x.Vie.x

His mind is moving at a hundred miles a minute, and somehow coming up with nothing at all.

He’s a physician. This is ridiculous. He should know exactly what he’s doing. A gurney is rushed over, and Jack makes to get to his feet, cradling you in his arms. The prosthetic slips, and he loses balance for just a second.

Stupid fucking leg. These few seconds could be the difference between life and death-

Langdon is dropping to his knees, taking you from him. “I’ve got her.” It’s a kindness he doesn’t expect from the R4. Must be the influence of his girl.

Against every odd, Jack believes that Frank does have you. He lays you out on the gurney, while Jack gets back to his feet. You’re pushed into Trauma Two, surrounded by Frank, Perlah, Donnie, Parker, and Jack.

Your uniform is cut through, leaving you bare on the table before him.

A wave of guilt washes through his veins. He knows that you’d hate feeling exposed like this, if you knew what was going on. You certainly wouldn’t want him to see you like this.

Finally, he finds his voice. “Somebody get Walsh down here right now, or I swear to god-”

Somebody replies, but he doesn’t catch who, too busy reaching for the ultrasound. “She’s in surgery-”

“I don’t give a fuck. Unless she’s operating on the fucking President, someone else can take over.”

His stomach sinks as he presses the probe to your belly. Blood everywhere. They need to stabilise you now, so that you can go to theatre.

Even with that, it might already be too late.

“No exit wound!” Langdon calls, examining your back. “Could have nicked a kidney for all we know.”

And then your sats start to drop. Pulse ox down to the eighties, heartrate plummeting. Ellis is at his shoulder. “Intubation tray! You want to do it?”

Jack’s head is spinning. In all his years of medicine and the military, he’s always been able to keep a level head. Been able to put the situation over his own feelings. Now, all he can see is your body on the table, bloodied and near lifeless. “I… I don’t know-”

“Abbot,” Ellis says firmly. “We need to intubate. She won’t pull through if we don’t.”

Swallowing heavily, he nods. Deep down, he’s known that since you collapsed. But the most naïve part of him had been hoping that this was all just a bad dream. That you would sit up, smile that crooked smile he’s come to know so well, and tease him for worrying.

Instead, you’re bleeding out internally, and he can’t do a damn thing about it until a surgeon gets down here.

He grabs a laryngoscope, and sweeps your tongue to the side, suddenly on autopilot. His brain has finally caught up to his heart, and kicks in. “Got the cords,” He mumbles, more to himself than anything else, as he passes the tube down your throat.

“End tidal’s good,” Ellis announces, while Jack secures everything into place.

“She’s still tanking,” Jack snaps. “Get more blood in.”

“Second unit’s hanging,” Langdon replies.

“Not good enough. Where the hell is Walsh?” Jack drags a hand down his face, leaving a smear of your blood across his skin without even noticing. “Push fluids. And if somebody from surgery isn’t down here in the next ninety seconds I’m taking her up myself and finding someone.”

The room is in a strange state of controlled chaos. There’s an undercurrent of tension that’s not present for other patients - the stakes are much higher here. Everybody in this room loves you. Orders are being shouted, nurses are bustling - normally, Jack thrives here.

Not like this.

Not with you.

Finally, after the most painful minute of his life, Walsh strides in like a storm, already pulling gloves on.

“Report,” She says, sharp and efficient. He watches her expression shift just a little when she sees you on the table, before schooling it back to cool neutrality.

“GSW to the abdomen,” Jack says immediately, stepping aside just enough to give her access but not really moving out of the way. “No exit wound. FAST positive. Hypotensive, tachycardic, now intubated. We’ve got two units in.”

Walsh’s eyes flick over you in quick, practiced movements. “Alright. She’s coming upstairs. Now.”

“Finally,” Jack mutters.

Walsh shoots him a look. “Watch it. I got here as fast as I could.”

“Just take her,” he says, jaw tight. “Please.”

When Emery speaks again, it’s as kindly as she has the capacity for. “She’s in the best hands in Pittsburgh. We’ll get her through this.”

They start toward the doors, and Jack falls into step automatically.

“Abbot.”

Walsh’s voice stops him cold.

“You’re not coming.”

He blinks, like he didn’t hear her right. “I - what?”

“You’re not coming,” she repeats, calmer this time but no less firm. “You’re needed here. Too many other traumas coming through. The ED can’t lose an attending, not before Robby gets here.”

“Fine,” Jack manages. Every second spent arguing with Walsh is a second that could be spent saving you.

All that’s left is to watch your gurney disappear into the elevator, and head up to the OR.

1AM

You hadn't noticed the pain until you'd passed off the patient. At first it had just been a dull throb, like you'd pulled a muscle.

Not an uncommon incident in your line of work. Especially today, when you've spent half your shift trying to lift guys that are twice your size.

There's no cinematic clarity. Your hand brushing bright red, and you realise you've been shot. Instead, it aches, you suddenly feel very tired, and you want Jack.

Everything's just noise. Movement around you, as your eyes blink slowly. You make out Jack, the slight scruff on his chin, before somebody else is moving you.

You catch fragments. Bits, out of order.

"Come on, Skip-" Ellis' voice. Undoubtedly.

“Pressure’s dropping-" Langdon. You blink slowly, seeing your hand in Frank's grip as you're wheeled. You're not sure the two of you have ever touched willingly before. "Stay with us, okay? We've got you-"

"Come on, sweetheart. Please-"

You try to focus on that last one. Familiar tone. Grounding.

Jack.

Your body feels… wrong. Heavy in places, distant in others. You can’t really feel the pain the way you expect to. It’s there, somewhere, but muted, like your brain’s decided it has more important things to do than process it.

You suppose that might be for the best. Getting shot must hurt like a bitch.

Although, maybe you should be feeling the pain. Maybe pain is good in this scenario. Shows that your body is fighting.

Maybe yours is just giving up.

Something deeper is settling in. A quiet that falls over your brain, pushing thoughts of everyone from your head.

Oh.

That’s new.

You’ve seen this before. Not from this side, but enough times to recognise the edges of it. The slipping. The way everything starts to feel just slightly too far away.

You're dying.

You think of Leo first.

The only family that ever felt like it meant something. The only one you never had to second-guess. He’s going to lose it. And it's all your fault.

You wonder if he'll still go to dinner.

If your parents will try and comfort him.

Or maybe they'll just convince him that this is for the best. That the world is a better place without you in it.

Then Jack.

Not the usual version of him either. Not tough Dr. Abbot.

It’s that moment.

You hadn’t even realised what was happening properly. Just the sudden weakness, the ground shifting, your body giving out in a way it never has before.

He'd caught you before you hit the floor.

One second you were upright, the next you were against him, his hands bracing you, steady and solid like he’d always been there waiting to do exactly that.

You remember the weight of it more than anything. His arms, wrapped firmly around you.

It had only lasted a second.

Maybe less.

But it lingers now, stretched out in your mind, reforming into something else. Not blood and noise and people shouting over each other.

Something still.

A sitting room, maybe. Late. Lights low. Nothing urgent, nothing breaking apart around you.

Instead, it's a Saturday night, and you're curled up in his arms, and everything is okay in the world.

2AM

The dining room is too big for the six of you. Really, it would be too big for twenty people. But your parents have always been excessive, in everything they do.

Everything echoes because of the ridiculously high ceiling. Silverware clinking sounds like bullets, whispers sound like screams.

On occasion you’ve wondered what would happen if the chandelier suddenly decided to fall, crushing you all under the weight of the crystals.

You’re small - maybe ten - feet not touching the floor as you swing them under your chair.

“Feet,” Your mother snaps without looking up.

You still your movements instantly.

“Sorry, mommy.”

Across the table, Leo catches your eye, sticking his tongue out. His own attempt to make you smile, however small. He hates it when you cry.

Your older sister Maxine isn’t paying attention to anybody, instead focusing entirely on a textbook in front of her.

Your younger sister Kelly, at the far end, is whining.

“It’s overcooked,” She says, pushing her plate away like it’s personally offended her.

Your father sighs, long-suffering. “Kelly.”

“No, it is. I told Maria I wanted it medium rare.”

“It is medium rare,” Maxine says absently, still reading.

Leo clears his throat, ready for this entire conversation to be over. “I got my exam results back.”

Your father looks up, interested. “And?”

“Top of the class.”

“Of course you did,” Your mother says, like it was never in doubt. She lifts her glass. “Well done.”

Maxine doesn’t even look impressed. “What was your score?”

“Ninety-six.”

She hums. “I got a ninety-eight on mine.”

Leo rolls his eyes. “Different exam. Different year.”

“Still counts.”

“It literally doesn’t.”

Your mother turns her attention towards you, saying your name. “And you?”

You swallow. “I - um. I had a science quiz today.” Your father waits. “I got a hundred.”

It had been a hard test. Half the class had failed, and the person who came in second got an eighty. Your teacher had said she was incredibly proud of you. You know better than to expect the same here.

Your mother tilts her head slightly. “On what?”

“Plants,” You say, immediately wishing you hadn’t.

A beat.

“Photosynthesis,” You add quickly. “And, um, parts of the leaf.”

Maxine lets out a small breath through her nose. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. “That’s… basic,” She says.

Heat creeps up your neck. “It’s what we’re learning.”

Your father sets his fork down. The sound is quiet, but it makes your stomach drop. “A good score on something remedial is not an achievement,” He says. “It’s an expectation. You shouldn’t be proud of doing the minimum.”

“I’m not,” You say, even though you were. Just a second ago.

Leo glances at you. “She’s ten. Of course they’re doing plants. Good job, kiddo. You’ll be giving us all a run for our money eventually.”

Maxine snorts. “Doubt it.”

*****

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.

For a second, it feels the same - too bright, too cold, too much space between you and your parents. Then you realise you’re standing.

You’re older, taller, though you still feel just as uncomfortable in this environment. Like you were never cut out for any of this.

“I’m not going back to medical school,” You say.

Your mother blinks at you across the table, like she didn’t quite hear it right. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m leaving the program.”

Your father lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “That’s not funny.”

“Good thing I’m not joking then.”

Maxine is leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk. “You’re about to go into second year. You passed all your exams.”

“I know.”

“So what - you just quit?” She scoffs. “That’s your plan?”

A flash of anger starts to creep up on you. “It’s not-” Reset. Pause. Calm down. Don’t give them anything to use against you. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Your mother laughs, sharp and humourless. “You don’t want to.”

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s not a reason,” Your father snaps.

“It is for me.”

“No,” He says, standing now. “No, it isn’t. Not in this family.”

Maxine steps forward slightly. “Do you understand what you’re throwing away right now?”

“I understand perfectly,” You say.

“Clearly not!” She shoots back.

“I did it,” You say, voice tightening despite yourself. “So I can leave it.”

“That’s not how this works,” Your father says. “You don’t get to decide you’re done because you’re tired.”

“It’s not about being tired.”

“Then what is it about?” Your mother demands. “Because from where we’re standing, it looks like you’re being reckless and selfish.”

Something in your chest flares. “Reckless?” you echo.

“You’ve always been such an ungrateful little brat-”

“Stop.”

Leo speaks for the first time this evening, his voice cold as he hovers in the corner of the room.

Your father turns on him immediately. “Stay out of this.”

“No,” Leo says, arms folded across his chest.

Maxine scoffs. “Oh, great. Here we go. Since when do you defend quitting?”

“I’m not defending quitting,” He replies. “I’m defending her.”

You don’t look at anyone now, tears bubbling in your eyes. God, you’d so desperately wanted to keep your cool, and not cry in front of your family.

Not after everything.

Not after Martin Collins.

Your father’s voice drops. “You are not encouraging this.”

*****

Your childhood home is gone. Instead, you stand in the middle of the Pitt, blinking as you try and adjust to the sudden light and noise.

It’s an unusually quiet day, hardly any staff members around.

Except Jack.

Playing along with whatever is going on, you step forward.

“You got much of your shift left?” You move to lean against Central while Jack checks out a patient’s labs.

“Well, I hope not, given we have a reservation for Lilith at eight.”

His voice is entirely casual, while your spine stiffens immediately. Plans, with Jack? That don’t involve the entire rest of the Pitt staff?

You’re definitely dreaming.

“We do?”

It slips out before you can fully think anything through. Maybe you’re just going as friends. Maybe other Pitt staff members are going - Robby, Ellis, or god forbid, even Langdon.

It’s just wishful thinking. Your psyche playing tricks on you.

Jack is frowning across the desk. “This shift must’ve done a number on you, honey. It’s for our anniversary - since we’re both working. Remember? I offered to take us to Chicago for the weekend, you said that was too much, we compromised on the trip next month—”

“Right…” You nod, though you very much do not remember at all. Five minutes ago you were in your childhood home, and your brain hasn’t quite caught up yet. “Can’t believe it’s that time of year again. Feels like it goes by so quickly.”

You’re desperately hoping for Jack to keep talking, and fill in some of the blanks for you in this strange, alternative universe. When he just nods, you change tactic.

“What’s the like… traditional gift for this anniversary? You know, diamond for sixty and all that.”

“No idea,” He replies, reaching for his phone. “Let me check. Uh… four-”

Four. Okay. In this world, you and Jack get together almost as soon as you meet. Feels wrong to be jealous of yourself, but you can’t help but be a little envious of the twenty-five-year-old you who managed to bag Abbot, when you’ve been trying to no avail for years.

Perks of actively dying, you guess. Your brain is trying to make it easier on you.

“-gift for four years is fruit and flowers.”

For just a single second, you forget that this is all fake. “What? That’s shit.”

“Tell me about it. As if I don’t buy you flowers every week. In the UK it’s linen and silk - we could channel the Brits instead?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Linen is still bad, but I suppose I could get on board with silk.”

Jack emerges from behind the Central desk, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Silk it is then,” He hums, locking eyes with you before leaning in for another kiss. It’s fleeting, but you still find yourself chasing his touch. “I’ll come and pick you up after your shift.”

“You don’t need to do that-”

“I want to.”

His voice is firm, inviting no conversation. He goes to speak again, but the words come out distorted, and you can’t understand any of them. Brow furrowing, you step forward.

The world tilts onto its axis, and a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you.

You don’t even have a chance to blink before your vision is going fuzzy, and everything fades to black.

3AM

Jack’s never been more relieved to see Michael Robinavitch in his whole life. Of all the nights in the world, this had to happen on the single weekend he’s not in town.

Robby’s first port of call is Pulse, pulling her in for a quick hug as she updates him on the situation. He murmurs something softly into her ear, thumb reaching up to swipe at something on her cheek. It’s so painfully domestic that Jack’s heart constricts a little.

He gives them their moment, and tries not to think too hard about the fact that you’re still lying on a cold operating table, life hanging in the balance.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, brother,” Robby apologises, dropping his bag behind the desk.

“You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

“What’ve we got?”

“We really don’t know anything, yet. Patients are still comin’, we’re barely surviving down here.”

“Any word from upstairs?”

Robby doesn’t mean surgery in general. He means you.

Jack shakes his head, suddenly not trusting his voice. “Nothing. God, shit-”

Robby studies him for a second. Really looks this time. “You need a minute?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” Robby says gently. “You’re not.”

Jack lets out a short, breathless laugh. “Can’t really afford not to be, can I?”

“Actually,” Robby says, calm but firm, “you can. For two minutes.”

Jack shakes his head immediately. “No. We’ve got too much-”

“I’ve got it,” Robby cuts in. “That’s why I’m here.”

For the first time all night, there’s someone else who can carry this. Shen is great, but he hasn’t even hit the eighteen-month mark of being an attending. With Al-Hashimi on holiday with her son, they need Robby’s presence like air here.

Jack needs it like her.

“Her brother know?” Robby asks.

Jack’s eyes flick back to him. “No.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“He’s in surgery,” Jack says quickly. “He’s scrubbed in. I’m not pulling him out mid-op unless-” he stops, swallowing hard. “Unless I have to.”

“Nobody else can take over?”

“We’ve called someone, so as soon as she arrives... I should’ve told him already,” Jack adds, running a hand through his hair. “But he’s operating, and if something goes wrong because I dragged him out - we can’t handle anymore loss tonight.”

“You made the right call,” Robby murmurs. “And it’s the call Skip would’ve wanted you to make.”

Jack nods, but it’s distracted. His eyes keep drifting toward the corridor that leads upstairs.

“You can go check,” Robby says suddenly.

Jack blinks. “What?”

“Go upstairs,” Robby repeats. “I’ve got this. I’ll call you when you’re needed."

He starts moving, then stops, turning back just slightly.

“Robby-”

“Yeah?”

He swallows heavily. “If-”

Robby steps in, firm. “She’s not dying tonight.”

Jack swallows hard, nodding again.

“Go,” Robby says.

This time, he does.

Jack turns and heads for the stairs, pace quick, almost uneven with the ache of his prosthetic chafing against the raw skin of his stump.

*****

He lasts all of ninety seconds outside your operating theatre, before he feels a wave of nausea wash over him, and he has to lunge for the trashcan.

Never, in his almost thirty-year medical career, has Jack ever thrown up from gore, or violence, or surgery. It’s always been part of the job, something he can handle easily.

But there’s something about how small you look on that table.

How helpless.

More tubing than human.

He wants to watch. Make sure they’re doing right by you - yet every time Jack draws his gaze back, he feels sick again.

He’s a coward.

Instead, he heads to the neuro OR, where Leo is currently working. He can’t do anything to help you right now, but he can tell your brother what’s going on.

The corridor outside theatres is quieter than downstairs, but it’s not calm. Somebody tells him that Leo’s replacement will be up in just a minute.

Jack clocks him as soon as he walks through the door. “Dr. Patel?” He calls.

The woman turns. “Dr. Abbot. Wasn’t expecting to see you up here.”

“I uh, I have some bad news to break to Leo. It’s why we called you in. His sister got shot in the attack, she’s in surgery now.”

Dr. Patel doesn’t ask more, just finishes scrubbing and disappears into the theatre.

Jack exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck. This part’s worse than anything downstairs.

Waiting.

It doesn’t take long.

The doors swing open again and Leo steps out, mask pulled down, gloves already stripped off. He looks irritated more than anything, adrenaline still high from the procedure. “What is it?” he asks, already halfway pulling his cap off. “That better have been urgent, I was in the middle of-”

He stops when he sees Jack’s expression.

“What happened to her?”

Jack dips his head slightly, but maintains eye contact. Leo deserves that much. “She was shot on-the-scene. Abdominal, she’s in surgery now-”

“Why am I only hearing this now?” He demands. “S-She’s in fucking surgery? When did this happen?”

“A couple of hours ago-”

Leo scoffs. “You’re telling me that my sister was fucking shot hours ago, and nobody thought to tell me?”

“We had to wait until somebody was available to take over for you-”

“I don’t care,” Leo snaps, stepping forward. “That’s my sister.”

“I know that.”

“Then why the hell did nobody tell me?”

“Because you were operating on someone who also would’ve died if you walked out,” Jack fires back. “You think she’d want that?”

Leo’s jaw tightens. “Don’t-”

“She wouldn’t,” Jack says, firmer now. “You know she wouldn’t.”

“Don’t tell me what she would or wouldn’t want,” Leo shoots back immediately. “You’re what… some random fucking co-worker? A guy she flirts with sometimes? I’m her family.” His voice cracks on the last word, but his resolve remains.

“I should’ve been pulled,” He insists. “I should’ve known.”

“And then what?” Jack challenges. “You leave mid-op? You compromise your patient? For what, so you can stand outside another OR and do nothing?”

Leo steps closer, anger barely contained. “She’s not another patient.”

“I know that,” Jack says, quieter but just as intense. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I-I don’t have time for this. What OR is she in?”

Jack points down at number three, and Leo storms off, reaching for another mask so he can head inside.

4AM

The first thing you notice is the light. Shining through a bay window, it seeps under your eyelids before you even begin to wake. Blinking slowly, you try and focus on your other senses.

The fabric between your fingers is soft, just a light cotton to stave off the Pittsburgh summer heat. The room is spacious - neutral-toned and bare, with just enough personal touches to feel lived in. the air feels light and fresh, clean. Nothing like the lingering formaldehyde of the ER.

You’ve never been here before, but you know immediately that it’s Jack’s.

It’s only then, that you notice the heavy breathing coming from beside you. Snapping your neck to the left, you’re greeted with an unconscious Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s facing you on the pillow, with the duvet covers kicked half-off, covering just his legs.

He’s in nothing but sweatpants, shoulders broad and muscles rippling with each movement.

It’s the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. Totally at ease, jaw slacked just a little. Even his usual frown lines have smoothed out.

The way your hand moves is instinctual. As if it’s an everyday occurrence to wake up in bed with a man you’ve loved for five years. Carding through his hair, you tell yourself that this must be real.

Surely dreams don’t have this level of detail. You can see every blemish on Jack’s skin, can curl a single strand of hair around your finger until it springs back.

The movement must get to him, because his own eyes open, crinkling softly as he meets your gaze. As if he was expecting to wake up here, with you.

As if this is your life.

“Morning.”

His voice is low and gravelly, tinged with sleep in a way that goes straight to your core.

“Hi,” You murmur, trying to make sense of the scene in front of you. How you can both be here, when you know you’re on a table somewhere in the Pitt, potentially dying.

Maybe that’s what this is.

Maybe you’re already dead, and this is some kind of purgatory.

That explains the light streaming in from the curtains, bright even by a summer morning’s standards.

God, Leo would be so mad if he knew you were hallucinating a guy you’ve never even kissed over your own brother in your final minutes.

Oh well. Not like he’ll ever know now.

You wonder what your funeral will be like. You hope someone helps Leo out - he can’t handle all of that stuff by himself. Especially with your parents, Kelly, and Maxine thrown into the mix. Page will be there for him, you’re sure. And, by extension, Frank.

A little bitterly, you wonder if Jack will regret not making a move. A casket might be the thing to finally kickstart him into action - only when it’s too late. Unless he doesn’t actually have any romantic inclination towards you, and this is the universe throwing you one last bone before you go.

A few minutes in delusion with a man who’s never seen you as more than a friend.

“You’re thinking real hard over there.”

Jack’s voice cuts through your haze, and you’re back to the present. Or whatever kind of present this is.

Jack’s bed.

You’re in his bed. Almost nose-to-nose now, with the way he’s adjusted.

“Sorry,” You reply, while his fingers trace light patterns onto your upper arm. “I spaced out.”

“I can see that,” He teases. “You having second thoughts?”

Your brow furrows a little. “Second thoughts about what?”

He lets out the smallest laugh, incredulous. “About the wedding. You know - that really big life change we’re about to make?”

If you weren’t already lying down, you think you might be in danger of collapsing. This has got to be an afterlife, somehow.

You don’t want to get married.

You never have.

Especially not in the current political climate. You don’t need some right-wing government being involved in your relationship, for the sake of a piece of paper. You’ve always believed that the strongest loves don’t need it. That you can remain together in far more meaningful ways than simply being married, by choosing each other every single day. Even when things are hard.

And yet, when the engagement ring on your finger catches the light, sparkling daintily, you can’t help but think you wouldn’t mind being married to Jack.

Being Mrs Abbot.

His wife.

His.

And he yours.

When he kisses you, you melt into his touch. As expected, given it’s your subconscious, it’s exactly the way you imagined it would be. His hands are strong, cradling your face as he braces over you, but his movements are gentle, pulling you softly against him. “I love you,” You mumble breathlessly, because this might be the only chance that you get to tell Jack how you feel.

“Love you too, honey,” He murmurs. “So, so much.”

You deepen it, hand tangling in his curls to drag him against you. The other moves down his abdomen, tracing the ridges of the muscles. “J-Jack,” You pant against his lips.

“Mhm?” He replies, taking the opportunity to mouth kisses along your jaw. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

This isn’t Jack.

You can barely think right now, much less speak. Instead, you reach blindly for one of his arms, guiding his hand right down between your legs. His lip curls up, a small huff of laughter escaping. “Still haven’t actually told me what you want. This?”

His thumb moves to your clit, while your breath hitches.

“Or more like this?” A finger teases through your folds.

Finally, your voice comes back to you, while you ignore the nagging feeling low in your belly that this isn’t right. “A-All of the above.”

He complies immediately, working you open with a deftness that has you burying your face in the crook of his neck, whines and whimpers escaping with each movement.

You’re dying on a table in the Pitt.

A single tear leaks from the corner of your eye. It’s all too easy to let yourself go, fall into the embrace of Dream Jack. If this is how you’re going to go out, there are worse ways.

The orgasm comes quickly, your nails raking deep scratches down the meat of his back.

Almost desperately, you pull him back up to kiss you. You deserve to be selfish just this once. Pulling back is the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

“Something wrong?” He mumbles, brow furrowing as you retreat from his touch.

When you meet his gaze, your eyes are shining. “This isn’t real,” You whisper.

If Dream Jack knows the situation of this purgatory, then he doesn’t show it. He frowns just a little, dipping his head to kiss you again. Against your better judgement, you let him. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth and you sigh into his touch.

A series of images suddenly flood your mind.

The floor of the ER.

Blinking slowly, seeing Jack’s face hovering above you, barking out orders like he’s back in the military.

A squeeze of your hand.

A tube going down your throat.

You think you might be sick.

“J-Jack, wait,” Your chest is heaving, and you push him back just a little. He pulls away to rest on the pillow next to you, eyes concerned. “We have to stop.”

As if just being let in on the joke by your subconscious, his expression shifts, like a curtain has been lifted. “We don’t have to do anything here, kid. It’s whatever you want it to be.”

You swallow heavily, fighting back tears. “I want it to be real.”

When he reaches out to push a stray piece of hair from your face, a sob escapes.

“If it feels real, why can’t it be?”

“B-Because you’re not Jack. And we wouldn’t be like this-”

When he speaks again, your heart drops to your stomach. “Then why don’t you stay here?”

Here. Wherever this is. Guaranteed to never see your friends and family again.

You’d never see Jack again.

“I can’t do that. I have to…” You trail off, confusion colouring your tone. You need to what? Wake up? Easier said than done. “Jack?”

It’s not Jack Abbot lying beside you. But the pretence keeps you going.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Am I going to be okay?”

He takes a second to consider his answer, thumb running over your knuckles absentmindedly. The way the real Jack did, right before you were taken to the OR.

“I don’t know.”

5AM

By the time the flow of ambulances slows to a trickle, the ER feels like it’s been wrung out.

There are still patients. There are always patients.

But everyone lets out the smallest breath.

They did well.

Objectively, Jack knows that. Triage held. Throughput held. They didn’t lose as many as they could have.

It should feel like a win.

It doesn’t.

He’s still moving, still giving instructions, still checking charts, but it’s automatic now. His focus keeps slipping, dragged back to the same place over and over again. Upstairs.

He catches himself staring at nothing more than once, missing half of what someone says to him before snapping back in. "Sorry, uh - zoned out."

“Abbot.”

He looks up.

Robby’s watching him. Not subtle about it either.

“You’re done here,” he says. "Head upstairs."

"But-"

"But nothing. You shouldn't have even come back down to help."

By the time he reaches the surgical floor, his chest feels tight again. There's been no word since he was last up. He hopes that's a good sign.

Leo’s already there.

Jack spots him immediately, pacing a tight line outside the OR doors, scrub cap still on, hands restless at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. There’s something tightly wound about him, energy with nowhere to go.

He looks up as Jack approaches.

"Have you heard anything?" Jack asks.

Leo shakes his head. "Not yet."

There's nothing more to be said, and they both fall into silence, watching the group of people move around you in tandem. After what feels like an eternity, Walsh moves from the bedside, and makes her way out to them.

They both straighten up immediately.

"Once again, I am a miracle worker," Emery sighs, dropping her gloves into the trashcan. "She's pulled through surgery."

Leo just nods once, sharp. “Okay. What happened? Walk me through what you did.”

Jack glances at him. You can tell that Leo's a surgeon first, brother second.

Emery exhales slightly. “GSW to the abdomen, as you know. Entry caused significant internal damage.” A beat. “We had to remove the right kidney.”

Leo stills. “Removed,” He repeats, voice tighter now. “Completely?”

“There was no saving it,” Walsh says, steady. “Too much damage.”

Leo’s jaw clenches, eyes dropping briefly like he’s running through the logistics in his head. “And the other?” he asks.

“Intact,” She replies. “Function looks okay for now. But she’s not out of the woods yet.”

Jack shifts slightly. “Complications?”

“Possible,” Emery says. “We’ll be watching for infection, bleeding, all the usual risks.”

Leo nods, still in doctor mode despite everything. Jack figures it's probably the only reason he's still upright. “Renal function long term?”

Emery holds his gaze. “If the remaining kidney holds, she’ll be fine.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

She pauses, and Jack knows what's coming next.

“Then we start looking at dialysis,” She says. “And potentially transplant.”

"Where can we get tested for compatibility?" Jack interjects. He's survived this long without a leg. A kidney would a walk-in-the-park, if it meant helping you. Saving you.

“We’re not there yet,” Emery adds, gesturing to calm down a little. “Right now, she’s stable. That’s what matters.”

Jack nods faintly, more to himself than anything.

Stable.

Alive.

Leo drags a hand down his face, then looks back up. “When can we see her?”

“She’ll be in recovery shortly,” Emery says. "Might be a good idea to get some interest into donation - in case she needs it."

"Y-Yeah," Jack nods. "I can do that. I'm sure there are people in the ED who would."

"Before you go, you might want to wipe that blood off your face," Emery points out.

He glances at his reflection in the OR window, and winces. There's a dried streak of blood running from his eyebrow to his chin.

He can only assume it's yours.

He'd washed it off his hands earlier, but hadn't exactly been in the mood to look at himself in the mirror.

Beelining for the bathroom, Jack allows himself to let out a shaky breath as soon as the door is closed behind him. In another world, if something had gone wrong in that operating theatre, this bit of blood would be the only piece of you left.

The thought makes him ill.

He grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles blanch, staring at the smear like it might start moving if he looks away. It’s already darkened, rust-brown at the edges, cracked where his skin pulled when he spoke, when he swallowed, when he tried not to think about what was happening on the other side of the hospital.

“Stop it,” He mutters to himself, voice low, unsteady. “She’s fine. She’s - she’s going to be fine.”

The tap squeals when he turns it on, and he leans in, splashing his face harder than necessary. The blood doesn’t come away cleanly at first. It clings. Stubborn. Like you.

Eventually, it fades - just a faint pink smear left behind, a ghost of you.

*****

You’re already in recovery when he finds the room.

The lights are dimmer here, and machines whir softly at your bedside. Leo's already taken up residence by your bed, head bowed a little. Jack hesitates in the doorway.

"I can-"

"It's fine," Leo cuts him off. "She'd want you here." He glances at him then, quick and assessing. His gaze flicks over Jack’s face - lingering, just for a second, on where the blood had been. “You cleaned up."

Jack huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh. “Yeah. Figured I shouldn’t look like I just walked out of a crime scene when she wakes up.”

He moves closer to the bed, careful, like any sudden motion might disturb something important. He takes the chair opposite Leo, pulling it in just enough that he can rest his forearms against the mattress.

Neither of them speak for a long, long time.

Finally, Leo lets out the heaviest sigh Jack has heard all night. “I’ve gotta go call our parents.”

In all the years Jack has known you, you’ve never once talked about your parents. Other than Leo, he’s not sure you’ve ever mentioned another family member in his presence. "They're on their way?"

"Nope. On a retreat in Honolulu. They're not in any kind of rush to get back."

Leo's tone is bitter, and he doesn't give Jack a chance to respond before he steps out of the hospital room, leaving you both alone.

6AM

The silence is deafening. He’s not sure he’s ever spent any considerable time in this hospital outside of the ER, which, for better or for worse, is never without some kind of noise.

Whether it’s the gossip of passing nurses, screams of pain, or tears of both sorrow and joy.

There’s always something.

Here, it’s like he’s entered some kind of void. Where colour isn’t allowed to exist if you’re not around to witness it. Where music dims, and the Earth manages to dull quite considerably as soon as your position on it is threatened.

He thinks back to medical school. Some rotation at Johns Hopkins - four weeks on Critical Care and Anaesthesiology. Voices had been permanently hushed, while patients lay comatose for months at a time. He’d known within a day that it wasn’t for him.

One patient had been unconscious for six months, after a car accident had left him paralysed. The chances of him ever waking up had been slim-to-none.

And still, every time Jack stepped onto that ward, his wife had been there, keeping vigil from dawn until dusk. Holding his hand in hers, murmuring quiet memories into his ear, as if love was enough to bring him back.

If love was enough, you’d be sitting upright in bed, calling him an old man for the way his back aches in this chair.

He briefly considers a universe in which you don’t wake up. In which Emery Walsh is wrong, and Jack never gets to greet you at the door of the ambulance bay ever again.

Who would sit at your bedside for six months?

Leo, undoubtedly. Page, too. Even Frank, though he’d never admit it.

And Jack. Lonely, bitter, Jack Abbot, who should have seen what was in front of him before it was too late. Whose only skill in life seems to be the art of self-sabotage.

If you’d made a move, she might not have been out there tonight.

The thought sours in his brain, burrowing deep, where he’s sure it’s going to make an appearance in his nightmares over the next few months.

He thinks about how he’d spend 4th of July weekend with you. He’s never cared for the holiday - not since his leg. There’s something perverse about celebrating a country that wraps loss in star-spangled banners and calls it honour. That preys on the young men who need hope most, only to leave them with less than they started with.

Jack imagines something quiet. A cabin, somewhere in the woods. Colorado, maybe. He’d cook for you, kiss you softly on the corner of the mouth as he moved between dishes, make you happy.

Except, Jack Abbot is a coward, and now you’re lying on a hospital bed in front of him, more wires and lines than person.

He doesn’t know why he does it. Why he’s suddenly overcome with the urge to be near you, to touch you.

Letting out a slightly shaky breath, he raises himself up from the chair, just enough to lean forward and press his lips to your forehead, barely more than a brush.

You’re cold.

His stomach twists uncomfortably.

“I love you, kid,” He mumbles, so quietly that you’d struggle to hear him even if you weren’t unconscious. “Can’t scare me like that again, okay? M’used to having you around here.”

Maybe it’s because he’s never seen you be quiet for more than five minutes, or maybe it’s the sheer relief at the fact that you’re still breathing, but the words keep coming.

“When you wake up, you’ve gotta be more careful. No more throwing yourself headfirst into whatever danger you can find, or you’ll send an old man to an early grave.”

Once he starts speaking, there’s no stopping. Five years of repressed emotion, uncorked only by death’s sweet promise.

“I-I’m so sorry, for leading you on all these years. At first - you know, you were really young. Way too young for me. Still are. But I uh, I guess if you’re still around, you must be serious.”

He huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh, but it breaks halfway through, catching in his throat. “God, listen to me. You’re probably not even fuckin’ hearing any of this, and I’m-”

Confessing.

That’s what this is, right?

He might not ever get to say this to your face, and he’s compensating. His gaze drifts back to you, to the stillness of your chest except for the slow, mechanical rise and fall. Fingers hovering over your hand for a second, he finally gives in, taking one between his two.

“Guess I just always thought that you could do better. That you’d wake up one day, and realise you could have anybody in the world. Not a middled aged man with one leg.”

His thumb rubs soothing circles onto your skin, as if he can bring you back through sheer force of will.

“You still could do better. That’ll never change. But maybe once you get through this, I could take you out to dinner some time. Make up for four years of being an ignorant ass. If you still want to, that is. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

“You’ve got terrible taste, you know,” he mutters after a moment, desperate to fill the silence. “In men.”

A faint shake of his head, like he can’t quite believe he’s saying this here, now. “All the guys that came to pick you up from your shifts at the hospital.” He exhales through his nose. “Hated every single one of them.”

A beat.

“You’d be there, still half in uniform, dead on your feet, and they’d just… they didn’t even see it, y’know? How tired you were. Some of them would even make you drive. God, it used to bother me. So much. But I never said anything, and now we’re here.”

Jack can feel a lump forming in his throat, the first of the night. He hasn’t allowed himself tears. Doesn’t feel like he deserved them. Not when he’s spent the last four years keeping you at arm’s length.

“You shouldn’t have had to guess where you stood,” He murmurs. “That’s on me.”

Jack swallows, hard, blinking down at your hand like he can focus on that instead of everything else. “Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You were right fucking there. All this time.”

His eyes squeeze shut for a second, and when he opens them again, they’re wet. His shoulders drop, the fight going out of him all at once, and a tear slips before he can stop it, quick and frustrated as he scrubs at it with his palm.

“I’m so sorry, sweet girl.”

By the time the door opens and Leo returns, the tears are flowing, and Jack has to excuse himself for a visit to the roof.

7AM

Jack allows himself fifteen minutes on the roof. No more. The wind whips at his face, drying his tears before they even reach his chin, and his sobs are lost to the noises of Pittsburgh.

Finally, he pulls himself back, under the barrier, and heads for your room.

He wants to be there when you wake up.

However long that may take.

"How uh, how did the call go?"

Leo huffs. Not quite a laugh - too bitter for that. “About as well as you’d expect.”

Jack’s brow furrows. “Meaning…?”

“They’re staying.” Leo finally looks at him then, jaw tight. “On holiday. Apparently flights are ‘a nightmare to rearrange’ and...” he cuts himself off with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand over his face. “They were more concerned with my dad's birthday dinner next week.”

There’s a beat.

Jack blinks. “You told them she got shot.”

“Yeah.”

“And they’re - what - sending thoughts and prayers from a beach somewhere?”

Leo’s mouth twitches, something angry and humourless. “Pretty much.”

Jack leans back slowly, processing that. “That’s… insane.”

“Mm.” Leo looks back at you. His voice drops a notch. “That’s them.”

"She's never mentioned them before. Only you. She loves you a lot."

"We have two other sisters," Leo replies. "Unfortunately, they're both carbon copies of our parents. Rich, spoiled, awful. All doctors too."

Jack watches Leo for a moment, studying the tension in his shoulders. “Were you ever close?”

Leo doesn’t answer right away, his eyes glued to your sleeping form. "I was, at one point. Not for a while now, though."

His tone tells Jack there's more to that story than he's letting on, but he doesn't continue. None of Jack's business, he supposes. He's just your colleague.

"Because of Skip?"

He nods. "I guess, yeah."

"You don't have to tell me any more-"

“I’m not going to,” Leo cuts in, not harsh, just firm.

Jack nods immediately. “Okay.”

After a second, Leo speaks again, quieter. “She had it worse than I did." Another silence falls, as his thumb traces the back of your hand. “Are you two together?”

Jack stills.

For a second, he just looks at you - like the answer might be written somewhere in the rise and fall of your chest, in the steady beep of the monitor. Then he exhales.

“No,” he says.

It’s not a lie. Not entirely.

Leo’s gaze doesn’t waver. “No?”

Jack shakes his head lightly, eyes dropping to where his hand still rests near yours. “No,” he repeats, quieter. “Nothing… official.”

His eyes narrow just slightly. “But.”

Jack huffs under his breath, a ghost of a smile that doesn’t quite land. “But nothing,” he says, though it lacks conviction. “We work together. That’s - it’s complicated.”

"Do you love her?"

It's the last thing he expects Leo to ask, but he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. You're one of the most direct people he's ever met. It makes sense that Leo is similar.

“…Yeah,” He says. "I do."

If Jack is expecting admonishment, it doesn't come. Instead, Leo just snorts. "You could be her dad."

Despite everything, Jack laughs. A real, true laugh. "Way to kick a guy when he's down."

"It's just the truth," Leo shrugs, when your ring finger twitches slightly. “Holy shit. I think she’s moving.”

8AM

The first thing you notice is the pain. Somehow both dull and blinding, it’s entirely encompassing.

The room is blurred, your lips are dry, and there’s a pounding behind your eyes.

A small groan escapes, and you hear some voices, too far to make out fully. Blinking slowly, you will your body to start listening to you. To refocus your vision, and let you wake up fully.

It doesn’t cooperate, and it takes you another few minutes before Leo’s voice penetrates your haze. “Can you hear me?”

A bright light is shined directly into your eye, and you whine, shoving half-heartedly at the arm above you. You make some kind of contact, and push.

“She’s fine. Back to physically abusing me already.”

Finally, everything starts to stabilise. Leo is hovering over you, another figure right behind him. At first, you think you must still be dreaming. That the final stage before death is realism.

“I-Is this real?”

Leo and Jack share a look, and you wonder when they got acquainted. Leo normally tries to wrangle his way out of night-shifts. “Yeah, kid, it’s real,” He mumbles, reaching out to rest his hand on your shoulder. “How much do you remember?”

You glance between them. “I remember being shot, if that’s what you’re asking. But uh, other than that, not much. I-Is my patient okay? Did he survive?"

"He survived," Leo says, softly. "You saved his life, kid."

“You lost a lot of blood,” Jack begins, voice low. “Bullet fragmented inside you, so you were out for a while in surgery so that Walsh could find all the pieces. We…” He trails off, as if hesitant to continue.

“What?”

Your mind immediately jumps to the worst. That the surgery was only a temporary fix. That somehow, you might still be dying.

“We had to take out one of your kidneys. It wasn’t a decision made lightly, but Walsh thought-”

“Is my other kidney okay?”

“Yeah. Far as we know. But we’ll keep monitoring.”

“You had the whole ED lined up to get checked, when we thought you might need a donation,” Leo cuts in.

“Really?”

“Thirty people volunteered to get tested within fifteen minutes,” Jack adds, and you let out an incredulous laugh, which bubbles up into an odd-sounding cry halfway through. It surprises even you, tears leaking from your cheeks.

You’ve never had a sense of community before. Other than Leo, your own flesh and blood wouldn’t be so quick to offer up a part of themselves like that.

“Hey, hey - is everything okay?” Leo asks, frowning. “Does something hurt?”

“Everything hurts, dumbass,” You reply, scrunching your eyes closed. “Can I get some more pain meds?”

“On it,” Jack says immediately, stepping out to grab a higher dose.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” You whisper, gaze a little blurry as you reach for your brother’s hand. “And for fighting with you earlier.”

“Totally my fault,” Leo insists. “Just… don’t do that again, alright? It’s not funny.”

“Maybe we’ll look back on this in twenty years and laugh,” You offer weakly.

Leo snorts. “I doubt it.” He pauses for a second, before continuing. “Listen, is something going on between you and Abbot? Because he quite literally has not left your bedside since you got out of surgery-”

He trails off as Jack walks back into the room, but your eyes light up.

“You’ve been here this entire time?” You ask, eyes darting from Jack’s face to Leo’s.

When he doesn’t reply, Leo does it for him. “He’s like a leech. Couldn’t get him away from you if I tried.”

Jack goes to protest, but the words die on his tongue when he sees your face break out into the biggest smile he’s ever seen. Far bigger than he’d expect from someone who was shot less than twelve hours ago.

“That’s like, major boyfriend behaviour, don’t you think?”

The question is directed at Leo, who lets out a weary sigh. “I’m not getting in the middle of this. I’m going to go grab a coffee, and I’ll be back soon.”

When he leaves the room, a quiet falls, Jack’s gaze travelling down your entire body. As if he’s evaluating you. Trying to tell himself that you’re really here.

You’ve never shied away from attention. Much less anything that Jack’s willing to offer you. But something about the way he’s looking at you gives you butterflies. A wave of embarrassment washes over you.

You haven’t even looked in a mirror since the start of your shift. God knows what your hair looks like right now.

And if you remember correctly, from floating in and out of consciousness downstairs, you’re pretty sure he saw your tits. It’s a level of vulnerability that you weren’t expecting to have to conquer today.

“M’so glad you’re okay, kid. Really had us all scared there.”

There’s a dull throb in your abdomen, and you let out a low hiss of pain as you try to adjust, so that you’re facing him a little more. “I’m sure you were cool as a cucumber.”

Jack lets out the smallest laugh. “Cool is definitely not the word. Try terrified. Even Langdon was worried about you.”

You scoff, though there’s no malice in it. “Yeah, right. I’ll believe it when I see it. He’s too pre-occupied with getting that slut strand of hair to sit perfectly to care about anyone other than Page.”

“Well, they were both pretty upset during the surgery. They were sitting with you for a bit too.”

Your stomach sinks a little. You hate feeling like a burden.

“Now I feel like the biggest bitch on the planet.”

Jack shrugs. “You just got shot. You’re allowed to be a bit grouchy. Langdon would understand.” He swallows. “You couldn’t hear anyone talking to you while you were out?”

You shake your head, lip between your teeth. Jack’s expression shifts a little, in a way that you can’t put your finger on. “What?”

“Nothing.” His reply is immediate, in a way that you’re almost sure he’s lying. But you don’t have the energy to push.

Instead, a silence falls, and his gaze begins to travel again. The cannula sticking out of your arm, right down to your hospital-issued socks peeking out from under the duvet. The intensity makes you shiver.

It takes a Herculean effort to meet his gaze again. “What are you looking at?” You whisper.

“Just you.”

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard.

a/n - this is a very belated birthday present for my beloved bea, thank you for being jackper's no.1 fan <33333

Robby is capable of admitting that he is not, has never been, and probably never will be an easy man to love. Or like. Or spend more than ten minutes with on a bad day.

For a long time, he preferred a more flattering explanation for himself, one where his sharp edges meant he was discerning, where the distance meant he was disciplined, where every nasty impulse came dressed as practicality. 

Easier to live with that version. Shame it was complete bullshit.

The truth simply isn’t as nice.

He can be mean when he feels cornered, petty when his pride gets nicked, suspicious of people who haven’t earned his trust and sometimes even of those who have. He can take the worst parts of himself and hang them around someone else’s neck like they belong there instead. 

Jealousy sits near the top of that list. Primitive, embarrassing, unbecoming of a man of his age, and currently burning neon-green behind his eyes as he watches you in the water with Whitaker.

You are all moonlight and sparkling skin out there, laughing when his fresh resident splashes you hard enough to catch you straight across the chest, and then you are laughing harder, shoving him back with both hands. 

Careless and so fucking pretty Robby has half a mind to grind his teeth down to dust.

Everyone is a little drunk. Loose, noisy, stupid. At some point one of them had the bright idea to turn the evening into a midnight swim, and Robby, in a moment of weakness, did not object strongly enough. 

He honestly can’t recall who suggested it, which is lucky, because right now he’d be tempted to hold them underwater. 

He considers doing himself the favor of going back inside. There’s a whole house behind him. Walls. Doors. Actual barriers between him and whatever the hell this is.

He could pour another drink. Claim exhaustion. Remove himself like an adult. 

But then you duck under again, vanish for a second into the black-silver water, and when you resurface it’s closer to shore, hair slicked back, shoulders gleaming, water streaming down your body in thin shining paths as you make your way out of the surf.

You hurry toward him, arms crossed over your chest, shivering, and you smile so warmly when your eyes meet his that Robby feels an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. It isn’t deserved.

He gives you a slight smile back, because anything else would be unnecessarily mean, and he’s trying, at least in this moment, not to be. 

“You didn’t come in,” you say, stopping in front of him while water drips from your calves into the sand. 

There’s mascara smudged under your eyes, and instantly he’s back in last night whether he wants to be or not.

Back to you kneeling between his legs, tears and mascara mixed together in inky tracks down your cheeks, mouth doing a number on his cock that he still hasn’t fully recovered from. 

You had appeared at his door after everyone else was asleep, slipping inside the second he cracked it open as if there had ever been any real chance he was going to stop you. Even with his best friend and your brother sleeping in the room next door.

He rubs a hand over his jaw, as if friction alone could scour the image out of his memory. It can’t.

“Figured someone had to play lifeguard.” 

“Lifeguard,” you echo, teeth catching on your lower lip as your eyes narrow in exaggerated appreciation. “That’s hot. Do you wanna practice mouth-to-mouth now?” 

He should laugh. He should say something easy. Instead: “You seemed to be doing just fine with Whitaker out there. Maybe let him handle it.” 

He hates the sound of it. That needless little cut.

Robby has always been talented at that particular failure mode, lash out first, feel bad second, act like remorse counts as repair. It’s another one of the worst things about him, the way the venom always seems to land on the people closest.

You most of all. You, over and over. 

But you don’t look bothered in the slightest, stepping closer until you’re nearly between his feet, close enough that he can feel the chill lifting off your skin and the heat of his own body reaching for it. 

You smell like coconut sunscreen and salty ocean air, and he catches himself breathing in deeper. 

“Oh, wow, are you jealous right now?” you ask, laughing under your breath. “That’s adorable. Kind of bitchy, but adorable. Do you want me to go flirt a little more with Whitaker until you fully process these complicated emotions, or have you punished yourself enough?” 

Robby doesn't bother denying it — wouldn't insult either of you like that. He just shakes his head, a reluctant half-smile tugging at his lips. 

“Think I've punished myself plenty tonight.” He pauses, voice softening. “Stay here?” He tacks on, a little more earnest, “please.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” you tease, the words nearly catching between your teeth. 

Robby doesn’t pause to consider the wisdom (or lack thereof) of taking off his jacket and draping it across your chilled skin. Not with half the group still probably watching. But you’re clearly cold and there is a clear and obvious solution to that.

You give a soft, satisfied sigh, holding the fabric snug against your chest. 

“Look at you, Robinavitch, all gentlemanly.” 

“Don’t get used to it.” 

That only makes you smile wider.

“What if I already am?” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

His hands linger on your shoulders just a second too long, fingertips hesitating against the fabric before finally letting go.

He knows better. He should move back, redraw a line, remind himself that the house behind him is crowded, that your brother is inside that same crowded house, a dangerous fact he’s becoming increasingly careless about.

“Well, if you’re done being mean for tonight, maybe you can start making it up to me. Preferably inside.”

And he does. Until jealousy is replaced entirely by the taste of you. Over and over again, until neither of you remembers what he was supposed to be making up for. 

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

Sometimes Frank thinks he should put you on a leash.

Get one of those toddler backpack rigs with the little animal character on it and clip you in. Maybe that would preserve what remains of his peace.

Morifying for you, humiliating for him, definitely probably a terrible look in public, but at least you’d stay within a five-foot radius and he could stop living in this permanent state of low-grade vigilance you seem to provoke as casually as breathing. 

And he loves you. Deeply. Completely.

That’s the problem. Love, with you, is surveillance. It is anticipatory. It is watching for the exact point at which your glittering, social, I’m-fine performance starts to come apart at the seams while you insist it isn’t happening.

You just never seem to know when to stop. 

And tonight you are all over the pool patio with a mojito slicking one hand cold and damp, dribbling little sacrificial offerings of rum and mint over the stone, while the other hand keeps straying to the bikini strap at your hip. 

Restless. Fidgety. Smiling at everyone. Talking too loudly. 

A little drunk, a little sleepy, and, as ever, too stubborn to concede either.

The moment you glance his way, Frank tilts his chin and crooks two fingers in a come here.

A gesture that should not, by any reasonable standard, contain so much possession in it, and yet your expression changes all at once, brightening with buzzed delight as you cross toward him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite person to be bossed around by,” you say when you reach him, voice dipped in honey. You stop beside his lounger, smiling down at him. It’s such a pretty smile. “Did you miss me terribly?”

“I usually do.” 

There’s no point in pretending otherwise.

That gets you. 

“Yeah?” You tip forward a little, closing the distance with shameless interest. “Can I get a kiss, then?”

Frank’s mouth twitches. “You can get whatever you want, sweetheart.”

He lifts a hand to your jaw and draws you down, sealing his mouth over yours in a kiss that has to be brief by sheer circumstance, though not so brief he misses the cool, fizzy ghost of lime on your lips. 

Sugary and faintly effervescent, the taste of it lingering for one extra second after he pulls back, temptation rendered in citrus. 

Frank has never been especially talented at self-control where you are concerned.

It’s why he’s not a fan of PDA. Public affection is never only that. It is a beginning. A permission slip.

One kiss and suddenly he is keenly aware of all the ones he is not having, all the ways he would rather be kissing you if the two of you were alone.

So he stops there, because he has to, and leaves your hand at your jaw instead, thumb brushing once over your cheek.

“What do you say we go find you something to eat?”

You make a face immediately, lower lip pushing out in a sulky little pout. “‘M not hungry.”

“That’s fascinating, because you look like you’re about two minutes from falling asleep standing up.”

“You make everything sound so dire.”

Frank snorts. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Then, in a flawless little proof-of-concept, you sway backward with all the structural integrity of a wilting palm tree. 

Frank moves before the thought fully forms, hands shooting out to catch the back of your thigh, fingers splaying over the soft curve just beneath your ass as he drags your forward. One quick tug and there you are, neatly slotted between his legs. 

Your hands land on his shoulders and you giggle, as if nearly toppling over into a concussion is somehow charming rather than precisely the kind of thing that keeps shaving years off his life.

He squeezes once, firm and corrective. 

“Okay, well, what do you say you keep me company for a while?”

He could tell you to sit down. You might even listen, eventually, but not without first delivering a brief theatrical monologue on authoritarianism and oppression and how cruel it is to stifle your sparkle.

So. Better not make it about obedience. Frank has learned this the hard way, or at least the repetitive way.

There are only so many reliable methods of keeping you where he can see you, and most of them depend on reframing the situation until it no longer sounds like containment.

You resent being managed. You respond beautifully to being needed. Especially by him. 

“Mm, okay,” you murmur at once, whatever resistance you had dissolving on contact. 

Before Frank can offer any further guidance, you’re already hauling yourself into his lap with spectacularly poor mechanics, all grabby hands and misfiring limbs, nudging him backward against the lounger.

And after a moment of awkward shifting and a fair amount of readjusting, you finally settle into him in a drowsy little heap, half draped across his lap and half tucked into his side. 

Frank extracts the mojito from your hand just before the remainder can go down the front of his shirt, though not before a bright cold splash hits his chest anyway.

He puts the glass aside and looks back at you.

Brushes your hair off your face. Once, twice, again, until there you are properly visible beneath it.

You blink up at him, visibly straining to keep your eyes open, lashes heavy with the effort. “You know what Parker told me earlier?”

“Hmm?”

“That you’re not supposed to compliment the moon here.”

Frank’s fingers drift through your hair again. “And why’s that?”

“Apparently,” you say, lowering your voice, “it’s bad luck. Like if you say it’s pretty, then something in your life gets ruined out of jealousy.”

Your finger wanders over his shirt, drawing something looping into the cotton, your nail a shiny petal-pink that matches the sparkle dusted over your eyes. 

He asks, “Should I be concerned you’ve already told it how pretty it is?” 

A tiny crease appears between your brows. 

“Maybe a little.” Your nail catches on his shift before drifting on again. “But it kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? Because Selene is the moon, and Helios is the sun, and they’re siblings, I think, so maybe he gets weird about it… because if everyone keeps talking about how beautiful the moon is, and nobody’s complimenting the sun, that could create resentment. Familial resentment. Which is, like, one of the oldest forces in mythology.”

Frank opens his mouth, halfway to saying that while the ancient Greeks certainly contained enough familial instability to support the theory, he strongly suspects Parker is still just screwing with you, and then he looks down. 

You are asleep. 

He huffs a laugh through his nose, quiet enough not to disturb you, and shifts his hand higher along your back, settling you more securely against him. 

This, too, is part of loving you, he thinks. The rare and fragile privilege of being where you land when the night catches up to you.

Around you, the patio goes on glowing. Voices blur. Glass clinks somewhere in the distance. Water shifts blue-black under the moonlight. 

He leans his head back against the lounger and lets himself look out at it for a second. It is a pretty moon.

If Selene is listening, she can be flattered. He’ll take the risk.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!