writing

Jack Abbot X fem!reader

Summary: Following a catastrophic, unsuccessful code, you are deeply shaken by what you had just witnessed/worked on. Overwhelmed by the raw emotions and tragic event, you run to the only person who knows how to comfort you, your husband, Dr. Jack Abbot.

The chaotic choir of the Emergency Department—the singing alarms, the rhythmic beep of cardiac monitors, the sirens fading in and out of the ambulance bay, and the barking orders—was normally white noise to you. That’s why you chose the night shift. But at 3:15 AM tonight, inside Trauma 1, the world shrunk to a terrifying silence.

You stepped back, lowering your bloody gloves, and stared at the unresponsive patient on the gurney. You and the rest of the staff had done everything humanly possible, pushing code medications and continuing resuscitation efforts far past the point of hope—especially with the patient’s wife watching from the corner of the room. But the trauma was too catastrophic. There was nothing left to be done.

Looking up at the digital clock on the wall, your voice shuddered as you called it.

“Time of death: 3:14 AM.”

Mateo stopped chest compressions immediately, his shoulders dropping from the sheer exhaustion of the hour-long code.

Then, the silence broke.

Slumped in the corner, the patient’s wife broke down. The sound that tore from her throat didn’t sound human; it was a raw, gut-wrenching scream of pure heartache and devastation. She collapsed over her husband's body, her chest heaving with agonizing sobs as her fingers gripped the blood-stained gurney. The echo carried across the entire department, wrapping the room in a heavy, suffocating grief.

It hit you like a ton of bricks. The ED was no stranger to death—it was a frequent visitor, after all—but watching her cling to the ghost of her husband, utterly shattered by the sudden reality of being alone, sent a sharp pain erupting in your own chest. The walls felt like they were closing in. Tunnel vision setting in quickly.

Alone. She is completely and utterly alone - your thoughts echoing. What if that was Jack on the gurney and me clinging to his body?

Before you even realized what you were doing, you backed out of the trauma room. The moment your feet hit the main floor, you began to sprint. You needed him, you needed to se him. You simply just needed Jack.

You wove around nurses navigating IV poles and staff shifting gurneys back into their bays. You ripped off your gloves, tossing them into a biohazard bin without slowing down, your heart hammering violently against your ribs.

As you sprinted past the central nursing station, Dana caught sight of you, worry instantly creeping into her expression. She was the mama bear that held that place together, but she saw you more as a daughter, so she was extra worrisome of you. You headed straight for the physicians' workflow area—a space meant to be quiet so the doctors could chart without interruption. Though, in the ED, there was always some sort of interruption.

Jack, the overnight attending overseeing the department, was trying to catch up on paperwork from earlier in the shift. Sipping a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold, he glanced at the clock: 3:19 AM. Just under four hours left, he thought to himself with a quiet groan.

Meanwhile, your mind was drowning in terrifying thoughts from the last hour. Life was fragile. In this place, you saw daily just how fast death could wrap its hands around someone and steal them away in a single heartbeat.

You burst through the doors, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Your eyes frantically scanned the desks until they finally landed on him. Jack was standing by a computer, reviewing an EKG report. He looked exhausted, but he was there—alive and breathing.

“Jack!”

He turned at the sound of your voice, his focused expression instantly melting into deep concern when he saw how pale you were. Setting his coffee down, he stepped toward you, his brain switching instantly from calm to alarmed.

“Hey, what's going on? What’s wrong?”

You didn’t care about professionalism, the onlookers, or the strict HR boundaries regarding workplace relationships. You threw your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder and gripping his black scrubs as if they were the only thing anchoring you to this earth.

Jack’s arms tightened around your waist, pulling you against him. “Sweetheart, talk to me. Are you hurt? Did something happen?”

You couldn't bear to replay what you had just witnessed. Instead, you squeezed your eyes shut and inhaled the familiar scent of him—antiseptic soap mixed with mahogany cologne and cheap hospital coffee. Slowly, the image of the weeping wife began to fade, replaced by the present moment and the steady, grounding beat of Jack’s heart against your ear.

Finally, you pulled back just enough to look up into his worried eyes. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you let out a long, shaky breath.

“No, I’m not hurt. I just…” You paused, shaking your head. “I just had to see you.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, reading the exhaustion and residual shock and fear in your eyes. Understanding this look all to well himself. He didn't ask for details, but rather pulling you back into his chest, holding you tight against himself, he pressed a tender kiss to your temple.