's official and everything."

"Well, we're so excited to visit you this September," she gushes. 

"We get to ride on a PLANE!" Sam exclaims.

"That's right," she confirms.

Stella yells something else you can't quite make out, and then the two of them dart outside. You hear the back door slam shut, the alarm system chirping once. Ashleigh groans. "I knew I shouldn't have let them have that pudding."

"Rookie mistake."

"You try saying no. They're adorable and evil. I can't wait for your dad to get home. He says he loves you, by the way. And we miss you."

A warm feeling blooms in your chest, like you're being hugged a whole country away. "I love you guys and miss you more."

"Tell me how your first day goes, okay? And let us know if you need anything, even if you're Miss Independent now."

You've gotten better at accepting help, but you appreciate that Ashleigh tries not to push unless it's absolutely necessary. You're sure she wouldn't judge you if she knew about Jack, and all the complicated messiness you're stuffing down, but you'd hate to ask her to keep something from your dad, and you're still trying to preserve their friendship. Besides, you just got your dad back, and having a father in your life is healing old wounds. You need the support system, and jeopardizing that is unthinkable.

So, you're putting on your big girl pants and handling it yourself. You've been on your own for most of your life, so it's not like it's a change of pace, not really. This is your career, your opportunity, your world, however you want to make it. 

You find your smile, for her sake and yours. "It's Doctor, actually," you tease.

"Doctor Independent, then," she amends. "I'm gonna go make sure the terror twins don't burn the garage down. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Love you!" 

She blows you a kiss before hanging up. 

Despite the fact that Ashleigh is your stepmother, legally speaking, you've never thought of her that way. She's more like your best friend, and she knows just what to say to make you feel more grounded when everything else feels like it's changing, moving too fast for you to catch up. 

You brush your teeth and change into pajamas before ironing your scrubs for the millionth time. You're probably going to wind up covered in bodily fluids or god knows what else, but it's nice to think you'll be putting your best foot forward from the start. You still haven't decided what shoes you're going to wear, and you can't stop reciting the anatomical names of muscle groups and individual bones. Your mind is a bowl of procedure soup, medical terminology, and even the map of PTMC, like it's burned into the backs of your eyelids. 

Your phone chimes on your nightstand just after eleven pm. Your alarm is already set, and you've been counting the cracks in the ceiling, trying to get your nerves to calm down enough to let you sleep. 

Your breath catches when you see who texted you.

Jack: Have a good first day, sweetheart. See you at handoffs.

It's nice of him to care enough to give you the heads up, and you know he's trying, but for all of his trying, you're still hurt and angry. You 'like' the message with a simple thumbs-up, leaving him with nothing else. 

Then, for good measure, you change his contact name to Old Man Asshole DO NOT CALL before silencing your phone and going to bed.

Feeling zesty? Save the official crash course soundtrack on Spotify!

I am still writing my pilot spec script for a night shift spinoff of The Pitt. I will post it as soon as I'm done. Maybe we could get the writers on it, idk!

THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE!!! Whether you’re a tumblr or an ao3 reader, I see you, I love you, etc !! I’m gonna start posting more Crash Course content on TikTok [at] fxckingjo_ and Instagram [at] jofayewrites so follow me there ;)

The first one happened in my dorm building. My partner at the time and I were coming home from dinner with their parents and had a near car accident that would've been absolutely devastating. When we got back to the dorm, the building was empty. Since it was after dark, there was supposed to be a security guard at the front desk, but the lights were completely off. Our suite had six bedrooms in it, and when we got inside, no one was home, and all the lights were off. I remember this eerie feeling that something was off, like when you're dreaming of something that happened already, but minor details have changed. Uncanny valley type thing, you know?

We were supposed to hang out with some of our roommates, so we knocked on their doors and checked the empty rooms, but no one was there. No one was in the hallway either. It was super creepy, and neither of our phones had a cell signal. Anyway, I can't remember how long we were looking for literally anyone, but we wandered the building for a solid second until the security guard came hauling ass back into the dorms, saying there was an incident out front. No idea what the incident was, but suddenly, all the lights were on again, and our roommate, whose bedroom was empty, came out of her room, wondering when we got home.

My university's primary liberal arts building was converted from a mansion—the Tompkins-Buchanan House—and after the previous owners, who hosted mummy unwrapping parties (which entail exactly what you think), went bankrupt, it was a convent. It was a running joke/wives' tale that the Mansion was haunted after dark, and many of the night security personnel reported all kinds of creepy phenomena, like children's voices, screams in the basement, etc. I myself, walking by after hours, saw lights turning on and off and shadows running up and down the stairs with no people creating them. Rumor has it the spooky stuff is why the security turnover rate was so high. The chapel on the second floor was also... an unsettling place. I'm not sure why, but it wasn't a room I was particularly inclined to set foot in, mostly because it was always freezing cold and the hair on the back of my neck would stand on end.

I'm not sure if the mansion had any effect on the campus-wide supernatural happenings, but many of my friends also experienced strange paranormal happenings, many of which occurred outside of the Mansion building.

Old Louisville has the largest preservation of historical Victorian homes in the US, and deep roots to slavery, Appalachia, and witchcraft. It's a powerful place, for sure.

My next paranormal experiences are dream-based, but still pretty eerie.

I had no idea other people dreamed of Mall World, but backrooms/liminal spaces have been a feature of my nightmares since I was a kid.

Now, I often have dreams of things before they happen (IE: my best friend sleeping with my boyfriend six months before it happened, or who my ex-spouse would cheat on me with before they even met), but I generally don't put too much stock in it because I also have dreams where I turn into a chicken nugget or marry Harry Styles, and neither of those things will happen.

Anyway, the Jefferson Mall in Louisville was a place where one of my best friends worked, and since she was a shift lead at the Hot Topic there, she had keys to the employee tunnels/back rooms. One time, she left something at work and we went through the tunnels at J-Mall to get it. They were super creepy little backrooms. No, thank you.

The second story goes something like this. My Grammy had just passed away, and I was grieving. It was a Sunday night/Monday morning. I dreamt I was in the parking lot of J-Mall, but it was completely empty, and all the windows were boarded up. Suddenly, Grammy's car appeared, and she was listening to music, wearing her usual sundress and looking like she was ready to pick me up from school, as she had every Monday since I was very, very young. Anyway, she got out of the car and smiled at me. I told her I had to run inside, and she hugged me and said, "Something very bad will happen to you if you walk inside that building. Stay with me a little while, until you wake up."

I remember that was the moment I realized I was dreaming, and I started to cry because I knew I'd wake up, and she'd still be gone. Grammy just wiped my tears, hugged me tighter, and told me to stay so she could protect me before I woke up.

Here's a picture of Grammy, for reference.

My third story is TikTok famous on a very small scale. But since the video does very little to explain the full story, I'm going to tell you everything. I lived in an apartment complex at the end of a cul-de-sac. Just before the complex was a strip mall with a cigarette store, a gas station, and a couple of empty suites. A couple of weeks before this happened, a bar called "Hole in the Wall" opened at the end of the strip mall. My apartment complex and this bar just happened to be in the precise middle of two rival gang territories. A bit of a no man's land, if you will.

I fell asleep on the small couch in my apartment, and the TV was on. I dreamt of my great-grandmother, Ray Ray, who passed when I was two (almost three) years old. She was so excited to have great-grandchildren and loved me very much, and I've always been sad that she didn't live long enough to watch me grow into a person.

Anyway, I'd never dreamt of her before and haven't since, but I was walking up the porch steps to her house, and when she opened the door, she looked at me, put her hands on my shoulders, and said, "You need to lock your front door, young lady." I was confused, and then she squeezed once, and I woke up on the sofa, disoriented. It was just after midnight. As it turned out, my front door was unlocked, and there was also a breezeway leading from it to the stairwell. One of my neighbor's sons was always leaving the door open when he stepped out to smoke, so I closed it firmly, put the security bar and deadbolt jam on the front door, and locked up.

I say this without any exaggeration — not ten minutes later, there was a shooting at the bar, and I heard screams and people running as police sirens started up. Some of the gang members hauled ass into the complex to hide, and were trying the breezeway doors looking for somewhere to duck into. I heard them yank on the outer door in front of my place. My door.

Needless to say, I always checked the locks after that. The bar closed very quickly. If anything ever opened up in that space, it happened after I moved out.

Since I moved back to California, I haven't experienced anything quite like it. I can say with absolute certainty that Louisville is one of the most haunted places in America (especially because it also houses Waverly Hills Sanatorium). Everything they say about Appalachia and the Old South is true. The ghost stories are real.

I have no idea if anyone is actually going to read this post or if it's just going to be buried, but I figured I'd share. Be well, stay safe, and remember to lock your front door.

Signing off,

It was supposed to be the last time six months ago.

Clearly, neither of you is very good at holding the line. Self-restraint is effortless for all other aspects of your life. You didn't graduate at the top of your class in high school, or graduate summa cum laude from Carnegie Mellon, or get into med school at UPitt by partying and indulging every whim. You follow a routine: Pilates in the morning, reading before bed, and maintaining a thousand-day streak on Duolingo.

Jack Abbot is your wild card.

You met his son, Jared, at a party during your junior year. He played hockey for UPitt, and while he wasn't very good at it, he had curly hair and a nice smile. He made you feel like the only girl in the world. Unfortunately, he also had a habit of making other girls feel special, too. He loved having a girlfriend, but he was a terrible boyfriend.

His father, on the other hand? He was reason enough to keep coming around.

You know it's wrong, dating a guy because you have a secret, desperate crush on his father, but Jack is cool, and easy to talk to, and a great listener. He coached you through your MCATs, wrote you a rec letter, and got you a hospital clerk job working night shift part-time so you could pay your way through med school at UPitt. And sure, he also wiped your tears every time his son made you cry, but he never crossed a line.

Not until you broke up with Jared.

He got drafted for an NHL team halfway across the country, and you got into med school. It wasn't love, but it was a habit. Comfortable even. It was easy to call it off, and when you ripped the band-aid off, you were relieved.

The break was clean.

In theory.

It would be less complicated if you didn't work in close proximity to your ex-boyfriend's dad. He's always around, and whenever you run labs for him or drop scans off, he meets you at Central with a smile and far too much eye contact to be decent.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he'll say, with those dimples indenting his scruffy cheeks, his hazel eyes bright.

And oh, does it do things to you. Butterflies in the stomach. Blood rushing in your cheeks. You're a shark in your med school classes and precise during rotations. Yet, whenever Jack is around, you can barely remember your name.

The first time you and Jack slept together was two days after the breakup. You came by the house to pick up your things, and Jack opened the door.

He said your name with that bright, easy smile of his. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi, Dr. Abbot—"

"Jack," he corrected you.

"Jack," you amended. "Jared said I could come by, get my stuff."

"Why?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"We broke up."

"Oh." The disappointment in his eyes was unmistakable. His brows were set, pinched into a line.

The next thing you knew, he was kissing you, and you were tugging his shirt off, and then your ex's dad had you folded over his leather couch while he pounded into you from behind, and you came so hard you saw stars.

When you floated back down to earth, he murmured, "You know it can't happen again, right?"

You nodded. "You're right."

"But god, if I'd met you first." The quiet part, the hidden text at the end of the sentence, made all the difference. He would have made you his from the beginning, and even if he's older and damaged and wrong for you in so many ways, it wouldn't have mattered, because the two of you? Inevitable.

Those words of his were a confession and a brand. From that moment on, the two of you were hopeless. Every ounce of self-control you claimed to have was gone, and all bets were off when it came to Jack.

He shows up at your door at the end of a particularly grueling shift.

The waiting room had been a ghost town for most of it, which meant you spent most of your time at the front intake desk studying for a clinical exam and stressing about the blood vessels of the hands. Someone said the dreaded Q word, and much like the curse of saying "Macbeth" in a Theater, the traumas started to roll in one after another. Teenagers on the night of a sober grad party were caught in a collapsed building. The carnage was widespread, and by the end of the mass casualty incident, you could see the strain it had on the team.

You were already sure you weren't cut out for an emergency department, even before you started working in one, but after tonight, you're certain you can't do it. You're barely certain the doctors of the Pitt can handle it.

Jack knocks once. His fist hits the wood like a broken plea.

You open the door, nice and slow, and he's on you in an instant. His hands come up to cradle your cheeks, tangling in the loose strands of hair framing your face, and then his mouth crashes into yours hard. It's a wet kiss, all desperation and tongue and teeth, but you let him devour you. Sometimes, kissing Jack is like treading water in the open ocean, and you're desperate to drown.

You stumble towards your bedroom out of instinct, and he catches you before scooping you up into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels curved against his muscular thighs, and his kiss never falters as he carries you to the bedroom. When your back meets the mattress, you scramble to peel off the layers of your clothes in that same, practiced dance. Your shirt, then his, your pants, then his. His leg, your bra, your panties, his boxers. It's a sinner's waltz: a temptation you no longer pretend you can resist.

Jack kneels in front of you, spreading your thighs as he lowers himself to the floor on his knees. His calloused fingers close around your hips in a bruising grip as he hauls you to the edge of the bed and plants his mouth on your weeping pussy. Sometimes, he'll tease you, kissing your thighs, getting you needy and aching before he actually dives in, but this? This is the work of a starving man, a man dying of thirst, taking the first sip of sweet, forbidden wine.

His lips close around your clit, indulgently sucking on the sensitive bundle of nerves, and your hips buck. He pins you down, holding you there as he starts to slide his tongue through your folds, drawing circles where you need him most, fucking you with his mouth as your pussy clenches around nothing, and just when you think you've had enough, he shoves two thick fingers inside your pussy, lets his stubble rasp against the delicate skin of your inner thighs, and writes his name on your clit. You come once, and then he never lets you come down, until you're shaking and deliriously wet and his mouth is gleaming with your release.

No one else has ever made you squirt before. Once Jack discovered he could do it, he made it his mission to make it happen again, every time ever since.

When he comes back up for air, you're boneless and at his mercy, which is exactly where he wants you when the animalistic side of him takes over. You accept his sharp edges, his darkness, and meet him there with your own. He caresses your jaw as he positions his thick cock at your entrance. You hiss a sharp breath, your pussy raw, but desperate for more. The first stretch is a homecoming, a promise. He gives you no warning before he sheathes himself completely inside you, balls against your ass, buried to the hilt. You can feel him kissing your cervix, so deep it almost hurts, and a broken, needy sound falls out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

"Jack," you cry. Your nails dig crescent moons into his shoulders. "Jack, please."

"I know," he says. "I know, baby. That's it. That's my good girl. Taking me so good."

His hand comes up to the headboard for leverage, and then he starts to fuck you properly, splitting you open on his cock, slamming every inch inside of your needy hole until your mouth is open and your eyes are filling with tears. All you can do is beg, incoherent sounds spilling from you in the vague shape of a plea for release. His free hand moves between you, his thumb stroking your clit, and you come so fast, so easily. He holds you high above the world, in that perfect, euphoric place, for what feels like an eternity, and then, as he shudders and moans, you hear it.

"I love you," he whispers.

And then he comes, painting hot ropes of his seed inside you. He stays there, for a moment, as he starts to soften, and then he withdraws from you, reaching into the nightstand for the wipes he knows you keep on hand for this. He cleans you up, dresses you, and reminds you to pee and get some water.

But this time, he doesn't rush to leave, or remind you this was a mistake, or tell you he can't do this again.

He just stays.

And you know it's doomed, that all you can do is crash and burn, and one day, he'll be your biggest regret, and you'll probably be his, too. But right now, Jack Abbot is the beautiful, broken man in your bed, and he loves you.

Like what you read? Great news! If you're feeling tipsy? You can Buy Me A Coffee ☕️

By the time you make it to Sunday, you've made a game of dodging Jack. It's easy during the day, if you get up after he's already sleeping off the shift, clean up after yourself, and go for a run outside in the hour before he goes into work. 

The two of you make meals for each other and leave notes on the fridge. He hasn't texted you again, but sometimes you stare at the brief text thread, eyes locked on the word sweetheart, like it'll morph into an explanation of what he's thinking, feeling, expecting of you. The words haven't changed. The clues are set—it was Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick, and you still have no idea what Jack Abbot wants from you. 

Sweetheart. God help you if he keeps calling you that. Or worse, does it on a shift. Are you supposed to pretend you don't know each other? What's the etiquette for the PTMC ER? How do you handle the inevitable night shift? You can't dance around the awkwardness in front of your coworkers, because that'll fuel the rumor mill. Being talked about behind your back is bad enough, but being defined by the weirdness between you and Jack instead of your mind or skills? Yeah, that's a residency death sentence for a woman in medicine.

Sunday comes around whether you're ready or not. You decide to wear the Pirates t-shirt with a pair of mom jeans that'll make your ass look good. Not that Jack will be looking at your ass, but if he does, you want to be prepared. Your favorite sneakers are another easy choice, your hair tied up with a colorful, lucky scrunchie. All of your things are laid out on your bed, waiting for you to finish your workout. 

You've evolved, and this is about to be the longest time you've spent together, in close proximity, since that summer. Not just under one roof, passing like ships in the night. Intentional time, one-on-one, at a baseball game.

During your yoga this morning, you decide to recite the facts of how baseball is played and the Pirates roster, which you crammed like last-minute prep for a pop quiz. Normally, you stick to bones and muscles and basic anatomy, or walk yourself through surgical procedures and abnormal differential protocols. Have you ever watched a baseball game? Not in your life. But if you needed to write an essay about the game, you could fake it until you make it. Like writing a book report on something you only read the SparkNotes for. 

You fold yourself into downward dog, then shift to a three-legged pose. Catching a fly ball can strike a batter out with a full count—

"Your core is unsteady," Jack says, startling you out of your recitations. 

You hit the mat, nearly knocking the breath out of your chest. "Jesus."

"Jack. Unless you hit your head—"

"Sorry, do you need the room?" You hike your thumb toward the treadmill. "I can clear out if you want."

"No, no," he replies. "I just noticed your form was a bit off. I can wait until you're done."

You scoff. Find your zen, you chide yourself. "My form is fine."

"Says who?"

"My yoga instructor," you answer, a bit defensive.

"In a class with twenty other people? Sure. But for maximum benefit, you need more stability." He gestures vaguely. "Do it again."

You pause for a moment, wondering if you should let him guide you. It's not like he won't be teaching you in the hospital, but it feels different here, in an ambiguous setting. You decide to allow it, folding yourself back into position, extending your leg.

Jack moves behind you on the mat, one hand pressing against the small of your back, straightening your spine, and then his hands grip your hips, reangling you. It hits you like an electric shock, a pulse down your spine, tripping down every vertebrae. Your stomach flutters, and for a moment, you're back under him, his cock splitting you open as he holds your hips and drives into you, stuffing every inch of him into your needy, weeping pussy. 

He lets go of your hips, and the memory dissipates faster than a cartoon thought bubble. Then his hand finds your thigh, on the leg you have raised, shifting your balance just enough. Dammit, he was right, and your form is infinitely better. 

You have to wonder what else he could teach you. Sexually, medically, and even in yoga.

You can't get into your apartment soon enough because this? This thing between you is growing into a new set of obstacles about to take a wrecking ball to the fresh start you've been prepping for since you started your orientation at Columbia. 

"Thanks," you say. 

"Anytime," he replies. "Been doing yoga every morning for about ten years. I'll stretch you—I mean, stretch with you anytime you want. If you want. Gonna, uh, leave you to it."

Suddenly, you're reminded of the thong incident. How flustered he got then, too. It's a strange sort of power, knowing you can still knock him off his feet, the same way he does with you. 

"What about your run?" you ask, a bit confused why he's trying to run away now.

His words come tumbling out a little fast. Your heart skips. "I'll do a protein shake first. You want one?" 

You shake your head. "No thanks."

You might be imagining it, but you're about eighty percent sure he nearly crashes into the door on his way out, the tips of his ears scarlet. That same blush is mirrored on your cheeks, which you keep angled down, facing the mat, praying he won't see it. 

You shower off the yoga session with cold water, just to remind yourself and your subconscious that this is not a date. This is just Jack being friendly, Jack being… Jack. Whatever that means to you. Frankly, the thought of treating him as an uncle after everything makes you physically recoil, and unless you want to puke your breakfast, better not. 

Once you're dressed, makeup applied, and a second iced coffee downed, you meet Jack in the garage. He's standing at the passenger side, one arm resting across the top of the opened door, his mouth curved into an almost-smile.

"Been waiting on you, Princess," he teases, but there's no heat behind the words. 

You hop in, and he shuts the door gently behind you before rounding the truck to the driver's side. As he turns the engine over, he glances at you sidelong, passing you an Aux cord hooked up to the stereo.

"I thought the driver picked the music," you reply, before plugging your phone in anyway.

"I never really figured out those newfangled streaming apps. I remember when we were burning CDs and buying songs on iTunes. The good ole days." As if proving his point, he opens the glovebox to reveal a CD case, undoubtedly stuffed with the last three decades of dad rock's greatest hits. 

"I bet you still have an iPod," you mumble.

"From 2009," he confirms. "It was a good year. Still works. Mostly."

"I forgot you were born during the Great Depression."

"Hey, now!" He holds up a finger, feigning sternness. "I'm younger than your old man, so—" 

There's a fragile moment where you're terrified the mention of your dad will ruin everything, and Jack will turn the truck around and dump you off on the nearest curb out of some misguided sense of duty, but he doesn't. He just keeps teasing you, and so you deal it back.

"So you should be trying to win the cool points, not lose them," you retort. You opt for one of your favorite playlists, something upbeat, but light. No moody breakup tracks or heavy guitar solos. 

He shrugs. "Guess this is what I'm missing on Spotatune or whatever."

"Spotify," you correct him. "Honestly, how do you get your charting done? Do you just smack the side of the computer and hope for the best?"

His dimples crease his stubbled cheeks as he eyes you. "You're a brat."

You crank up the music: a move straight out of his playbook. "Sorry, can't hear you, the music's too loud!"

After a few moments, both of you move to turn the music down at the same time. Your fingers brush across the center console, and the electricity ripples down your spine, like a shock to your senses. He moves his hand back to the wheel, letting you control the volume. You turn it down just enough.

"Where are we going anyway?" you ask.

"The game doesn't start until seven, so I figure I'll let you pick what you wanna do before then. There's the Carnegie museum, the Warhol museum, if you're into art, or, uh, Market Square?"

"Sounds very touristy," you remark. "And potentially expensive."

He waves a hand dismissively. "Don't think about it."

"How could I not think about it?"

He chuckles, like you've missed the point. "Because I'm treating you, sweetheart, okay? So just tell me where to go, and we'll go. You're gonna be pulling seventy-hour weeks pretty soon, won't have time to see much of anything. Get to know your new home while you can."

Home. You always associated that word with your mom, because you didn't own a house with a picket fence and a dog. After she died, home became your dad, Ashleigh, and the twins, and maybe a little of New York, too. Now, you're completely on your own again, establishing roots because Pittsburgh and PTMC are going to be your life for the next five years. This is permanent.

Once you started college in California, and tickets were discounted, you splurged on learning and sightseeing. As a kid, you never went on family trips, and if a field trip for school cost money, you stayed back, hanging out with the librarian all day. When you were in New York with a rare moment of free time, you'd ride the train up and down the length of Manhattan, visiting all the galleries and museums you could think of. History, art, science—whatever you could see, you were there. Museums are a great equalizer. Within the four walls, everyone is the same, paying homage to the remnants of the past. Everyone dies, and most people want to be remembered.  

"I like museums," you say quietly. 

"Good choice," he replies. 

The Carnegie Museum is, quite possibly, one of your favorite places you've ever been to. 

There's an entire section dedicated to the cats, and spotting the paintings among the collection is a fun exercise. You're planning to adopt a rescue cat, assuming you have the time to spend with a pet during your residency. If you were an artist, you'd probably name your trusty, furry sidekick your muse, too. As you wander through rows of sculptures and paintings, you recognize a few of the names, which only makes you more excited to snap photos.

"Tell me about this one," Jack says when he notices you stopping for a snapshot.

"There's a notable shift in the use of the religious motif in the development of Western Art—" You point at a specific piece, of Adam and Eve being expelled from the Garden of Eden, rambling about the emotional depth, rather than the emphasis on God's cruelty. The whole time, Jack is leaning closer, body angled into yours as he listens. 

You're all but bouncing as you walk through the museum, and every time you think he's heard enough, and you must be boring him, he asks another pointed question, digging deeper. At first, you're worried he's trying to be nice, but he shuts down those worries when his hand finds the small of your back again, scruffy mouth brushing against the shell of your ear. "You've been looking at this one for five minutes, sweetheart," he points out. 

"French Impressionism is a personal favorite of mine," you continue, face a bit hot. "Sorry—"

"Don't be sorry," Jack murmurs, his grip tightening. "Tell me more."

He means it, too. Most of your life, you've been bursting with useless information and fun facts, mostly as an unfortunate consequence of your memory that lets nothing go free. It's part of your muchness, how you always seem to be a little more than people in your life want or need. Jack looks like he'd give anything to hear you keep talking, and it shakes something loose in the back of your mind, scattering all doubt in an instant that this is exactly where you're meant to be. 

By the time you've seen all the art, your camera roll is teetering dangerously close to full, and so is your heart. You'd forgotten some of your whimsy with all the stress and pressure that went into trying to become an incredible doctor. Right now, you're just you. 

The Hall of Architecture was established in 1907, and is one of the only architectural cast courts in the world. There are three total, as far as you know, and you excitedly tell Jack about them as you wander through the display, feet padding on the marble floors, neck arched to take it all in. 

"Architecture is like vascular medicine," you're telling Jack, standing in front of a towering wall of carved marble. "It's so precise, down to the studs, the smallest details. One wrong move and you'll blow the veins, you know? So you have to be careful. You can't add to stone, you can only take away. Every move has to be intentional."

Jack nods, his arms crossed over his broad, muscular chest. The sleeves of his black t-shirt strain ever so slightly on the strong curves of his shoulders, and you do your best not to stare. Not even as he leans closer, his eye contact piercing, his attention yours and utterly undivided.

You make it to the natural history portion of the museum next, and the intricate dinosaur skeletons are a sight to behold. The scale of them alone is massive, and you start rambling about the three geological periods dinosaurs lived through, placing the fossils into each.

"There are 230 specimens total, and 75% are projected to be original!" you exclaim, gesturing to the sprawling T. rex. "It's interesting that people often attribute the Tyrannosaurus to the Jurassic period—probably because of the movies—because they were actually apex predators of the Cretaceous period and wiped out during the extinction event. I've always wanted to see the Chicxulub Crater."

"You have a favorite dinosaur?"

You shrug. "Present company excluded?"

Jack barks out a surprised laugh, dimples and all. "Brat."

You nudge your shoulder into his arm. "The Pachyrhinosaurus. It's an herbivore in the same family as the Triceratops, same period as the T. rex. Discovered in Alberta, Canada, in the 1940s," you answer. "They're pack animals with hard heads."

"Stubborn, like you," Jack says knowingly.  

"Do you have a favorite?"

"The tiny screechy ones from Jurassic Park. The ones that eat the fat guy." His fingers twitch as he imitates the dinosaur's fanned frill and poison spit. 

You giggle, and then snort, and then blush. "That's not a real dinosaur. They fabricated most of the details. For one thing, the Dilophosaurus didn't have a frill and was much, much larger than they are in the movie. They were runners, much more similar to raptors, but for the sake of the film, they wanted to distinguish the species and play up the kills."

"When you work your first full moon night shift, I promise you, you'll see just how real they can be," he jokes. Then he holds up a finger, silencing you with a knowing look, already anticipating your responses. "If you make one more old joke—"

"I was actually going to thank you," you say softly. Before you can overthink it, you wrap your arms around his torso, fitting yourself against his chest. He doesn't hesitate to hug you back. His chin presses down on top of your head, and he drops a brief kiss on your hairline, a ghost of his mouth. 

"You're welcome, sweetheart," he whispers. 

You can still smell his cologne on you for another half-hour, and you can't help but wonder if your perfume has the same effect on him. 

You know most people would be bored spending most of the day in a museum, but Jack doesn't seem to mind. He lets you see everything you want, carrying your purse draped over a strong arm. When you get thirsty, he buys you a Diet Coke in a ridiculous souvenir cup, dinosaur-themed, and holds it between drinks. He even carries the souvenir bag when you pick out postcards and magnets for your siblings, who already have a substantial collection of toy dinosaurs.

"Sam's the reason I know all this stuff," you explain as you dig for your wallet. The moment he showed an interest in dinosaurs, you made sure to read all the books you could, offering fun facts and diagrams whenever he asked. 

Stella, similarly, went through a space phase, so you studied your planets and stars, brushing up on all the myths just for her. Learning is how you show your love, and since you read fast, it was never too much. A small part of you worried your siblings would find your brain weird and off-putting, but they love asking you questions just to see you rattle off the answers. It's like a parlor trick they never tire of.

You fit into your tiny family in a way you never would've dared to imagine. A hope like that could've devastated you, but now, your life is full of light and laughter. Sure, it's also stressful as hell, balancing everything else you've got going on, but without your family, you wouldn't have survived losing your mom, med school, and a double residency.  

By the time you've found your cash, Jack's already swiping his card.

Your mouth falls open. "Jack!"

"I have to spoil my niece and nephew," he remarks. "Now hand me that bag. You're not carrying it."

You're so relieved he didn't call you his niece again that you take a second to register what he's saying as he reaches for you. "It's not heavy."

"It's the principle. Come on." His brows furrow, his expression surprisingly serious as he flexes his fingers in a gimme gesture. "Now."

You fork it over, rolling your eyes. "You look like a pack mule." "Better me than you, pretty girl. Now, come on, we have a game to get to." He grabs your hand with his only free one, dragging you out to the parking lot, and he only lets go when you reach the truck. You wait for him to open your door for you, and he stands a little straighter, pleased at how quickly you've learned to indulge his chivalry. 

Just before he closes the door behind you, his hazel eyes meet yours, and darken into a molten green, with flecks of grey, like a summer storm, and the amber whiskey of an old-fashioned. Before you can cross the line, he shuts it gently, but firmly, and turns the engine over.

You let the music fill the silence between you, a soft hum in the stereo speakers, drifting and wrapping around you like a hug. Every so often, he drums his fingers along with a song, and you start noting what he likes, what he doesn't. 

The parking garage by the stadium is packed, and the street is flooded with tourists weaving between the cars, police herding the crowds, and other fans looking for a place to park. The garage nearest the stadium is expensive enough to make your eyes bulge out of your head, but Jack doesn't blink as he tears off the ticket and tosses it on the dashboard. On the second level, he pauses, hesitating before sliding into a handicapped space and retrieving a blue placard from the center console.

"Does your leg hurt?" you ask quietly, feeling guilty for dragging him all over Carnegie. Honestly, you'd almost forgotten. It's not like Jack carries himself with a noticeable limp, and his jeans, which are doing absolutely illegal things for the curve of his muscular thighs and pert ass, hide the prosthetic. 

"Not yet," he replies. "But it's gonna be a longer night, and I bet you'll tucker out fast. If I wind up having to carry you—"

"You won't," you interject.

"I'm prepared either way," he says more firmly. "Now stop worrying about me. It's bad for your blood pressure."

"You worry about me."

"Someone has to." He opens the door for you again, and this time, he offers you his hand. 

Once you step out of the parking garage, you realize the first rays of sunset are cutting through the sky. Golden hour over the Steel City is beyond what you could've hoped for. It takes your breath away. You can only imagine what the night sky will look like. You just hope the city light won't smother all the stars.

The crowd is thick in front of PNC Park, and you stick close to Jack's side, fingers threaded through his thicker digits. He squeezes every so often, reassuring you. Without letting go, he scans your tickets at the front gate on his phone. Your purse is still over his shoulder, and on anyone else, it might look ridiculous, but on Jack? It's hot as hell.

You might be ovulating.

That, or Jack Abbot bathes in pheromones every time he gets up in the morning. 

You looked up the seats online when Jack first told you about the game, but when you actually reach them, you're in total disbelief. You're so close to the field you can see the asymmetrical cut of the grass, and the small insulin reader tucked under the uniform sleeve of one of the basemen, who you know from research is a Type-1 diabetic. 

Jack lets you choose between the two chairs and then passes your purse back to you. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" you ask, a bit confused.

"It's a surprise," he tells you, half-kneeling in front of you so you can hear him over the raucous chatter of the stadium. "I'll be right back. Text me if you decide you want something to eat." His fingers brush your cheekbone in a silent goodbye before he disappears.

You took plenty of snapshots at the museum, including a couple of selfies of you and Jack imitating some of the poses in the classical paintings. Your favorite picture, one you'll save just for you, is a blurry in-between moment, where you're already heading off to another exhibit, and Jack is just looking at you, like you're the wonder of the world he came to see. 

Debating it for a moment, you decide to text Ashleigh some of the pictures, and she sends an adorable photo of the twins playing at the splash pad near their house in return. A twinge of homesickness pierces your chest, but you're also so happy it doesn't hurt. 

Ashleigh: Hope you're having fun! 

Ashleigh: Dad says Jack looks good, hasn't smiled like that in a while 

Ashleigh: WE LOVE YOU!! <3

Jack returns before the team has finished warming up, a plastic bag crinkled in his arms. "What did I miss?"

"Skenes is starting. Definitely a smart move. The Dodgers have two back-to-back World Series rings to defend, and with a tie going into this final game, only Skenes can rival Ohtani's arm and get them a win. They need it if they have a prayer of making the post-season playoffs." You don't miss the look of surprise on Jack's face, and heat floods yours. "What?"

"I underestimated your passion," he replies, reaching into the bag. "Got you something." Slowly, he rests a baseball hat on your head, smoothing your hair so he doesn't mess it up under the brim. It's perfect for you, and conveniently the right size, and your chest squeezes. 

"Now you have more than just my old shirt," he remarks. "A real Pittsburgh girl."

You almost apologize for stealing it, for keeping it, but he doesn't seem bothered at all by it. If anything, you almost think he likes knowing you've been wearing his clothes. 

The sun is dipping lower, and evening wind chill cuts through the stands. Goosebumps pebble your arms as you fold your knees up to your chest, trying to warm yourself up a bit.  

Jack chuckles beside you before standing up. He shrugs off his jacket with a wry smile, handing it to you. "Unless you want me to buy you your own," he adds, as an afterthought.

You stuff your fingers through the sleeves, shaking your head. "This is okay." It smells like him, too. Not that you'll admit that, of course.

"Looks better on you anyway," Jack says. "Heads up, they're taking the field."

You're on your feet in an instant, cheering as the players take their places on the diamond. The National Anthem plays, and Jack keeps you tucked under his arm, like he needs you close. The first pitch gets thrown out, and you nearly scream yourself hoarse when the top of the first ends with a brutal strikeout, an early no-hitter. 

Despite the fact that you knew absolutely nothing about baseball before a couple of days ago, you're having so much fun. There's a lot of math in sports anyway, and the raucous applause around you and the atmosphere is electrifying. Nothing like watching reruns on a TV at a sports bar. No, this is awesome! 

Jack picks your brain occasionally for this part too, impressed by the tidbits you throw out here and there. Whenever you speak, he leans in to hear it, his arm stretched across the back of your chair, fingertips grazing your shoulder blades occasionally. At one point, he buys ridiculously overpriced hot dogs off a vendor wandering around the stands with a giant tray, and wipes the mustard off the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

You know you shouldn't let yourself get used to this. It's a one-time thing he's doing to show you around the city and make you feel welcome. There are no stakes here, and after it's all said and done, you'll go back to being… whatever it is you are. Attending and resident? Pseudo-uncle and… Ew. You can't even consider it. Friends? Acquaintances? You have to give up on trying to categorize the relationship for your own sake. 

It's a tight game, and by the 7th-inning stretch, they've been tied for two innings. The recovery for the Pirates is going to be brutal, and you never imagined being this invested in a baseball game of all things, but you can't seem to tear your eyes away. 

The mascots run the bases, the fans scream the lyrics of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" as captioned on the jumbotron, and just when you think the players are about to retake the diamond, the music scratches, and confetti roars as the emcees announce the Kiss Cam is up and running.

You've never been to a live sporting event before, so for a moment, you're completely thrown off. Honestly, in the modern age, it strikes you as being a bit archaic and creepy, but most of the fans seem to enjoy it as the jumbotron cuts between shots of different couples, who laugh and smooch good-naturedly. 

"How do you think they pick who to feature on these things?" Jack mumbles.

You shrug. "Maybe they pay for it. Isn't it kind of a gamble? What if they pick people who aren't even together?"

"I guess I've never thought about it," he admits.

Just when you think the Kiss Cam has wrapped up its tour of the stadium, the picture changes on the big screen, and you realize you're looking at Jack. Who's looking at you. On a giant 4K TV in front of a thousand people.

"Oh fuck," you whisper.

Jack slides his hand across his throat, shaking his head and waving the camera away. Around you, people boo, some of them chanting for him to just kiss you already. You can feel all the blood in your face boiling, and your hands tremble as you will the powers that be to just film anyone else.

Finally, you lean over and kiss Jack. Just a light peck on the mouth, your fist clutching the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. When you release him, his eyes are wide, and the people are still shouting.

"You call that a kiss?"

Baseball fans are also apparently voyeuristic deviants. Who knew. 

How long do these damn things go on for? You eye the screen again, just in time to register the sensation of Jack's hand sliding into your hair, his other cupping your chin as he drags you into a long, deep kiss in front of thousands, maybe millions, of people. 

His lips press into yours, and it's not a peck. It's a real kiss, the kind that makes your toes curl as the heat of his breath becomes yours and his tongue slips into your mouth. You moan, a breathy, tiny sound, and he drags his teeth across your bottom lip, rewarding your little sound with dizzying affection. The camera is off of you guys now, but he doesn't break the kiss, not until you're keening and breathless and clinging to him for stability. When he finally pulls back, he straightens your hat, giving you the smallest smile. Just for you. 

"I promise," he starts, his voice raspy, breath shaky, "I didn't plan that."

You giggle.

He almost kisses you again, just for you, no cameras around anymore, but at the last second, he hesitates, and kisses your nose instead. "Just watch the game, sweetheart."

You hold his eyes for a fleeting final moment, and let the excitement of the game swallow you up again.  

Two extra innings later, the Pirates scored a win and secured the victory for the three-game series. Just like before, Jack holds your hand through the throng of people, weaving through the crowd expertly, always keeping you right beside him. Your heartbeat is a hummingbird's wings in your throat, steadily ticking against your ribs. The kiss was perfect. It was just as good as you remember it being, and it absolutely shouldn't have happened.

Just because neither of you has been bold enough to say it doesn't mean the facts have changed. You and Jack can never cross that line again. It shouldn't have happened, peer pressure or not. He's about to be your attending, and he's your dad's best friend, and he broke your heart. Worse, he's got all the power in the world to do it again. 

When you finally make it out of the stadium, the city is bright, the stars tiny pinpricks in the night sky obscured by the skyline. The neon PNC Park sign, proudly boasting Home of the Pittsburgh Pirates, glows just behind Jack's silhouette, the glow catching the silver in his hair. Before you can think twice about it, you pull your phone out of your pocket. 

"One last commemorative photo?" you suggest.

He nods, his arm sliding around your waist as he leans in. You're aware, suddenly, of all the points of contact between his hand and your hip, how his pinky finger is dipping lower than decency, how hot his hand is through the fabric of your shirt. Your teeth drag across your lip as you smile for the camera, angling the phone to get the sign in the background. 

You take it. 

"Send me that, yeah?" Jack asks. "Robby wanted pictures for the tickets."

"Robby?" you reply.

"He's a big baseball guy," Jack explains. "Maybe you can score points with him."

"I'd rather he not…" You trail off. "I mean, I just think that—"

"Do you and your daughter want a photo together?"

You're pretty sure you heard that wrong, at first. The words register, but they don't feel like they belong to you, because your dad isn't here, and there are dozens of people in your immediate vicinity. Surely, the street vendor must be talking to someone else.

Except Jack is frozen, fists clenched, working his jaw like he's trying to break his molars or turn them into dust. 

The vendor steps closer, hand outstretched as he gestures to you, grabbing for your phone. "I can get a photo for you—"

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. He thinks… Your eyes dart between you and Jack, but Jack isn't looking at you, and you're suddenly dizzy, like you might puke the greasy contents of your stomach all over the street, in front of everyone and their mother.

"We're good!" Jack snaps, grabbing you by the elbow and steering you toward the parking garage. 

You can't form words. You're not even sure what you'd say, where you'd start, and Jack looks so pissed off, like he'd rather be anywhere else. As if forgetting himself, he heads straight to the driver's seat, bypassing your door entirely. You climb in slowly, hesitantly.

"Jesus Christ," he hisses, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You're right. I'll tell Robby I took a friend visiting from out of town to the game. No pictures. That way we can be… professionals. No one has to know I'm your… We know each other."

You don't know what you're trying to say, but all that comes out is, "Jack."

His phone dings, and he groans as he reads the screen. "It's work. MVC pile-up. All hands on. I'll drive us to the Pitt, and you can take my truck home. I'll catch a ride in the morning."

"Jack," you say, a little louder.

"Yes?"

"He didn't…" You trail off helplessly. "He didn't know us—"

"He's right, though!" Jack snaps. "I'm old enough to be your father. Don't know what the hell I was thinking." 

You don't try to speak after that. If you do, you'll start to cry, and all you can do right now is stifle the tears in your throat, choking you, burning at the corners of your eyes as they threaten to spill. Surely you'll break open, and he'll see how pathetic you are, how you're still the same stupid girl pulling at the buckle of his belt. 

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. 

He throws the truck in reverse, peeling out of the lot. When he pulls up in front of the main hospital entrance at PTMC, he throws himself out of the truck, gritting his teeth and pulling his leg behind him, almost like it hurts. He grabs his go-bag out of the bed, jerking his chin at you in some incomprehensible gesture that feels like he's chewing you out and apologizing in the same look. 

The second he's gone, you let out the first sob, and then you cry the whole way back.

Feeling zesty? Save the official crash course soundtrack on Spotify!

I am still writing my pilot spec script for a night shift spinoff of The Pitt. I will post it as soon as I'm done. Maybe we could get the writers on it, idk!

THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE!!! Whether you’re a tumblr or an ao3 reader, I see you, I love you, etc !! I’m gonna start posting more Crash Course content on TikTok [at] fxckingjo_ and Instagram [at] jofayewrites so follow me there ;)

There's a brief, disorienting moment where you're not entirely sure where you are when you wake up. As sunlight streams through the blinds, unevenly fractured as golden, summer sunshine spills across the room, you blink and sit up in bed, rubbing your eyes. You realize you're at Jack's, and more pressingly, you could've sworn you fell asleep on the couch.   

You're not generally prone to sleeping in, but that's because you set an alarm to keep yourself from sleeping the day away. It's just after eleven, and your lost suitcase is sitting by the guest room door. Jack must've carried you to bed and left your bag as a peace offering.  

It would be nice if he could stop being so apologetic. You're not sure why it irritates you, but everything he does to smooth things over only leaves you more confused. Talk about mixed signals. Most guys who ghost girls after sleeping with them run for the hills and never apologize.  

… which makes this even more confusing. 

It's not like there's a manual for understanding the emotionally stunted man, let alone the classic model. If there were, you probably would've read it eons ago and consulted the ancient texts for references after every hookup. Younger or older, there's one truth universally acknowledged: men are dumb.  

Life would be so much easier if you were a lesbian Amazon woman on an island, like something straight out of the Odyssey.  

You change your clothes, slipping into workout gear, and you realize you went to bed in Jack's shirt. The Pirates tee he left behind, slightly more worn these days, is probably an incriminating choice of nightwear. You hope his gallant carrying didn't include pajama inspection.  

Shaking off the preemptive mortification, you stretch, run a couple of miles on the treadmill, and round it all off with some yoga. While you feel a little better after, you're still unsure how to belong in this borrowed space. You know Jack's given you a pass to make yourself at home, but you're too edgy.  

Even if you hadn't spent the last four years pretending that summer trip never happened, it would still be strange, coming face to face with him. He's not an ex, per se, but it's still strained as a result of this in-between space you and Jack once occupied. Labels are uncomplicated, and there's nothing cut and dry about the two of you. Not even close. 

You don't want to acknowledge what it was. Not when you've spent enough time running and fortifying your defenses so you won't ever find your heart broken by the hands of Dr. Jack Abbot again. 

His bedroom door is shut, so you assume he's probably sleeping off the night shift. You eat a slice of leftover pizza from the night before, cold from the fridge like a raccoon, and try to decipher what each of the intricate knobs on the coffee machine does. You're the proud owner of a single-serve Keurig that whistles when it brews your morning coffee, and it always comes out a little burnt. Jack's espresso machine looks like it belongs in a bougie coffee shop where a small latte is eight dollars, and the baristas despise you just for walking in the door. Eventually, you figure it out and let out an audible moan when the first drop hits your taste buds. 

Note to self: when making an attending's salary, buy a fancy espresso machine.  

Jack's house is closer to suburban territory for Pittsburgh, meaning there's not much exploring to do. You take a walk with your headphones in, reciting all the bones in the human body, starting with your toes.  

Hallux, distal, middle, proximal phalanges, metatarsals, medial cuneiform. Yada, yada, yada.  

You're pretty sure your attendings won't be grilling you about the anatomy of the musculoskeletal system of the foot, but better safe than sorry.  

You shower, and name all the arteries connected to major organs while you wash your hair. By the time you're curled up on the couch, watching episodes of Friends at a low volume, Jack has finally joined the land of the living. You hear the beeps of the treadmill starting, and the low hum of music blasting through his earbuds. If things weren't so tense, you'd call him an old man and tease him about going deaf.  

You crank up the TV volume just enough to drown out the clatter of weights as he works through his lifting routine, his panting breaths as he runs. Your imagination doesn't need to work hard to remind you what he sounds like in bed, or how his salty, sweat-slicked skin feels against yours. 

You need to be spayed. Or taken out back like Old Yeller, because maybe then you'd stop thinking lustful, out-of-pocket thoughts about him.  

You very nearly stuff your fingers in your ears and start shouting lalalala when the shower cranks on. If you weren't about to be incredibly busy with residency, you'd consider downloading one of those god-forsaken dating apps just to get some relief. You've never been so captivated before, so preoccupied thinking about sex, and yet somehow, Jack unlocks that part of you and turns off the chaotic, academic side of your mind. It's both awesome and infuriating.  

You might actually lose your mind staying here. 

Two more days, and then your apartment is ready, and your first shift at PTMC falls the day after you get your keys. It gives you a very small window to unpack your essentials, which wouldn't have been a problem if you'd just gotten your stupid keys to your stupid apartment yesterday. 

Since laugh tracks and punchlines aren't enough to distract you, you decide to poke around in the kitchen. As promised, Jack acquired some groceries, so you can cobble together some chicken and pasta to keep your mind and hands busy. Cooking is just chemistry, simplified. Sometimes, for fun, you do metric conversions in your head for extra umph.  

You hear your name being called as you're whisking a sauce over a low heat. "Hm?" 

Jack's scrub top is halfway over his head, revealing a sliver of hip, the trail of dark hair spanning his belly button to the waistband of his black scrub pants, bronze, freckled skin, and corded muscle. He's built like a Renaissance statue, which should be illegal past forty to save all the girls with daddy issues in the world. It's like the world's horniest art show, and you're definitely a creepy weirdo. 

"I said I'm off Sunday," he repeats himself, slowly. Your cheeks flame, but he does you the kindness of pretending he hasn't noticed you blushing. "I figured I'd offer to take you around Pittsburgh. Sightseeing and all that. We could catch a game." 

"A game?" 

"You like baseball, right?" His dimples ghost across his cheek. Your heart somersaults into your ribs.  

Oh, fuck. The shirt. He noticed the shirt, and noticed you wearing it, and now you really, really have to do some damage control. "Yeah. Love it. Baseball's a game of numbers," you answer, slapping a too-wide grin on your face. Thankfully, you read fast and remember useless information like a computer, so after he leaves for work, you can cram all the knowledge of the Pittsburgh Pirates into your noggin. Better to study a sport you couldn't give a damn about than admit you've been wearing his shirt because... 

Well, you're not really sure why. It's comfortable, sure, and it smelled like him for a day, which didn't help the broken heart situation. Maybe he doesn't know it's his shirt. You'll avoid wearing it again, so he can't put two and two together about its origins. To hell with it, you can be a baseball fan if it gives you some plausible deniability.  

"I'll get tickets. It'll be a night game, so I can show you around town before you get the lay of the land." He says it so casually, like it's no big deal. Because he's just a nice guy, and this is what he does, and you're a boy-crazy little girl making something out of nothing.  

"Thanks," you say.  

"Sure," he replies. "I don't mean to be presumptuous, but are you, uh, planning to share?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I didn't know what you like, but…"

"After surviving on MREs and nearly non-potable water for a couple of tours, I've learned not to be picky." He reaches over you, his hand falling between your shoulder blades as he retrieves some plates from the cabinet. You're suddenly so aware of him, the space he's taking up beside you, the points of contact between the warmth of his palm, the pads of his fingers, cutting through the fabric of your shirt, almost like the real thing.

And then he lets go. The plates meet the counter with a gentle clink. 

"It smells incredible," he adds, stepping back, maintaining a respectful distance. 

"Thanks," you mumble, a bit shy. He's looking at you again, so intensely you might burst into flames. Jack makes you feel like the only person in the world that matters when he talks to you. But then, he's like that with everyone, moons orbiting him, reflecting his warmth. 

You dish out the pasta, and Jack moans audibly when he takes the first bite. "Holy shit. And I thought doctors can't cook."

"That seems like a sweeping generalization," you reply.

"Most doctors," he amends. "But seriously, this is good."

"It's just chemistry. And math."

He throws your words back at you, a playful glint to his eyes. "That seems like a sweeping generalization."

"There's some leftover, if you want to take it to work," you say, because you need to fill the silence and keep your heart and mind from racing. "I can pack it up."

He nods, checking his watch. It's a military-grade model, rugged, but plain. It's probably expensive, but not in an overt, flashy way. It's understated, like he is. "I'm running late, but leave the dishes for me, and I'll get to them."

"After a shift?"

"You cooked. I'll clean up. It's how my wi—" He catches himself, his face falling, slipping back behind a wall of grief. Almost reflexively, his thumb and index finger close around the ring he wears, spinning it nervously. "It's how I've always done things," he finishes, grabbing a container out of a different cabinet. He dishes the rest of the pasta hastily, closing the lid. "Thank you. This was thoughtful." 

"Jack," you say softly, but you're not sure he hears it. 

He's too in his head, and you get the sense that whatever he's saying, it's just autopilot. A script, delivered robotically, as if you're even here. He's moving faster now, dropping the dishes in the sink quickly, maybe with a bit more force than necessary. You've still got a fork in your hand, trying to find something to say when he grabs his backpack and his keys, leaving you on your own with a half-finished dinner, gobsmacked from emotional whiplash. 

"Save the dishes," he calls over his shoulder.

The door shuts heavily behind him. 

You don't save the dishes.

You sit with the choice, for a moment, weighing it out. You don't want to add another task to his full plate, knowing he's at work, probably up to his knees in patients with no beds and charts. The guilt of knowing he picked up your suitcase first thing after an all-nighter and carried you to bed is already eating you. All your life, you've functioned by yourself, never asking too much of anyone, always anticipating disappointment. 

Jack seems determined to make sure you count on him, but you know better than to get too comfortable. So you do the dishes, run the washer, clean the sink and the stove, and then when the cycle finishes, you put them away. Within two hours, the kitchen looks untouched, spotless.

Good. You can pretend dinner never happened. 

Something strange happens when you and Jack are alone. You fall into a groove, get along so easily, and connect in a way you've never really connected with anyone before. You wish it wasn't him. You wish you couldn't see the effect you have on him, how soft he gets with you, how he relaxes, like he can let Soldier Jack, Combat Medic Jack, go for a few minutes. Being a doctor and a functional genius means constant attention to detail, never letting things slip by you unnoticed. 

But just because you can see the way you affect him doesn't mean you can name it, or understand it, or hold space for it. It feels a bit like clasping your palms around a firefly or catching a star, but all you can do is watch the light slip through your fingers. 

Jack is complicated and broken, and you're no better.

It'll never work.

You retire to your guest room when you feel sleep starting to overtake you. Even though he's already seen the t-shirt, you stuff it in the bottom of your bag and pick something else for bed. Around a quarter to midnight, your phone buzzes with a text from an unfamiliar phone number. It's a screenshot of two digital tickets to the Pittsburgh Pirates game against the Dodgers, who, ironically, were the team you rooted for most of your life, as a byproduct of living in Southern California. 

One internet web search, and you realize you're within spitting distance of home plate.

Ho-ly shit.

Now is a really bad time not to know a damn thing about baseball.

Before you can overthink it or start to do the math on how much it cost him to get seats like that, another text comes in.

Jack: Buddy of mine has season tickets.

Then, another text. Jack: It's Jack. By the way. You snort. Only he would text so formally, with such proper punctuation, announcing himself like this isn't the modern age. 

You take a moment to reply, fingers hovering over the keypad as you frown at your screen like your phone owes you money. Finally, you land on something easy, hoping it doesn't reveal your inner turmoil.

You: sounds good :)

Then you add: Goodnight Jack

The bubbles appear as he drafts a reply. You're surprised he has time to text back, given how chaotic the ED supposedly gets. You've read the data, which came with your welcome packet. Orientation was a flashy, high-budget piece of hospital propaganda that definitely glamorized PTMC. You're excited to see the real thing. 

Jack's next text comes through a few seconds later.

Jack: Goodnight, sweetheart.

You have zero idea how you're going to survive a couple more days of this… and then you remember it's just the beginning, and you still have five years of residency and the rest of your lives caught in Jack Abbot's orbit. 

You are definitely, absolutely, irrevocably screwed.

Feeling zesty? Save the official crash course soundtrack on Spotify!

Also, what if I said I was writing a pilot spec script for a night shift spinoff of The Pitt? should I post it? maybe we could get the writers on it, idk!

THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE!!! Whether you’re a tumblr or an ao3 reader, I see you, I love you, etc !! I’m gonna start posting more Crash Course content on TikTok [at] fxckingjo_ and Instagram [at] jofayewrites so follow me there ;)

Four years later…

Match day is one of the happiest days of your life.

The culmination of all the things you've worked for, fought for, coming together for this one moment. You nailed your interviews, and you had your fair share of prestige across the board. UCLA, Mass Gen, and even Columbia. You were so sure Stanford was the golden goose.

When Pittsburgh called, you never expected it would feel so right. From the moment you walked into PTMC for your interview with the Board of Executives, you decided it was your top choice. Dr. Shamsi seemed pleased with your interest in a surgical elective, and when you mentioned double-boarding in pediatrics and emergency medicine, the committee seemed interested. Dr. Robinavitch, who seemed oddly familiar despite being a total stranger, looked ready to hire you on the spot. You danced in the hallway afterward and called Ashleigh to tell her all about it.

Deciding the trajectory of your career based on a list was a bit daunting at first, but you were confident with listing PTMC as your top choice. And, as it would turn out, there was a spot in their double-boarded accelerated program. Sure, it's five years of residency instead of four, and a surgical elective following your intern year. Lots of sleepless nights are ahead of you, but you're confident you made the right call.

Adorably, your four-year-old siblings handmade cards congratulating you, complete with glitter glue and puffy paint. You cried a little bit when you found them in your mailbox after a gruelling day of classes. Your last rotation in OB wraps up just before graduation this weekend. 

It's hard to believe you're done with medical school. No, you're capital-D Done with medical school. All the necessary emphasis and privileges included. You'll introduce yourself with Dr. as the prefix for your name. You've always loathed the fact that women are defined by being married, not married, or whatever secret third thing is covered by Ms. It's archaic, and now you get to revel in the joys of correcting people with actually, it's Doctor. 

Your tiny New York apartment, tucked into Hell's Kitchen, is almost completely packed. After growing up with nothing, you've accumulated a decent amount of stuff. Maybe it's an overcorrection, and maybe it's excessive to have more than two pairs of shoes when half your time is spent in scrubs and tennis shoes for comfort purposes. Still, your closet is mostly packed, and your piles of books, like the lost library of Alexandria, are stuffed into boxes. 

Despite your insistence that you can handle this yourself, your dad is hiring movers to get you settled in Pittsburgh. One of his friends in real estate is renting you a spacious apartment for a steal. It's at least four hundred square feet bigger than your studio in Manhattan, and under any other circumstances, more than an intern's salary can afford. Part of rebuilding your relationship with your dad has been swallowing your pride enough to let him help you out. You never ask for too much from him, opting for necessity alone, because you're still your mother's daughter. Still trying to earn your way in the world.

Petunia, who's caught a second wind since the tune-up—your dad's phrasing, you'd call it a miraculous resurrection—is garaged in California at your parents' place. It's weird, thinking of Ashleigh as a mother figure when she's only ten years older than you, so while you refer to her and your dad as parents, most of the time, she's more like a cool aunt. Despite the offer to buy you something newer, you put your foot down on keeping Petunia. She's being shipped ahead of your move. 

Being an intern sounds like a lot of grunt work and scut, but you're alright with it. You have to start somewhere, and if you want to be half the pediatric trauma physician your mentors are, laying the groundwork starts day one.

Maybe you're crazy for double boarding. You exist in a constant competition with yourself. Some of your more Type-A classmates spent seminars kissing ass and trying to win favor with your professors by showing off their knowledge, but you've never seen the appeal in competing against your peers for the sake of it. You do your best, and let your mind speak for itself. 

You're anxious as hell about the new city, the new apartment, the new job, and new people. It's all inevitable, but it doesn't make it easier to stomach. It's not like you're leaving behind close friends in New York. Most of your time has been academically spent, or enduring clinical rotations running on fumes. Even at university mixers or bars, you always felt a little strange, like you never quite fit. Maybe Pittsburgh will be different. Walking around the corridors of PTMC and touring the ER during the afternoon, you felt centered. Almost like coming home. 

As you tape your last box closed, you sigh. You'll miss the fire escape for sure. It's very quintessential for a New Yorker to sit on the fire escape and look out at the skyline. You'll miss that, but you look forward to driving again, to having a quieter apartment to retreat to. No more neighbors arguing and sirens blaring and roaches crawling up the pipes. Not to mention the giant subway rats. Seriously, the rodents of NYC are nearly the same size as trash cans. 

Two OB shifts to go, then T-minus five days to graduation. In less than a week, you move to Pittsburgh, and a week after that? You're officially an R1 at PTMC. You're packed, you're ready, you're almost a doctor. 

Sure, maybe it's not the most mature thing in the world, but fuck it, twenty-five isn't too old for whimsy. You slide around on the hardwood in your socks and do a victory dance, complete with a Breakfast Club fist pump. 

You nail your final rotation, get your hair and nails done, find the perfect dress for the ceremony, and graduate from Columbia Med School on a sunny day with honors. Everything is perfect. Normally, you'd be waiting for the other shoe to drop, but four years with your dad, without the fear of going hungry or being homeless or rationing your money to afford textbooks, has made you soft.

Which is why a disaster striking you out of nowhere hits harder than you'd like to admit.

First, your flight is delayed. No big deal, you just divert to Newark to make your destination instead of flying out of JFK. Sure, Jersey is a disgusting place you'd rather not set foot in, but you won't be there for long. 

Your new flight is on a plane with no working AC, sitting in coach because you booked it with your own money, despite your dad's offer. By the time you land, sweating like a whore in church, your t-shirt sticky, hair frizzy, you regret all the choices leading up to this moment.

And then Ashleigh calls.

"Hey," you say, as you're waiting for baggage claim. 

"Hey," she chirps. You wondered if her personality, all bubbly and smiley, was an act at first, but four years later, she's just as cheerful as she was day one. She's good for your dad, and she's an amazing mom to Stella and Samuel. Being a big sister has been the greatest gift of your life. After a flight from hell, it's exactly what you need.

In the background, you hear your siblings shouting for your attention. All you can do is laugh and tell them you loved the congratulatory cards. They're in your purse because the thought of putting them in boxes made your chest ache. 

"So listen," Ashleigh starts, "and don't freak out."

"No good news in the history of the universe has ever been prefaced with don't freak out," you reply, anxiety twisting your stomach. 

"Your dad is in Shanghai for business—"

"I know," you interject. You know, because he left straight from your graduation dinner for an international red eye. Ashleigh and the twins went back to California early the next morning. You'd have flown out to Pittsburgh sooner, or even taken a train, but your car and apartment wouldn't be ready until Thursday, which is why you stayed an extra day in the city. Everything was planned perfectly.

It's almost funny how quickly everything is falling apart. 

"The time difference meant he didn't get the call until the next morning, and they're half a day ahead—"

"Ashleigh, what are you saying?"

"Your apartment is being fumigated. Whole building," she replies, clearly reluctant. 

You groan. "Are you kidding?" 

"It'll be done Monday," she says. "That's when the movers are getting in anyway."

"What about Petunia?"

"Your car will be there on Monday too."

"So I'm in a new city, by myself, with nowhere to go, no place to live, no car—"

"Dad's card is on your Uber if you want to call a cab."

An Uber was already part of the plan. You had it all mapped out in your head. You'd buy an air mattress and stop at the grocery store to get a few essentials. Take a lazy weekend being a doctor, drinking wine, and watching all the Netflix you didn't have time for in med school. "I can get a motel or something, I guess," you say, rubbing your temple. It doesn't slow the stabbing headache boiling in your skull, picking up steam. 

You might as well have told Ashleigh you were planning to stay in a cardboard box next to a stinky dude named Curly and his rabid pet raccoon. "A motel? You're a doctor, honey, you shouldn't sleep in a motel."

"I'm a little broke, Ash. Haven't gotten my first meager intern check anyway."

"We can help you." She says your name so affectionately, your heart squeezes. You're so loved. Sometimes you can't believe this is your life, like growing up in a white-trash trailer park, eating day-olds from the gas station was going to last forever. Now you're living the dream.

Theoretically, anyway. Everything going south now is terribly on brand for your life. 

Still, you protest. How Shakespearean, the lady doth protest too much, or whatever. "I know, but—"

"Sweetie, we've been over this. We love you. We know you can do it on your own because you have been doing it long enough, but you don't have to. Okay?"

"I know," you say. "And I'm grateful. I just want to feel like I'm doing this myself."

"I know," she says. Then she pauses with a small gasp, like she's suddenly gotten an idea. "You know what? Give me ten minutes."

"Ashleigh—"

"Ten minutes," she says, and then she hangs up. The telltale beeps before the line goes dead are her quick sign-off. Back to you, all by your lonesome. 

The carousel you've been watching spins listlessly as luggage rolls in from your flight creaks to a stop. There are two unclaimed bags being loaded on carts by attendants, but nothing new is on the conveyor belt. 

` You immediately head to the airline office. "Hey, uh, I didn't get my bag."

The clerk looks like she's seconds from dozing off behind the computer. The vacant look behind every blink makes you wish you could melt into the floor. "Boarding pass?"

You hand it over. 

More typing, some heavy sighs. 

"All the bags have been retrieved from the plane," she informs you. 

"I understand that, but mine isn't there."

"What's your name?"

"It's on the boarding pass."

She scowls at you.

You spell it for her.

"Look, miss—"

"It's actually doctor," you mutter.

"Ma'am," she says, "Your bag seems to have been delayed in transit. It's still in New Jersey."

"You're kidding." You laugh, sounding a bit hysterical. "Are you fucking kidding right now?"

"Don't swear at me," she quips, tapping a sign on the wall with NO PROFANITY OR THREATS TO PERSONNEL TOLERATED stamped under the airline logo in an angry red font. 

"I'm sorry," you say, shrinking a bit. "I've had a really crappy day."

"We'll have your bags retrieved tomorrow morning and a voucher for the inconvenience. We'll call you as soon as your luggage is recovered."

You close your eyes, reminding yourself very pointedly that cool, newly minted doctors don't cry in front of strangers on their first day in a brand-new city. "Fine. Okay."

Ashleigh texts a few seconds later, your phone snapping you out of your woe-is-me session. 

Ashleigh: Sorry I didn't call back… Sam decided to cut Stella's hair with safety scissors. Whole chunk.

A picture comes along a second later. You snort. 

Your dad seemed to think Sam could be trusted with his latest arts and crafts phase, and so his birthday gift was a massive set of art supplies, complete with pastels he shoved up his nose and colored pencils he stabbed into the light socket. You know the little shit is always up to no good. Dennis the Menace, who?

Ashleigh: Jack is picking you up. Said he'd be there in twenty. Wait for him out front.

Your heart falls out of your chest.

Jack.

As in… Jack Abbot?

Oh, the foreshadowing was so obvious, and still you missed it.

Your dad mentioned it, that very first weekend, when you fell halfway in love with his best friend and gave him your virginity, and then were devastated when reality came knocking. "Works in an ER. Pittsburgh," your dad had said. Your perfect memory can recite the words back perfectly, replaying them on a feedback loop. Every conversation is being held up for inspection now. How did you miss something so cosmically huge?

God, his Pittsburgh Pirates t-shirt was another clue! You've looked at that shirt a hundred times and never thought twice. The same shirt he left in your bedroom, the one you could never throw away, the one you still wear to bed, because you're a glutton for punishment. 

You try to tell Ashleigh you're fine, happy to Uber, but Jack's already on his way, and you don't have his number. She's smart. She'll know something is up if you freak out on her about Jack, especially because you've kept the secret this long. Everything that happened over the summer four years ago has to stay in the past. You don't want to disappoint your dad, or ruin their friendship, or even think about Jack because thinking about Jack makes you feel—

Like you're tumbling off the edge of the world. In freefall. Only you know for sure no one's waiting to catch you. You're on your own.

Your chest is tight, throat closing up. Black spots crowd your vision at the edges, and you're pretty sure steam is coming out of your ears.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck!

You sniffle, willing the tears back into your eyes. No crying. No panic attacks. Sure, everything is going wrong like you've walked under a hundred ladders and broken ten mirrors and screwed up all your ancestral karma for generations. You've been through worse, so you can't let it get to you, because you always land on your feet. And emergency medicine is chaotic, peds is a mixed bag too. This is all practice, for the real thing, for the rest of your life.

Except Jack is the variable you can't shake off, or account for, or stop to consider.

You head outside with your backpack and your shame, sitting down on a bench to wait. It feels a bit like settling on the chopping block beneath a guillotine. You're looking up at the grey sky, hoping a bolt of lightning smites you out of your misery.

But no, it just opens and releases a torrential downpour of rain. 

You realize you probably look like a hysterical nut job as the sky opens with rain above your head. Even for a summer storm, it's cold and unforgiving, plastering your clothes to your skin and giving your hair a striking resemblance to a drowned rat.  

You have a backpack, a carry-on, and nothing else. Your missing suitcase is stuck in airport limbo, and everything else about your move to Pittsburgh has become a series of rather unfortunate events. No transportation, none of your boxes, and now, not even a change of shoes. Your airport Crocs definitely don't scream "mature adult," which is the energy you'd prefer to have when it comes to facing Jack Abbot. 

You can hold grudges like a champ, obviously. It took your dad a summer to earn forgiveness, and you're still working to forgive your mom for the years of lies and all the time you missed out on. Being a child of divorce isn't for the weak, but you're made of stronger stuff. Columbia was tough, med school kicked your ass, for sure, but you also excelled. You earned your spot at PTMC; you can handle this. It's just a guy. Just a ride to the nearest hotel, since a motel-with-an-m is unacceptable as far as your parents are concerned. 

Ashleigh doesn't know better. She and your dad need to stay none the wiser. Everything that happened that summer can stay in the past.  

Well, except when you're drunk and lonely with a charged rabbit. You're just a girl, after all, and considering the other men you've been with have been comically disappointing, you're better off solo, with no snoring man without a bed frame beside you. Love life? Good riddance, see you after residency. 

You realize you're not sure what kind of car Jack drives anyway, so you stay in the rainstorm, squinting through the downpour with a hand cupped over your eyes. A truck pulls up beside you, but the windows are dark, so you stand for a minute like a video game character idling before a task.  

Jack gets out of the truck, and your heart stops. 

You're reminded, suddenly, of the first time you saw him. Déjà vu rockets through you as he takes your carry-on (thankfully waterproof) and your backpack (decidedly not). He loads them into the backseat, and you clamber into the shelter of the truck. A security guard walking up and down the sidewalk barks at you to move along. You wrap your arms around yourself, breath caught behind the cage of your gritted teeth. 

The driver's door opens. Jack slides back behind the wheel. 

Springsteen is on the radio, playing low, the beat of the music almost timed to the rainfall. Another summer. Same Jack.  

But you've changed. 

"You cold?" he asks. 

You shake your head. "Not really. Just wet." Wet. The innuendo isn't lost on you. Once upon a time, that was how he made you feel. Now you're just annoyed. "You didn't have to come get me," you add hastily. 

"Ashleigh asked me to. How could I say no?" he replies.  

"Could've said you're busy." 

He shrugs. "I wasn't." 

Silence lapses between you.  

"Just take me to a hotel. A cheap one, please." 

You might as well be speaking Greek. He repeats the word back to you like it's absurd or a great faux pas. "A hotel?" 

"As in an inn, where people stay," you deadpan. "Tourists, usually." 

"I know what a hotel is," Jack grunts, exasperated. Good, you're getting a rise out of him. Serves him right, the asshole. "I just don't understand why you need one." 

"My apartment was supposed to be ready this afternoon, but now they're saying Monday," you answer.  

"And you were standing in the rain because?" 

"I didn't know how to get a hold of you. Or what you drive." 

"A truck." 

"Yeah, I can see that." 

He sucks in a breath, stifling a yawn. 

"You okay?" you ask.  

He sighs, nodding. "Just used to the night shift." 

You hate that you feel guilty. It wasn't your decision, and you wouldn't have picked a ride from him in any multiple-choice scenario. Hell, you'd sooner walk. "I didn't wake you up, did I?" you murmur.

"You didn't," he assures you, but you're certain Ashleigh most definitely did. It's nice of him to answer the call after what was probably a long shift, to get out of bed to retrieve you from the airport. Maybe it's guilt, or duty to your dad, or some secret third thing you haven't surmised yet.   

"Thanks," you say.  

"Ashleigh also said you'd be staying in my guest room." 

Your head whips to face him so fast your neck pops. "You're joking." 

"I have the room," he responds matter-of-factly. "You're a young woman in a new place." 

"I'm moving here." It's not like you're some vulnerable fawn teetering around a forest packed with ravenous lions. You're adaptable, and after living in New York and growing up in a trailer park, you aren't afraid of the boogeyman. You have your wits about you.

"Doesn't change the fact it's a new place, and I'm responsible for you." 

"I'm not a child." And you're not responsible for me, you mentally add.

"I know that, Doctor." He tacks the word on at the end, accompanied by a proud smirk. "Congrats by the way." 

You resist the urge to scowl at him and pout. Whatever he has to say, you're indifferent. Because you're above letting him know he hurt you. You've evolved to a tough, indifferent woman. Cool girl. Impenetrable. 

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "So residency, huh? What specialty?" 

Medicine is a safe talking point. If you can stay in this territory, you'll be fine. Golden. "I'm double boarding, actually. Pediatrics and emergency medicine. My mentor thought I had a knack for peds trauma. I did two ER rotations." 

A quiet smile transforms his face. "And here I thought you wanted to study pathology or oncology." 

You're surprised he remembers that, even more so that he's bringing it up. Alluding to that summer, and everything that happened, without saying the quiet parts. "Things change," is all you say. 

Suddenly, he looks a bit uneasy. "Which, uh, which program?" 

"PTMC," you answer. 

His shoulders go rigid, spine ram-rod straight, like his whole body is at attention. "Oh," he says, evenly measured. Giving nothing away, and yet spelling everything out in a silent scream. 

"That's your hospital," you realize. "Of course it is." Because why wouldn't it be?

"You'll probably be on days most of the time," he says quickly. "That's with Robby." 

Robby? You search your memory, but you didn't meet anyone named Robert on the board of executives. You figure it's gotta be… "Dr. Robinavitch? I interviewed with him." 

"He mentioned a double boarder and seemed impressed." 

"Guess I interview well." You don't, most of the time. You're anxious and overthink everything, and your mind is always a little scrambled. It's a miracle you charmed them, but that's because your resume and research speak for themselves. 

"I'm the primary night shift attending," Jack explains. "There's also Shen, if you'd rather work with him. For your comfort. I don't expect you'll work too many nights your first year, especially with peds in the mix." 

Your chest warms, and then you immediately shut it down. It's hard to be mad when he's doing his best to be insufferably likeable. "I can work with whoever just fine. I'm a big girl." 

"I didn't say you weren't." 

And now you're mad again. It's like he's tied to all of your emotions, pulling the throttle without knowing better. "Whatever gallant chivalry crap you think you owe me, knock it off," you quip. "Seriously." 

His patience snaps, finally hitting the breaking point. "Just making conversation with my niece," he shoots back.  

"You're so not my uncle." It's a nicer version of what you want to say. Oh yeah, Uncle Jack. Totally cool of you to take my virginity, ruin me for anyone else, and ghost me! Fuck you, Jack, and fuck your 'Uncle' shit too!

"Starting now, I am," he bites back. "Because we work together now, and your dad—" 

You roll your eyes. When you were little, your mom said they'd get stuck like that. "Oh, here we go again—" 

"You're mouthy, you know that? Where did you get such an attitude?" 

"Discovered it being used and discarded," you fire back.  

He clenches his jaw. "It wasn't like that." 

"How was it then?" 

Jack doesn't answer. Instead, he turns up the radio.  

"Real mature, Jack."  

You decide not to argue further. What would be the point, anyway? He knows what he did. You know enough. He left, and frankly, the thought of hashing it out makes you feel like you're going to cry all over again. You cried enough when it happened, and let yourself feel all the complicated, nasty things tangled up inside of you. Now, you're not giving him more tears.  

You've since moved on, first with your study partner in med school, then an attending during your surgical rotation, which taught you that surgeons are giant assholes. Both were older, sure, but then, you've at least come to terms with your type. Your last sorta-boyfriend was a paramedic, who you found out was secretly married after sleeping with him. Since then, you've given up dick for Lent, and then continued your break from men. The way you figure it, you can't be disappointed this way.  

You pretend you're not checking hotel room rates and seeing if bundling with Uber saves you any money. The surcharges are insane at this hour, and the math between your meager savings and the flies and dust in your bank account isn't giving you any hope. You're stuck. If you use your dad's card, they'll want to know why you're not staying with Jack, and you don't like spending their money anyway, so the hassle of fielding questions will just make more trouble for you in the long run. 

You've resigned yourself to your fate when he pulls into the garage.  

"Home sweet home," he remarks, grabbing your bags before you've even gotten out of the car.  

Jack's townhouse is a modest three-bedroom. He shows you to the guest room, which sits between the master bedroom and a small home office that's half a gym. No wonder he stays so fit. He's got a treadmill, a rack of weights, and even a Peloton. The yoga mat catches your eye. You took up yoga and Pilates when you moved to the city, rotating classes through a studio near your school.  

You'll need to keep up the yoga if you're going to stay zen working in his presence for the next five years of your life.  

"This is your space," he says, leaving your suitcase next to the nightstand. "The bathroom's all yours. Got my own next door. You can wash your clothes if you want. The washer and dryer are just off the kitchen. TV's got all the streaming channels or whatever the hell they're called." He waves his hand vaguely. Your lips twitch before you realize you're supposed to be pissed at him.  

"I don't have a lot of guests, mostly Robby, when he's had a few, but the sheets are clean," he continues. "And you can help yourself to anything. Is that all you have?" He jerks his chin vaguely at your bag. 

"My luggage got lost," you tell him. "They said it would be at the airport tomorrow." 

"I'll pick it up on my way home." 

You've quickly realized it's pointless to try to argue with him. Maybe this, his hospitality, his generosity, is why you were so blindsided when he left you behind. It's so completely out of character, or maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do. Between the hours you spent with him and your dad's stories, you can't help but think he's a good person who's just fallen on hard times. If you're ever brave enough to ask, maybe he'll even have an explanation for why he left without saying goodbye. 

"Listen," he says, clearing his throat. "I got a shift tonight, at seven. Gonna try to sleep a little more before then. Wake me if you need me." 

"I won't," you mutter, your voice small. 

He nods. "I'll leave a key for you, just in case." 

He's gone before you can respond. 

You're not usually a napper, but after a hot shower, the exhausting day crashes over you, and sleep pulls you under like a riptide. When you wake up, your mouth feels stale, and the sun is going down. Jack's already left.  

The place is sparsely decorated. He's got a flag folded above the fireplace, his medals from the service in a shadow box beside his uniform. A picture of his squad, featuring a thinner version of your dad with all his hair, is framed next to it. There's another photo, a young Jack, a face round with youth, holding a beautiful woman in white.

His wife, you realize. She's beautiful. Of course, she is; you didn't expect anything less. Suddenly, you're noticing the lack of photos of her everywhere else in the apartment. You imagine it's hard for him to look at her smiling face, knowing she's gone. You still can't unpack half the photos of your mom without crying, and memories overwhelm you every time you open your camera roll. 

His furniture is all greys and blacks, moody, dark hues. You wouldn't be shocked if he decorated by picking a page out of a furniture magazine and buying everything on it. The warmth of a woman's touch is almost completely absent. A few abstract paintings adorn the walls, and a wilted spider plant is dying in the window.

You don't look in his bedroom. That's a line you can draw for yourself, no matter how nosy you are. As far as Jack Abbot is concerned, all bedrooms are off-limits. 

You rub your eyes, shaking off your nap as you wander around. When you finally venture into the kitchen, you find a note on the fridge, with forty bucks in cash folded under the same magnet. 

Need to buy groceries. Order something on me. - J 

And then, below that, are ten digits. His phone number.  

A prickly, hurt part of you resents that he's figured out how to leave a note now. Four years later, he's left you asleep, in his Pirates t-shirt, but at least this time he gave you his number. Free dinner is a step in the right direction. An apology, almost.  

You just don't know if you can ever forgive him. 

Feeling zesty? Save the official crash course soundtrack on Spotify!

Also, what if I said I was writing a pilot spec script for a night shift spinoff of The Pitt? should I post it? maybe we could get the writers on it, idk!

THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE!!! Whether you’re a tumblr or an ao3 reader, I see you, I love you, etc !! I’m gonna start posting more Crash Course content on TikTok [at] fxckingjo_ and Instagram [at] jofayewrites so follow me there ;)

It takes you a minute to get dressed, working around your shaking hands. You're not nervous, though. It's a new kind of excitement, bubbling in your stomach, sending dizzying bursts through your nerves, like butterflies in the veins. Jack got dressed in a hurry, popped his prosthetic back into place, and headed back up the hill, leaving you to bask under the moonlight, centering yourself under the stars. 

Once you're decent and the cool night has started to turn your wet hair into an illness waiting to happen, you head back to your room. 

In the shower, you wind up shaving your legs and armpits with the precision of a surgeon, even though you're about 90% sure that if the night goes the way you think it will, Jack won't care about your body hair. He's a man, after all, not a boy. You select your cutest underwear from the stash Ashleigh bought you and hold out the matching bra for inspection. Should you wear a bra? Do you even bother to get dressed? You don't have enough friends your age to ask about their virginity stories, and now you're dangerously close to disappearing down the Google rabbit hole for help.

You take a breath, deciding to leave the bra in your bag for tonight. You change into pajamas: a matching tank top and shorts set with cherries printed on them. The irony isn't lost on you. 

Just as you're about to head to Jack's room, there's a light knock at the door.

You open it hesitantly, unsure of what to expect. You half-wonder if it'll be your dad or Ashleigh, checking in on you for whatever reason, but you're pretty sure they've already turned in after celebrating his birthday in ways you really, really don't want to think about. You've been traumatized enough as it is.

It's Jack, on the other side. Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants and a Pittsburgh Pirates t-shirt that's worn out, faded from several washes, and snug around his biceps. His arms should be illegal. It's not fair how good-looking he is. You're pretty sure that if you cracked open a dictionary, his picture would accompany the definition of silver fox. 

"Hey," he says, his voice gruff. Low, to keep the volume down.

"Hi," you whisper back, before you step aside to let him in. 

Slowly, you close the door and lock it behind him. The click of the metal sliding into place is a sound you can barely register over the rushing beat of your heart, tapping against your ribs at a million miles an hour. Like a hummingbird lives inside you, springing into flight the moment he's around, in your orbit. You lean against it, your fingers ghosting over the knob before falling back to your side.

"Was beginning to think you changed your mind," he explains, rubbing the back of his neck. Is he nervous? Molten want spreads through your core at the thought he might be. "And that's okay. I just… wanted to check in. Make sure you're not uncomfortable or upset or—"

"I'm not," you assure him. "I didn't. Change my mind, I mean. I thought you might." You laugh lightly at the admission, relieved to admit it, to put it all out in the open. 

He shakes his head, his expression serious, brows folded across his forehead as he steps a little closer. "No, baby, I'm not the kinda man who wastes time saying things he doesn't mean." 

Your nose rubs against his as you stand on your toes, closing the small gap between your faces. His skin is pure heat, everywhere it brushes yours, and it's a sharp contrast from the cold hardwood floor under your feet, the solid oak door behind you. 

His fingers trace across your cheekbone, skimming across it before they thread in your hair and pull you closer to him. Then his other hand comes up, caressing your face. His hazel eyes search yours, the question implicit.

"I want you, Jack," you murmur. Because he needs to hear it. 

The breath he was holding trips out of his throat in a jagged rush. "We shouldn't," he rasps. "God, baby, we shouldn't be doing this."

"Thought you were done fighting it," you reply, braver than you feel at the moment. 

"If I were a better man…" He trails off. "Fuck."

"You're a good man," you whisper back, a little fierce, more assertive. "That's why I want you so badly."

The words land, then sink in. The corners of his mouth twitch into an almost-smile, just for you. 

"I was a goner the first time you looked at me," he confesses, like the words are being pulled out of him, releasing a litany of confessions, an avalanche of desire only you can quell. His only audience member, at his mercy. "And then the other night, when you woke me up, you pulled me out of a dark place I didn't know how to get out of. Can't get you out of my head, angel, and I'm tired of trying."

When he kisses you, there isn't an ounce of hesitancy. His lips find yours, desperate and heated, and it feels like surrender. Like homecoming. You gasp, and he reels you in, using the opportunity to caress your tongue with his. He catches your moan and gives you his breath as the kiss becomes hungrier, wanton desperation turning the space between you non-existent.

Jack's hand in your hair slides around to the crown of your head, cradling it as he pushes you against the door. His muscular, thick thigh slots between your legs, pressing against your center, and you're suddenly aware of the three layers of fabric separating your skin from his. Indulgent, you grind against him, and he chuckles into your mouth.

"Take what you need, sweetheart," he groans. "Wanna get you good and ready for me."

You almost wonder if he knows you're a virgin, and that's why he's concerned with foreplay. You don't want to ask, because you don't want to give him a reason to walk away, to convince himself this can't happen because of his misguided sense of duty and honor and restraint. As you roll your hips another time, you realize he's worried because his thick cock is a lot to handle.

Little does he know, you're determined to take all of him. Everything he can offer you before he disappears.

His lips slip away from yours, shifting to the column of your throat. He nips at the skin, gently, and you bite your lip. One of his hands finds your hip, and you marvel at the size of it, how much of your waist he covers with one touch. He drags you closer, harder across the muscle of his thigh, and your pussy flutters. The pressure on your clit is incredible, and the pace he sets, guiding each grind against him, is precise. He knows exactly what you need, and he smirks against your shoulder as he lays more fervent kisses across your skin. His other hand guides the strap of your tank top down, and as the cool air meets your breast, you gasp. 

"Jack," you whimper. 

"Gotta stay quiet f'me, baby," he coos. Another kiss on your shoulder. A nip at your clavicle. "Can you do that?"

You nod, mouth clamped shut.

"Good girl," he says, before his lips close around your nipple. The first suck is a languid, greedy taste of your skin, and he moans softly, like he can't get enough of you. He keeps thrusting you forward on his leg, and you're shaking, the knot in your stomach getting tighter with each shift of your core against him. You're close, and he's eating it up, chuckling as you start to get sloppy, as you struggle to stay quiet. He sucks a little harder, your pebbled peak caught between his teeth in a pleasurable balance of pain and desire. When you finally come, you slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound as the waves of pleasure wash over you, like stardust radiating down your body. 

He guides you through it, and you're almost embarrassed by how wet you are, how sticky your panties feel. All of that fades the second he looks at you, though, because his pupils are dilated, and his heart is beating just as fast and hard as yours, his breath ragged, his cock thick and straining against his sweats. Like he wants you so badly it hurts. 

The way he says your name, worshipful, sends a pang through your chest. "You have no idea what you do to me."

You glance down. "Seven inches says I do."

He scoffs and then plants another bruising kiss on you before he scoops you up with one arm and carries you to bed. Your back meets the cool sheets first, and you prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he pulls his shirt over his head. He's all broad shoulders and sculpted muscle, freckles dusting across his skin. A line of dark hair disappears beneath the waistband of his sweats, and you can see the outline of his cock beneath the cotton. You aren't a betting woman, but you'd put twenty on the odds he's not wearing boxers.

"Arms up," he orders.

You obey him. He yanks your tank-top off and throws it across the room, almost like it's offended him. Both of your breasts are on display now, nipples hard and dark in the dim light of your room. Moonlight and a small nightlight plugged into the wall keep you both shrouded in darkness, but there's enough for him to get a good look at you, and oh, does he like what he sees. He licks his lips, and then he sinks to his knees.

"So beautiful," he marvels. "Look at you. So pretty. All mine." The word comes out broken, fractured when he says it, like he's dragging it out. 

You don't wait for his command to lift your hips. The second his fingers dance across the waistband of your shorts, you move, and he pulls the fabric away, bundling it into his fist before he casts it in the same no man's land your tank top disappeared into. 

Your lacy little panties are soaked through, and the moment his gaze catches the wet spot, his eyes darken. Two thick fingers slide across the delicate fabric, tracing your clit and your slick seam. Then he pushes the fabric aside, getting his first greedy look at your pussy. Your folds are slick, needy hole empty and aching. And Jack? Jack's looking at you like a starving man at a meal.

"Gonna make you come again," he decides. "On my fingers. Then all over my mouth. Then on my cock."

He doesn't phrase it as a question, but he does wait for your tiny, eager nod. The second your chin raises, he slides one thick digit into your pussy, and his thumb makes the first tentative circle on your clit.

Your hips nearly fly off the bed, and you're so wet you all but suck his finger in, deep and needy. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip again as he starts to move his hand. In and out, gently thrusting his finger inside your cunt, spreading you open. His thumb continues to work the sensitive bundle of nerves, and a soft moan spills out of you.

"God, the things I'd do with a house to ourselves," he mutters, more for him than for you. "You're so fucking wet, baby. Soaking me real good."

"S-S—" You start to apologize, but he shakes his head.

"Don't you fuckin' apologize," he orders, shushing you. "You're perfect, baby. Absolutely perfect. Can you take another one? Yeah?" He doesn't wait for your reply before adding a second digit, curling them just so to reach that gummy spot inside you. Your walls clench around him, chasing the high of the press of his fingers against your G-Spot. Another swipe of his thumb, this time with a little more pressure. You’re shaking, thighs quivering against his shoulders. 

“Jack,” you gasp. “Jack, please!”

His hand comes up, covering your mouth. You come so hard you gush around his fingers. He scissors them, drawing out your orgasm as long as possible. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, and you’re floating, high above the world. 

“Still with me?” he asks, hovering over you. 

You nod, touching his face before resting your hand on his chest. “Your leg, does it hurt?”

A small, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it look crosses over his face. “Always,” he confesses. 

“Take it off,” you tell him. 

He sighs, sliding up to the bed. Slowly, he works the prosthetic off, peels off the sleeve, and then lets his sweats fall back down over the stump. He kisses you, a bit gentler now, and climbs over you onto the bed. “You’re beautiful,” he says. 

Your eyes prickle. Your nose burns. It’s all you can do not to cry, because you’re overstimulated and feel so good, and he’s looking at you like he—

You don’t want to name it. This thing you’re skating along the edge of, teetering above free fall. That feeling of knowing there’s no one to catch you if you slip. You just have to hope you aren’t the only one skydiving. That way, it doesn’t hurt when you hit the ground.

“Want to stop?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“Need a break?”

Another shake of your head. 

“Sit on my face, pretty girl,” Jack says, calling you back down to earth. “Come on.”

You blush. “I’m heavy.”

He looks at you like you’ve offended him personally. You realize he did just carry you with a single arm, and that he’s bigger than you in almost every way, and your inexperience is probably showing. Like a neon sign that says, “I’m a virgin, and this is the furthest I’ve ever gone in my life!” A speed run of sexual experience. 

“Trust me,” he says, “I’m exactly where I want to be. And I’m fucking starving.”

You plant your knees on either side of his shoulders, unsure of how to do this, where you’re supposed to be. Jack doesn’t let your doubts take over. Instead, his hands close around your hips, and he pulls you down firmly over his mouth. The scrape of his stubble on your thighs is a pleasurable pang, but it quickly fades the second his tongue laps at your clit. The first stroke is accompanied by a moan, a throaty cry of relief from him that reverberates through you. You lift your hips, almost instinctively, but he holds you to him, delivering bruising kisses to your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

Impatient, he pulls his sweats down, and his massive cock springs free from the elastic band, slapping against his toned belly. His fist closes around it, and you’re too blissed out with your own pleasure to realize how much you’re affecting him, what you’ve done to him. He’s unraveling, fucking his fist as he devours your cunt like you’re his last meal on death row.

He laps at every inch of your soaked folds, learning your needy cunt and indulging the waves of pleasure crashing over you. By the sounds he’s making, you’re not sure who’s enjoying this more, but Jack is worshipping your sensitive flesh, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. You’re soaking his chin, and you’re floating high above the world as you ride his face, letting his hands work your hips at a steady pace. 

“Jack,” you sob, so soft. “Jack. I’m gonna…”

He groans against your pussy, his tongue pressing harder, just enough, and then you fall over the edge and melt for him.

When you come back down, you’re lying on the bed beside him, breathing in and out at his command. He guides your glass of water to your lips, and you drink, all spent and pliant. 

And still, you want more.

You want him.

“Gotta grab a rubber,” he says. He kisses your cheek, a brief peck, before he reaches for his discarded sweats. A condom wrapper crinkles in his hand as he yanks it from the pocket. 

“Okay?” he asks.

You nod.

Everything feels more real now. You're about to have sex for the first time. With Jack, who's good and patient and so much more than you expected or deserve. Your emotions form a lump in your throat, clawing their way up, and you breathe in and out. In a rare moment of boldness, you kiss him, and he whispers your name between brushes of his lips on yours. 

Jack tears the corner with his teeth, rolling it down over himself. He’s bigger up close, and even if you’re soaked and sensitive, you’re not sure you can take it all. But Jack’s taking care of you, and he’d never hurt you, not really.

He kisses your neck, softly whispering in your ear. “So pretty, baby. You’re perfect. So good for me.” 

His thick length slides through your folds, catching on your clit, and you hiss a sharp breath. He’s thick and hot, parting your entrance slowly. Just the tip, to start. Your eyes flutter shut, but then Jack's fingers find your chin, guiding you to look at him. You could drown in those eyes of his if you aren't careful, but he keeps you afloat, keeps you grounded with him. 

"So tight," he groans. "God, you feel so good."

He slides another inch in, and the pressure slips into pain for a fraction of a second. You wince, and of course, he notices. He kisses you through it, praising you. "So good, baby," he whispers. "That's it. Just a little more. I know, I know."

"You're big." The observation feels silly, so obvious. 

He chuckles. "Yeah, uh, I've heard." 

"Feels good," you assure him. "Please, Jack."

He slides a little further, until he's bottomed out completely inside of you, the thick head of his cock kissing your cervix, so deep every inch of you is stretched to fit him. He's seated snugly against you, balls-deep, belly bulging as he sheathes himself. "Made for me," he whispers. "You're so perfect, sweetheart." Another kiss, a slow drag of his hips, the echo of a thrust. Like a tiny ripple. 

You moan, and he catches it in his mouth. "That's it, baby," he coos. "Taking me so good. Christ. That's it. That's a good girl." His next thrust is harder; he's almost all the way out before he slams home, and a white-hot surge of pleasure rushes over you. It feels so good, and the way he's watching himself slide in and out of you? You feel powerful. Like you've got him wrapped around your finger.

You're shaking, legs wrapped around his hips, trying to meet his movements as he starts to find a rhythm, rocking into you over and over again. The bed frame creaks, but you don't care. Hell, you feel so good you could scream for him and not give a fuck who hears. Because he's holding the cradle of your hips hard enough to leave bruises, and he's moaning against your neck like you're the greatest thing he's ever held in his hands. 

I'm having sex with Jack, you realize. And god, it's so good. 

Then his thumb slips between you, rubbing your clit in perfect time with each thrust of his cock, and the pressure starts building, the coil twisting in your belly as you chase that euphoric break, the wave of euphoria cresting inside of you. Stars are bursting behind your eyelids, constellations forged in every collision of your body against his.

"Come on," Jack coaxes you. "One more, baby. Give me one more. I need to feel you squeezin' me. Give it to me. Come on. That's it—" And you explode, tightening around his cock, milking him as your final orgasm knocks the air out of your lungs. You're dizzy, spiraling, gone, and completely, utterly his.

He's right behind you, moaning your name as he thrusts into you one last time. He pours his release into the condom, milky, thick ropes of his seed. A primal, subconscious part of you wishes it were inside you, so you could feel him long after this. 

Slowly, he withdraws from you. Throws the condom in the trash. Grabs his sweats and pulls them back on. His prosthesis clicks as he stands. You're faintly aware of running water in the bathroom, a warm, wet cloth between your legs. He pulls his t-shirt down over your head, finds you clean panties, and tucks you in.

"Don't go yet," you whisper, feeling so small, so young all of a sudden.

He chuckles. "Just turning the bathroom light off, baby."

The bed dips as he slides back in with you, his arms wrapping around you as he spoons you from behind. You're a floaty mess of oxytocin and ecstasy, your mind finally quiet for the first time in your life. Like everything is fine, because Jack's here with you. 

"Was that okay?" you dare to ask.

"It was perfect. You were perfect," he assures you. "Now get some sleep, baby."

You don't know when you drifted off, only that you wake up sometime in the early morning, when golden hour has settled over the lakehouse. The clock on your bedside table says it's seven in the morning, and the bed beside you is cold.

Jack isn't here.

You get out of bed in a hurry, stumbling into the bathroom, then the bedroom he used to occupy. All of his bags are packed, his things absent. Even the bed has been made with military-grade precision. Like he was never there at all.

Your throat tightens, like a fist is wrapped around it. You run downstairs, bare feet echoing on the stairs. You already know what you'll see when you wrench the front door open. There should be five cars in the driveway, but Jack's rental is gone. 

Jack is gone.

And all you have is a condom wrapper in the trash can in your room and his t-shirt, which swallows you whole. It would be comforting, like his arms wrapped around you, the way he'd held you as you fell asleep last night, but instead, it feels like you're being struck. Jack is gone. Jack took off and left you here without a note, a text, or a call.

Jack fucked you, got everything he wanted, and bailed. 

You suddenly feel so, so naive.

You run upstairs, slamming your bedroom door shut. The noise makes you flinch, reminding you it's early, and no one can know what happened between you the night before. It would ruin your dad's relationship with Jack, and maybe with you. In the cold light of day, you're realizing you have everything to lose, all because you slept with him. And for what? Because he was nice to you? Nice enough to pretend he gave a fuck before sneaking out of your bed this morning?

You rip his shirt off, grabbing fresh pajamas, untainted ones that haven't felt Jack's hands, that haven't seen his molten lust, felt his false promises. Tears burn in your eyes, and you don't bother fighting them. You just muffle the sob against your hands as they start to fall.

Frantic knocking sounds at your door, interrupting your pity party. "Yeah?"

It's your dad. "Peanut? Hey, Ashleigh's water broke this morning. You wanna come with us to the hospital? Or meet us there?"

You clear your throat, trying your best "everything is fine" voice on for size. You aren't sure it fools anyone. "I'll meet you. Just text me the address." You swallow, fighting another sob. "Did you call Jack?" He's a doctor, right? He can help with your stepmother's possible active labor. Theoretically, anyway. 

"He's probably catching a plane back to Pennsylvania by now," your dad answers, unbothered. "He mentioned cutting his trip early last night. Some work thing. Everything's okay, kiddo. Don't worry! Just get excited. You're gonna be a big sister!"

He walks away, calling out for Ashleigh, and you collapse on your bed, spinning out. Did you miss Jack telling you he was leaving? Or maybe he didn't tell you because he didn't want to lose out on an easy lay. Maybe you're nothing but a stupid little girl to him, and this just proves it. 

Your twin siblings are about to be born. The trip is over. 

You got exactly what you wanted, but clearly you can't have your cake and eat it too. 

Feeling zesty? Save the official crash course soundtrack on Spotify!

Also, what if I said I was writing a pilot spec script for a night shift spinoff of The Pitt? should I post it? maybe we could get the writers on it, idk!

Thank you all for tuning in every week to my silly little story! I’ve been dealing with some serious professional setbacks both in publishing and in trying to find a solid day job and writing Crash Course helps. Y’all have shocked me with the responses to this fic!! Whether you’re a tumblr or an ao3 reader, I see you, I love you, etc !!

The rest of your day is spent "taking it easy," which is the most frustrating thing in the world. 

Sure, the giant flat screens around the cabin are nice, especially since they're loaded with all the streaming subscriptions anyone could have. You grew up most of your life without cable, checking out DVDs from the library whenever you wanted to watch something, which meant by the time a copy was available, you were well past the peak of its popularity. Barbie/Oppenheimer, for instance, was a party you were a year late to.

You end up watching the Top Gun movies back to back, and then work your way through most of the 80s and 90s, which house your favorite films. Dirty Dancing, Roadhouse, Top Gun, Back to the Future… you name it, you've watched it. You like slashers, too. Something about the retro movies makes you feel like you haven't been left behind by the world. Your younger years were always spent wanting, your mind too busy, your world too small. Old movies were the only thing that helped you feel less… left out. 

It doesn't help your pesky crush that Jack keeps wandering in periodically to "check your ankle" and lingering for several scenes because the movie is interesting. You'd tease him about being old school, but you can't find words that won't reveal how your heart races every time he puts two of his thick fingers to the bone on the sides of your ankle joint to feel you move. It's quite possibly the most erotic experience of your young life, which is both pathetic and humiliating.

You're mouthing the words alongside Swayze in Dirty Dancing when Jack snorts. His smile is affectionate, dimples and all. His cheeks pinken when your eyes meet his, like he's been caught doing something he's not supposed to.

"My wife loved this movie too," he explains. "Personally, I always thought the age gap was a little weird."

That's a bucket of cold water, about as subtle as a freight train. You always romanticized the age gap, even though Jennifer Grey's character, Baby, is seventeen, while Swayze's character is twenty-five. Though, of course, Swayze was actually in his thirties playing the role. That made it hotter for you in your preteen years, though you can admit the fact that Baby isn't even technically legal is a little bizarre. Still, it's just a movie.

But clearly, if Jack doesn't like the age difference, he's sending you a sign. He must be. Maybe you've been transparently, pathetically lusting after him. You figured it might have been mutual, the attraction, but that's probably your virginized hope coming back to bite you in the ass. 

"It's iconic," you reply lamely, shrugging a shoulder.

"I didn't peg you for a classics girl," he adds.

"Guess I've always been attracted to older things," you say. Then the words register, and you realize you've completely shoved your foot in your mouth. God, you could die of embarrassment. 

He raises an eyebrow. Thankfully, before he can reply, Kyle comes bursting in through the slider, declaring the hunk of meat he just smoked outside is "better than sex!" His wife smacks him on the arm for that one, and while you'd normally hate the comparison, especially because you've never had it, you're grateful for the distraction. You were veering into dangerous territory very quickly, and you needed to pump the brakes.

Your dad declares you should play board games after dinner, and since the trip is for his birthday, you all agree. It takes him three hands before he realizes you've hustled them all in poker, but he's so proud he's not unhappy about shelling out the cash. Then, you beat them all at Scrabble, and everyone decides Uno is a safer game to play with the "kid genius." Encyclopedia Brown, your dad calls you.

Damn it, you're having fun. You expected the trip to be miserable, and instead, you're laughing and telling jokes with Ashleigh like you've known her your whole life, and even your dad seems to fit into the space he left in your life without being intrusive. You're happy. You didn't realize how much weight not knowing where your next meal was coming from put on your shoulders. 

"I had the mechanics fast-track your car repairs, Peanut," your dad says, as you're breaking out dessert. Apple pie made by Brittany, and another pastry from Khloe, which both smell amazing. Fresh dessert is a luxury, where you come from. Stale grocery store pies aren't even close to the real thing.

"What was wrong with it?" you ask.

"Timing belt, radiator leak, a few gaskets need replacing," he replies. "Replaced the AC too. Honestly, the invoice was long, but it should last you a while longer. And you'll get more out of it when you sell it. After you graduate from Columbia, we'll talk about getting you a new car. Not like you need one in New York."

You were planning on selling Petunia to help pay for med school anyway, since New York had subways to get around, and thanks to your dad, you'll actually get a decent amount for it. You feel a bit guilty for the fact that you won't be driving it much longer, but you're also so overcome with gratitude that you hug him. Sure, money won't fix the relationship, but you can tell it's about more than that. It's not him trying to gloss over years of no contact with lavish gifts. It's him acknowledging the things he would've already been doing, if not for respecting your mother's wishes.

"I'll take you to pick it up tomorrow," Jack offers. "I know your dad and Ash have brunch plans, just the two of them. Romance and all that." He makes a puke face behind your dad's turned back, and you roll your eyes. 

"Uncle Jack to the rescue again," your dad says, a slightly boozy broken record.

"For the last time," Jack sighs, "I am not her uncle."

"If I didn't know any better," Bradley whispers to Kyle, since they're both out of earshot of their wives, "I'd say Jackie boy wants to tap that. Can't blame him."

You recoil. 

"That's your best friend's kid, man!" Jack snaps, his voice low. "Apologize."

"Whoa, dude," Brad says, holding up his hands. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"Apologize," Jack repeats himself, gaze stormy.

"Dude, just say you're sorry," Kyle mutters.

"Sorry. No disrespect," Brad replies, but he scoffs as he walks back out to the porch to drink with his wife. 

You imagine Khloe wouldn't be happy to hear his words, but maybe she doesn't care that her husband can be a dick with his friends. You're just relieved that Jack doesn't seem to say those kinds of things, even among "the guys."

You grab Jack's muscular forearm, momentarily short-circuiting at the fact that your hand can't wrap all the way around it. "I didn't need your help," you tell him, voice hushed. "He was being an ass, so what?"

"You should've said something, then," Jack replies. "You can take up space, you know. Nothing wrong with calling someone out on their bullshit. Most men won't change unless it's clear they have to knock their shit off."

"Being an assertive woman doesn't win you any popularity contests," you argue.

"But it makes you a fucking amazing doctor," Jack reasons.

You can't respond to that with a good retort. He's right, of course. In that way an older man can be without it without coming across as patronizing. That sweet spot turns out to be where Abbot thrives, it turns out. 

You end up with a wrap for your ankle, some kind of brace from the drugstore that Jack picked up. Between the cold compress and over-the-counter pain meds, you barely feel the sprain. If anything, you barely rolled it. You agree to take it easy anyway, for Jack's sake, because he's been hovering around you like a concerned mother hen. 

After you go to bed, you let your curiosity get the better of you. A little stalking of your dad's Facebook page helps you find Jack's. It looks like it hasn't been updated in ten years, which means it probably hasn't. His profile picture is him with a beautiful woman in his arms. He's so much younger looking, so happy. His relationship status still says "married." Your stomach twists. She's beautiful. She's everything you expected for Jack, and you see why he still wears his ring in the way he's looking at her. 

The last post is seven years old. Jack, with an arm around a tall, brown-eyed man with a long, hooked nose and a crinkled smile. Handsome, too. The caption reads happy birthday, Robby #GOAT.

Robby must be another attending, judging by the scrubs. You don't know which hospital they work for, just that it's back East. Probably for the best, seeing as you probably won't see Jack again after this. Cyberstalking is just a symptom of the problem. The problem is the stupid love bug you've caught for Jack. 

You start looking for his papers next. Most doctors with tenure have a few publications by this point in their careers. You have to assume he's tenured or tenure-track if he's been an attending all these years. His oldest paper, which only has an online preview, is about combat veterans becoming critical before seeking emergency care. His other is about the impact of VA insurance coverage on emergency patients, and how rural hospitals are impacted. Apparently, he's also been working on a street team for emergency medicine, specifically trying to help homeless vets.

You hoped his online presence would give you the ick, but it doesn't. It just makes him more likeable. He spends all this time advocating for others, refusing to let vulnerable patients fade into the background. His heart is on his sleeve and open. 

What a dangerous thing it would be to fall in love with Jack Abbot.

The thought skates across your sleep consciousness before you can stop it. What do you know about love anyway? Nothing much. You just think you're falling for Jack because he's the first man you've spent this much time with. And he's nice to look at. That's all it is. Attraction is a chemical response. You're just getting wires crossed.

Now he's on the brain, and you're pent-up. You need relief.

The fantasy comes before you can stop yourself. You imagine Jack standing in the doorway, watching your fingers sneak up into your camisole to tweak your nipple, your other fingers sliding through glistening folds, stroking slow, hesitant circles on your clit. He'd be shirtless, down to boxer briefs where his thick cock would start twitching under the fabric. Maybe there would be a wet spot at the tip, growing larger as the material stretches. 

You imagine him palming his cock over the fabric, the way he'd grunt with relief at finally relieving some of the pressure. Your fingers press a little harder, and you try to imagine, as you curve two of them inside you, that they're his. His thick, strong hands are splitting you open as he touches himself.

"Gotta get you ready to take my cock, sweetheart," he'd murmur in your ear. "You listening? Does that feel good? Want me to stretch out that little virgin pussy? Need to make you open up for me, baby. Don't wanna hurt you. Never hurt you. My sweet girl, you know that, don't you?"

God, you're getting close. You can feel your walls fluttering around your fingers, imagining Jack fisting his cock, getting faster, closer, in time with your pace. Your eyes flutter shut, teeth digging into your lip, toes curling as the release hits you. As pleasure flows through you in waves, you imagine Jack taking your fingers into his mouth, calling you his good girl in that low, sultry voice he probably reserves for the bedroom. 

Your eyes snap open as the last of the tremors fade. You sigh, getting up to pee. God, it shouldn't be that hot to think about your dad's best friend while getting yourself off. And now that you've let yourself have a taste, you can't help but think of your next fix, how much you want to ride one of his thick thighs like a dog in heat, or let him be the first man to put his cock inside you. Maybe he's into the virgin thing, knowing you're all his to ruin.

As you wash your hands, you catch sight of your flushed face, the glassy eyes, the messy hair. You're letting him wreck you without ever laying a finger on you. It's pathetic. 

 You're just about to head back into your room when you notice the door adjoining his to the bathroom is ajar. Your curiosity gets the better of you, but before you can pad over to act like a total creep, you hear a cry. Like someone in pain. Then Jack's voice, whispering, No. No! His voice cracks. Stop. Don't—

You debate standing there, going back to bed, or leaving him alone. But then he lets out a sound like a wounded animal, a primal cry of agony, and you can't just leave him there. You stride into his bedroom, and he cries out again. Tears prick in the corners of your eyes because his pain is so loud you can feel it. 

You reach for his shoulder, shaking it gently. "Jack? Jack, wake up."

"No," he whimpers again. "Stop. No."

"Jack?" you say, more firmly. "Jack, wake—"

He grabs your wrist. Hard. You let out a cry of surprise, more shock than pain, and when that sound spills from your lips, he's awake. 

"Jack," you cry softly.

His eyes fly open, and he's breathing hard, face red, frantically staring at you. His grip loosens, and then he lets go of the breath he's been holding. His face crumples. "I am so sorry—" He says your name again, shudders, broken. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry."

He draws you down into his arms, wrapping them around you tightly. His voice cracks as he whispers into your hair, over and over again, "I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry." He grabs your hand, so gently, and kisses the bruise from his thumb in the hollow of your wrist. His mouth is soft, a stark contrast to the rasp of his stubble. He's kissing your wrist. He kissed your head. He's kissing you.

"Jack," you whisper. He looks up at you. Your hand brushes against his cheek, the ghost of a touch. "It was just a dream. It's not your fault."

His lips press into your palm, and your breath catches in your throat. Before you can stop yourself, you kiss him. It takes your mind a moment to catch up to your mouth, and shame coils in your gut. Your stomach twists. You start to pull away, to tell him you're so sorry and you shouldn't have done that, and beg him to forget it. But then he chases you, and then he's kissing you.

You kiss him back eagerly, and his fingers thread into your hair and pull you into him. Over him. Your knees hit the mattress on either side of his hips. Your thighs are pressed against his, thick and strong. One of his hands is on your hip, his thumb skimming your bare stomach. You're soaked through your little sleep shorts, sensitive from your release earlier. When your sensitive nub meets his groan, the rigid outline of his soft cock catches you just right.

You moan softly into his mouth. He smirks against yours. "Oh, sweetheart," he taunts. "That's all it takes?"

God, you melt into his mouth. His cock twitches against your cotton shorts, and you realize he's only wearing boxers. There's not enough fabric between you, and you can feel every ridge of his cock as it hardens, getting thicker and hotter against your core. Your clit catches on the tip of his length, and you shiver. 

"That's it," he coaxes you. "Use me."

You grind against him deliberately now, pushing a little harder. You cry out against his mouth, a soft little noise. He shifts his hips to meet the gliding path of yours. You whimper again, and he groans. His cock is so hot through his boxers, and you can feel yourself soaking through your panties. The coil in your belly is tightening again, and you're so oversensitive from the last release that you ache. It's almost too much, and not enough, and you're so, so close—

"Atta girl, sweetheart," he grunts. "That's my girl. That's it."

You come undone as his tongue slips into your mouth. You shake against him, your pussy gushing into your panties. You quiver as the aftershocks pulse through your belly, your clit swollen and spent from pleasure. He's still rubbing against you, his cock thrusting through your slick folds through the fabric. His kisses are sloppy, and he cries out right before you feel it, unmistakable warmth and wetness seeping from his boxers. He's shaking a bit, his hands massive and framing your sweaty face, pushing back your hair.

"Oh, sweetheart," he moans. "What am I gonna do with you?"

His lips are still against yours. He pulls back, eyes wide. He's definitely awake now, and it's like a thousand different emotions rush across his face at once. "Oh my god. Oh my god." He pushes you off of him gently, not enough to hurt you, but firmly. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. "That was inappropriate. I shouldn't have—"

"I wanted to," you tell him. You feel so pitiful, so small, curled in on yourself, all ashamed. You take a tiny step closer, arms crossed over your breasts, like your nipples hadn't been poking through the fabric and tingling against his strong, muscular chest like you hadn't just come from a little making out and grinding. 

He came too, your brain reminds you, all smug. 

Jack pushes you back again, gently, like redirecting a small child. "This is inappropriate." He drags a pillow over his crotch, his softening cock having left a massive stain in his boxers from his cum. "I'm so sorry. Please, forget that I—"

"I wanted to—" You protest.

"I took advantage of you!" he hisses.

"I'm an adult!" you remind him.

"And I'm old enough to be your father!" Jack exclaims, all but raising his voice at you. Realizing it's two in the morning, he lowers his voice again. "Just go, kid."

Kid is like a slap. "Jack—"

"Go!" he snaps.

You shrink away, almost frightened. His voice is the harshest you've ever heard, even colder than when he told his friends to fuck off about his dead wife. It hits you like a punch. You sniffle, and then you bolt from the room. 

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