Hello! I don't know if you've done this one before, but can I request a catwoman's student/admirer (? Like a reader that was inspired by catwoman, or like if catwoman actually took reader under her paw? You can choose,,) x Dick Grayson? It's okay if not..!!!
𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝, 𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲
pairing: dick grayson x catwoman's student!gn!reader (ft. jason todd)
summary: jason reveals dick's flirting with another person and learns something important about you
tags: reader calls jason red baby; established relationship; identity reveal; reader gets called kitty when in costume;
"I'll see you around, Blue Bird," you blow a kiss towards Dick before jumping off the roof after Selina.
Nightwing waves you goodbye, chuckling. He turned around and watched as Batman and Robin finished up after the fight. He kept a grin on his face as he was waiting for Batman to allow all of them to leave, knowing he soon would be able to wrap himself around you.
Except Jason decided to not only follow him back to your shared flat, but also share his opinion.
"You know you have a partner waiting for you at home, right? They're probably curled up in your hoodie waiting for you to return, and you're out here doing what?" Jason grimaced, fixing the way the helmet was sitting on his face. "I mean I get it, you and Kitty were having this flirting-fighting for a while now, but don't you think you should stop now? I don't think (name) would be fine knowing your flirting with the enemy."
Dick shrugged, fighting the urge to smile wider.
"Listen, you and (name) are great together. We all think you two are an endgame. I can just let you fuck it up! Kitty's not worth it," Jason argued, forcing Dick to look at him when the two finally made it to his flat.
"Me and (name) are endgame," Dick assured, forcing the window open.
"Whatever you say," Jason rolled his eyes, joining Dick in your living room. "I just think you should be honest with them so they don't break up with you."
"Honest about what?" you questioned, startling Jason.
"I, uh," Jason stumbled over his words, eyes darting between you and Dick.
"I was flirting with Kitty, you know how we get," Dick explained, watching her eyes glow with a familiar scheming shine.
"What?!" You yelled, walking right up to Dick. "How could you?! You promised you'll stop! You know I don't like it." You faked a cry.
"I'm sorry, love," Dick apologised, cupping his face. "I just can't resist them."
"You bastard!" You punched Dick in the chest. "I bought a ring! I wanted to propose!"
"I think I should go," Jason admitted, one of his legs already dangling out of the window. "For the record, I didn't support it."
"It didn't look that way on the roof, Red Baby," you teased, walking up to the window.
"Wait what—" Jason questioned, when you pushed him out of the window and locked it behind him.
Dick walked up from behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. The two of you laughed at Jason's face for a bit before you let the silence take over.
You purred when Dick started kissing your neck, your hands reaching behind you squeezed his ass.
"Did you really buy a ring for me, kitty cat?" Dick asked in between kisses.
"No," you giggled. "Selina taught me better than that."
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trinity and dennis who take home a wicked drunk reader from the bar. leave for work the next morning, you’re still passed out. scrambling to go so they lowkey forget you’re there aside from instinctually ensuring you’re turned on your side.
they come back home bickering only to find their apartment cleaned to the extreme (think cobwebs swept, windowsills + surfaces + doors + baseboards wiped clown, nooks and crannies vacuumed, dishes… you didn’t do the laundry but it’s all separated and ready to roll) and just like the gobsmacked mutual jaw hanging moment… you just did it to be nice (having felt viciously guilty getting so drunk two strangers had to save your ass by taking in)
you left a number and a little note offering to buy them a thank you dinner. they’ve wordlessly and mutually decided to keep you.
That's what you told yourself, in the beginning. When Bruce came home with reports about Gotham's crime rates spread across the dining table and his eyes passed over you like you were part of the furniture. When Dick ruffled your hair and said "Hey, squirt" on his way to somewhere more important. When Tim looked up from his laptop and said "Yeah, totally, I'll help you with that later" — and later never came.
You told yourself: they're busy. They're saving lives. You're not more important than Gotham.
You believed it for a long time.
---
You were six when Bruce found you.
Your mother was already gone by then — taken in a way that left marks on you that had nothing to do with bruises. You didn't understand all of it, not then. You just knew that the world was dark and cold and that sometimes men could do things that made you feel like you'd never be clean again, even when they hadn't touched you. You'd only watched. Hidden inside the closet, eye pressed to the crack in the door, too small and too terrified to make a sound.
That was your first fear: being trapped somewhere small and dark while something terrible happened and nobody came.
Bruce Wayne looked at you across a sterile hospital room and something moved behind his eyes — recognition, maybe. The shape of a child who had seen too much. He signed the papers three weeks later.
You had a home. You had a father. You had brothers.
For a while, you thought that meant you were safe.
---
Dick was twenty when you arrived, already Nightwing, already brilliant. He smiled at you like sunlight and called you little sister and the first time he did, your chest cracked open with something warm and desperate and enormous. You followed him everywhere. You learned his footsteps. You memorized the way he laughed.
He was kind to you. He just wasn't there. Not really. Not in the way that counted.
Dick existed in flashes — a weekend visit, a quick call, a laugh across the comms. He was the brother who said "I'm so proud of you" without asking what he was proud of. He saw the shape of you, the outline, and he loved that outline genuinely. He just never looked close enough to see what was inside it.
You stopped telling him things when you were nine. He always listened with one eye on his phone.
--
Tim was different. Tim noticed things — that was his whole thing, observation, deduction, detail. He noticed when Bruce's sleep patterns shifted. He noticed when Damian's training scores dropped two percent. He built files on everything.
He never built one on you.
Not because he didn't care. Because you were never a variable in any equation he was trying to solve. You were just... there. Present. Assumed. Like background noise that didn't require analysis.
You asked him once to help you with your combat assessment. You were twelve, newly suited up, still figuring out your footing. He said "Absolutely, let's do Tuesday." Tuesday came. He forgot. You reminded him. He said "Sorry, this week's bad, next week for sure." Next week came and went. You stopped asking after the fourth time.
What hurt wasn't the forgetting. It was that he never noticed he'd forgotten.
---
Jason.
Jason is a wound that never healed right.
Before he died, he was the one who saw you. Really saw you. He'd find you in the library at two in the morning when you couldn't sleep and he'd sit beside you without asking why, and somehow that was enough. He called you kid but it didn't feel dismissive — it felt like a claim. Like you're mine to look after.
He died when you were eight.
You grieved him in a way you didn't grieve your mother, because with your mother you'd been too small to understand permanence. With Jason you were old enough to know that gone meant gone. You put flowers outside his old room for a year. Bruce told you once, gently, to stop. It upset him.
You stopped.
Jason came back when you were thirteen, angry and sharp-edged and burning with something you didn't have a name for yet. You ran to him. You actually ran, across the cave, heart hammering, because he was alive, he was back, he was—
He stepped around you.
Not deliberately. Or maybe deliberately — you never knew. He looked at Bruce and the look between them was so full of history and fury and grief that there was simply no room for you in it. You stood there with your arms half-extended and slowly let them fall.
He never really came back. Not to you. The Jason who sat with you in libraries was buried in the pit somewhere. This Jason looked through you on a good day and said something cutting on a bad one — "Shouldn't you be in bed?" or "You're in the way" or once, terribly, "You're not actually his daughter, you know. You're just the latest project."
You didn't cry in front of him. You'd learned by then not to cry in front of any of them.
---
Damian arrived like a verdict.
He was Bruce's blood. His actual blood, and you understood immediately — with the cold clarity of a child who had learned to read rooms — what that meant for you. Not consciously. Bruce never said it. Nobody said it. But the shift was there, subtle and tectonic, and you felt it the way you felt changes in weather.
Damian didn't like you. He made that clear within the first week. "You were adopted out of pity," he told you, seven years old and vicious with inherited confidence. "I am a Wayne by birth. There is a difference."
You were thirteen. You already knew there was a difference. You just hadn't wanted to hear it said aloud.
You tried, for years, to reach him. You left his favorite tea outside his door. You covered for him with Bruce twice. Once, when he was injured on a mission and Bruce was unreachable, you sat with him in the med bay for four hours and held his hand when he was too delirious with painkillers to tell you to let go.
The next morning he told you to stay out of his room.
You did.
--
You became a vigilante at fifteen.
Bruce didn't exactly give you permission. You didn't exactly ask. You trained in the cave when nobody was there — which was often, because the cave was only crowded when there was something important happening, and you had learned you were rarely part of what was important. You built your own suit from components in the supply room that nobody had catalogued yet. You chose a name nobody had claimed.
Your first night out, you stopped a mugging and a convenience store robbery and helped a woman whose car had broken down on the highway find a signal to call for help. Small things. Unglamorous things.
You filed a report in the cave's system. Standard format, the way Tim had shown you once, two years ago, in a moment of actual attention. Case numbers. Location coordinates. Incident details.
Nobody responded.
You filed another one the next week. And the next.
After six months, you stopped filing reports. You just went out and came back and put your suit away and went to bed. Nobody asked where you'd been. Nobody noticed the mileage on the bike.
You had a symbol, a territory, a growing list of informants. You had a reputation in three of Gotham's worst districts. You had solved four cases that had gone cold in the GCPD for years.
The Batfamily did not know your case number. They did not know your informants' names. They did not know about the apartment you'd quietly rented in Crime Alley with the money from your trust fund — not to live in, just to have somewhere that was yours, somewhere your things weren't adjacent to theirs, somewhere you could breathe without waiting to be overlooked.
You were sixteen when you understood that you loved them and that loving them was making you disappear.
---
You tried, once, to say it.
Seventeen years old. Family dinner — one of the rare ones where everyone was present, even Jason, even Dick, even Alfred who watched everything with sad knowing eyes and sometimes touched your shoulder in a way that made you want to collapse.
Bruce was talking about a new lead on Scarecrow's operations. Dick was animated, leaning forward, offering tactical suggestions. Tim had his tablet out despite Alfred's pointed look. Jason was eating with the focused aggression he brought to everything. Damian was correcting Tim's analysis with the particular smugness of someone who knew he was right.
You had information. Relevant information — you'd spent three weeks building a profile on Scarecrow's new chemist, traced his supply chain to a warehouse in the Narrows. You had coordinates. You had a window.
You opened your mouth.
"I actually have—"
"The eastern route makes more sense," Dick said, talking over you without realizing it. "If we split the team into—"
You closed your mouth.
You sat there for the rest of dinner. You passed the bread when it was near you. You answered when Alfred asked if you wanted more water. Nobody else spoke to you directly.
After, you went to your room and sat on the floor with your back against the bed and breathed very carefully for a long time. Not crying. You'd mostly stopped crying by then. Just breathing. Waiting for the feeling to pass.
It passed. It always passed.
That was almost worse.
The accumulation of small things:
Tim promising to spar with you seventeen times over two years and canceling sixteen of them. The seventeenth time he simply didn't show up and when you asked later he said "Oh, was that today? Sorry, I had a thing."
Dick sending you a birthday message three days late with seventeen exclamation points, clearly composed in thirty seconds.
Bruce looking at your patrol report — one of the rare times he actually opened the file — and saying "Good work" with the tone of someone who had not actually read it.
Damian telling a visiting hero that there were "four" Batfamily members when you were standing six feet away.
Jason, once, when you were eighteen and tried to check if he was okay after a bad mission: "I don't need you to babysit me. Go back to playing house with Bruce."
The way none of them ever asked about your fear.
You'd mentioned it once, years ago, to Dick — that small spaces made you cold, that being trapped made your vision go white, that you'd had nightmares since you were six about a closet door and sounds you couldn't stop hearing. He'd said "Oh, that's rough, I'm sorry" and then his phone had rung and that was the end of it.
None of them knew. Not really. Not the shape of it, the weight of it, the way it lived in your chest like a stone.
---
You were nineteen when the Riddler's new syndicate took you.
It wasn't careless on your part. You'd been careful — you were always careful, you'd had to be, operating without a net, without backup, without anyone monitoring your comms. You'd tracked the syndicate for four months. You knew their patterns. You knew their safehouses.
What you didn't know was that they knew yours.
They'd been watching you watch them. Waiting. Patient in the way that only people with something to prove could be patient.
They took you on a Tuesday. Gray sky, cold rain. You were two blocks from your apartment in Crime Alley and then you weren't anywhere you recognized.
---
The room was small.
That was the first thing. That was the thing that split you open before anything else had even happened — the dimensions of it, the closeness of the walls, the single bare bulb, the door with no handle on the inside. The smell of damp concrete and something metallic.
You pressed your back against the wall and breathed.
They'll find me, you thought. They'll notice I'm gone. Bruce will pull up my tracker—
Your tracker was in your suit. Your suit was in your apartment. You'd been taken in civilian clothes.
They'll notice I'm missing from the cave. Tim monitors the system—
Tim had not responded to a single report you'd filed in six months. The system showed your last check-in as four days ago.
Dick will—
Dick didn't know your patrol schedule. Nobody did.
You sat in the small dark room and understood, with a clarity that was almost peaceful, that no one was coming.
Not because they didn't love you. Maybe they did, in the abstract, in the way you love furniture that's always been in a room. But love without attention was just sentiment. Sentiment didn't open doors.
---
They came eventually. Riddler's people, with questions you didn't answer and methods that made the room feel smaller. You held on to what you could. Your name. Your breathing. The memory of a library at two in the morning and a boy who sat beside you without asking why.
That Jason was gone. But the memory wasn't.
You held onto it.
On the third day you stopped counting hours. On the fifth day you stopped being surprised by the pain. Somewhere in there — you couldn't have said exactly when — you stopped waiting.
Not because you gave up, exactly. More because waiting required believing, and you had run out of the particular kind of belief that made waiting possible. You had spent thirteen years waiting to be seen. This was just the last version of the same thing.
You thought about your mother, in the end. Not the way it happened — you didn't let yourself go there. Just her face, which you barely remembered, which had mostly dissolved into impressions: something warm, something that smelled like cedar, something that had loved you before the world got its hands on you.
You thought: at least I know what that felt like.
The bulb flickered. The room was very small. The door did not open.
---
They found your apartment six weeks later.
Tim, actually — following a thread on a case that had nothing to do with you, a lead that happened to pass through Crime Alley and a building registry that happened to have your name on it. He stood in the doorway of the small apartment and looked at your things — the books stacked by the window, the mug on the counter, the suit folded on the table because you'd always been neat, always been careful, always cleaned up after yourself — and something shifted in his face.
He called Bruce.
Bruce came. Then Dick. Then Jason. Damian stayed in the car for a long time before he came upstairs.
They stood in your apartment and looked at your life, the one you'd built without them, the one that had existed in the negative space of their attention. There were case files on the wall. Years of them. Cases solved, territories mapped, informants catalogued. There were notes in your handwriting — careful, precise — cross-referencing their operations with yours. All the times you'd been working parallel to them, unseen.
There was a folder on the table labeled, in your handwriting: Reports — Unfiled.
Dick opened it.
It was everything you'd never said. Not a journal, not a letter — you hadn't written it for them, you'd written it for yourself, the way you wrote everything, because writing was the only place you'd ever been fully heard. Patrol notes. Case summaries. And threaded through them, small and unadorned, the record of being invisible: Tim canceled again. Dick called, didn't ask how I was. Bruce said good work without looking up. Damian said four.
And at the very end, dated two weeks before you disappeared: I think I'm going to stop waiting. Not for them — for anyone. I think I've been waiting my whole life and I'm tired and I think that's okay. I think it's okay to be tired.
I love them. I just don't think they'll notice I'm gone.
Dick sat down on your floor.
Jason stood very still in the doorway of your bedroom for a long time.
They found you three days later. What was left of you.
The Riddler's syndicate had moved on, left no living witnesses, covered their tracks with professional efficiency. The GCPD report was clinical. Bruce read it in the cave at three in the morning with Alfred's hand on his shoulder and did not speak for a very long time.
You had been afraid of small spaces. They had put you in one. They had known — somehow, because you'd never told your family but you'd mentioned it once to an informant who'd been compromised — what you were most afraid of.
You had died in the exact shape of your greatest fear.
Waiting for someone to open the door.
They held a service. Small, private. Alfred cried in the way Alfred cried — quietly, with dignity, with the devastation of someone who had seen this family make the same mistakes over and over and had never been able to stop them.
Nobody said we should have known. That was perhaps the most honest thing.
Dick didn't speak at the service. He'd tried to write something and hadn't been able to finish it. He kept thinking about the phone calls where he hadn't asked how you were. He kept thinking about how he'd loved the shape of you without ever learning the contents.
Tim thought about seventeen canceled sparring sessions. He thought about the reports sitting unread in the system. He thought about how he'd built files on everything — everything except you.
Jason thought about what he'd said. You're not actually his daughter, you know. You're just the latest project. He thought about it with the particular torture of someone who cannot take words back. He thought about a library and two in the morning and a small girl who had run toward him with her arms out and he had walked around her like she wasn't there.
He thought about that for a long time.
Damian stood at the graveside and looked at your name on the stone and thought about a mug of tea left outside his door. He had not thanked you. He had not acknowledged it. He had told you to stay out of his room.
He had been seven. He did not think that excused him.
---
Bruce went back to the cave that night. He opened your file — your real file, the one Tim had built after, pulling together everything, trying too late to see you whole. He read every report. Every case. Every small careful note.
He read the line: I love them. I just don't think they'll notice I'm gone.
He sat in the cave for a long time.
Then he closed the file.
He went upstairs. He stood in the hallway outside your room — your old room, the one you'd kept because you'd never officially moved out, the one with your books and your drawings and your second-best mug because your favorite was in the apartment in Crime Alley. He stood there and he put his hand flat against the door.
He did not open it.
He stood there for a very long time, in the dark, in the quiet.
And then he went to bed.
Because Bruce Wayne had always been better at grieving in retrospect than preventing it. Because the people he failed were always, in the end, the ones already inside the house.
Hello! Saw you were looking for Bob Floyd requests, I was wondering if you could do one where bobs married and the others joke about not believing him or she’s a sweet and innocent stereotypical house wife and finally he brings her with him to the Hard Deck and she ends up being a cool alternative person, tattoos, gauges, piercings who gives as good as she gets and very clearly adores Bob, maybe some sort of artist as a career. It can be just something funny or whatever. He’s so sweet and I adore him and I’m alt so I think of would be a funny juxtaposition of him with someone like that. Or you can disregard! No worries and I hope you have a good day 💚
Im a little the same! Slightly alt and I melt for his sweet personality. Opposites attract after all :) Thank you for the request, and i hope you had a good day too <3
Adoration within - Bob Floyd
Fandom: Top Gun: Maverick
Warning: A little fluff, suggestive content, nudity, smoking, drinking, and general life.
Relationships: Robert 'Bob' Floyd x f!reader
Notes: Bob and an alt!reader is so perfect! He is so pookie. Hopefully there are no mistakes.. i wrote this on a writing app and fingers crossed it transferred well. Also requests are still open! And I'm going to post a poll so you can help me choose which of the four bob floyd x reader fics to work on next. Thought it would be fun to see and let people participate <3
ℕ𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕘𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕃𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕤
The bedroom window was left unhinged, shoved open just enough to allow your upper body to lean through the gap on your elbows. Cigarette between your forefinger and middle, it glowed softly at the end. The cotton t-shirt that you had picked up from the laundry pile wasn't your own, but it felt as familiar. The stretch of your lower back caused it to rise up, providing a delicious sight for your husband to stare longingly towards while lacing his boots.
A billowing wisp of smoke filtered the air in a sudden burst as you broke into a smile at the comforting pressure of arms wrapping around your waist, tugging you backwards. Then the familiar sensation of lips pressing against the plush curve of your left asscheek; seeking out the small tattoo of his name in his handwriting. Your head turned to the side, peering over at him with a fond smile as he trailed open-mouthed kisses upon your skin, slowly moving towards the middle of your back where a great decorative piece only just touched. One hand unwound from your waist, curling his fingers around the hem of the t-shirt you were wearing and bunching it up further to seek out the entirety of your tattoo. “You’re gonna be late,” you whispered teasingly, reaching back to stroke his hair for a brief moment before leaning on the windowsill again. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
You felt him sigh deeply against your lower back, a puff of warm breath as he clung to to you with childish reluctance. “Yeah?” Bob murmured, shifting so his cheek was flush against your lower back. “You’re not doing anything today?”
You thought for a moment, staring out at the soft swaying trees that lined the courtyard of the apartment complex. A slender cat was making its way through the floral decoration; that dark coated one that sunbathed all day in the same place. On more than one occasion you had bent down to scratch under its chin while on your way towards the stairs that led up to the apartment. Even plucked some stray pieces of grass from its fur that grew to have a golden-brown hue. “I have some parcels to pick up,” you shrugged, thinking about the supplies that had been ordered a few weeks ago; anything of good quality had always been a hassle to track down and order. “And I still have that commission to get started.”
“Hmm,” the soft vibrations of that acknowledgement was a subtle tickling sensation. It made you smile a little, bringing the cigarette back up to your mouth. The glowing ember brightened with the deep inhale that pulled a flush of smoke into your mouth. You stubbed the cigarette into the ceramic bowl sitting on the windowsill; a small amount of rainwater had settled into a puddle inside. You exhaled the soft cloud and turned around in his embrace, slinging your arms around the back of his neck as he stood up straighter and leaned in.
"C'mere,” Bob was smiling, an endearing little thing that brought up his cheeks as he started dragging the hem of your t-shirt up further. Your stomach tensed at the careful drag of his fingers that brushed along faintly. “I need my t-shirt.” And filled you with disappointment. You exhaled dramatically, tilting your head back with a languid drop off your shoulders. He chuckled at the display and tugged it over your head, exposing your breasts.
It was hard to fight the smile that tightened the corner of your mouth once you had caught the longing expression in his eyes. You wondered how he would react when you got them pierced, something you had been debating for a while after coming across some jewellery at the tattoo parlour. “Are you going to start drooling?” You murmured, staring up at him and enjoying how captured he was by the sight of your bare body. His thumb caressed the gentle curve of your breast, meticulously paying attention to the blotches of sensitive skin that he had mouthed at with undeniable desire the night before. “I think the guys want to go to the Hard Deck later,” he murmured, shifting his hand from the side of your breast to rest against your lower back as he lent in and kissed your brow gently; just brushing against the piercing, and lingering for a beat. “If that’s alright.”
“Yeah, of course,” you tilted your head back a little to look up at him, back arching slightly against the pressure of his hand, and smiled at his desire for reassurance; as if you had ever denied him the well-deserved time with his newfound friends.
“Oh, I- I meant you could come with me. I-if… uh, you want to?” He looked suddenly unsure of the invitation as he dragged his wedding band along his necklace, back and forth in a repetitive motion, as if suddenly realising that you might prefer to stay out of that side of his life. You stared at it, that glint of gold that was resting upon his finger earlier. His hand jolted down suddenly. “Shit,” he muttered. It was broken. A link had come loose.
“Hey, hey,” you held your hand out for it, clicking your fingers to gain his attention when he removed his hand from your back and further attempted to fix the link. “Give it here, sweetheart. I’ll see if I can fix it later. Go on, you don’t want to be late.” He sighed heavily, reluctantly placing the thin chain into your palm where it curled up, along with the wedding band. “Go. I’ll see you later, lieutenant.”
“Uh- yeah,” Bob flushed at the easy and fluid way it fell from your mouth, his eyes flickering down towards the smile playing across your face; how it brought so much teasing joy onto your features. “Yeah, alright. See you at…” he pulled his t-shirt on and picked his bag up before pausing in the doorway as he thought it over. “Um… at eight. At the Hard Deck. I’ll see you there.” He turned around, closing the door. It wouldn’t stay closed long. You smiled knowingly, bending down and picking a t-shirt and some underwear from the folded laundry at the foot of the bed. As expected, the door swung open again and he stood there with a flustered smile. “Love you.”
And you were unbelievably late. Bob was sure that you had a good reason for such a thing; another creativity session that brought in a sense of time obliviousness. It happened sometimes, when you got so caught up that the hours would burn too quickly for you to catch. It was fine. He held a plastic cup in one hand, half filled with water while the others all nurse their beer with more eager approach. Occasionally, he’d look towards the entrance; seeking for some sighting of you. “No offence,” hangman continued as he tugged the pool cue out of Coyote’s hand, stepping backwards and moving around the table coated in blue felt and decorative designs befitting the clientele of aviators.
His brows furrowed a little at the response, confused by their lack of belief in his marriage status. “Oh, well- well, I am- married that is. I’m married.” Bob nodded, as if to confirm it further with the gesture.
“Yeah?” Hangman was smiling slyly as he leant over the table and lined up his shot; that slight expression that meant he was amused and seeking to further embarrass his friend. “Where’s your wedding band, Bob?”
Instinctively, Bob lifted his hand to grasp the chain that he had grown accustomed to wearing. His stomach fell into a great, empty pit. And he dropped his hand, instead rubbing his thumb against the vacant space on his left hand where it usually resided during leave. “Oh- I- Uh… it broke this morning.”
“Yeah?” Coyote murmured, eyes flickering to the movement before taking a gulp of his drink and passing it to Rooster as he rounded the table; trying to analyse his best chance at sinking a ball.
“Not the ring,” Bob flushed at the attention, realising how silly that sounded. “I uh- I keep it on a chain. The chain broke.”
“Uh huh…”
“That’s enough, Bagman,” a soft voice came to his defence, their shorter stature a reassuring presence at his side. “Leave it alone.”
“Hangman,” he corrected.
“Whatever,” Phoenix crossed her arms. “Enough.”
“What?” he shrugged with bemusement, passing the spare cue to the side and crossed his arms obnoxiously. “I’m just saying-”
“Don’t” Rooster cut in, the sharp snap of the cue coming in contact with the white ball echoing behind his voice. “Leave it.”
“I’m just saying,” Hangman repeated firmly, staring at her boldly as she sighed at his tone. “He’s lying. That’s all. That’s it. Alright? I mean, let’s look at this logically,” he continued, walking closer as if he were stalking his prey. “Bob, our baby on board, is married. We have never met this woman. We have never heard of her until now. He conveniently broke the chain his wedding band is on- do i have that right?” He stared questioningly at him and then shrugged. “Bob’s lying.”
“I’m not,” Bob told him calmly, narrowing his eyes behind aviator glasses at the accusational tone.
“So you’re saying the lovely wife of yours, this.. what? your old high school sweetheart, yeah? she stays home to cook and clean like a good housewife in a pink apron. She’s real?”
“W-what…” Bob stared at him in confusion. “No. I didn’t say that.”
“Look, I’m not trying to offend you-”
“Yet you managed to anyway,” Bob responded bluntly, holding his ground. “You’re being an asshole.”
“Whatever, man,” Hangman scoffed and started to walk away; dismissing the entire interaction. “I’m getting the next round.”
And then there was you. Across the bar with the door hanging open behind you like an emergency escape route. For just a moment, you stared out at the mass of people crowding the bar like flies on spoiled leftovers. It was surprisingly busy. Instantly, you recognised the figure that was lingering near a pool table in the far corner; cradling a clear cup of water. The sight alone brought a smile to your face, already setting off across the floor towards him; weaving through the crowd with a soft dismissal when someone tried to twirl you into dancing. “No, thank you,” you shouted over the reverberating music from the jukebox, adjusting your mini skirt with nimble fingers curling under the hem.
“What?” he shouted back, leaning in close.
Too close. “Hey!” You instinctively leaned away. “Back the fuck up.” You dropped the soft composure, placing your hand out as a barrier.
He raised his hands up with an amused expression while mouthing an apology. Douchebag. “Fucking hell,” you muttered to yourself while slipping through the crowd, burying yourself in the masses in an attempt to reach the other side. “Fucking, fuck, fuckface.” It was a relief when you passed the dartboard, hearing people cheer and another complain at whoever made the shot. And then your hand came in contact with the wooden beam that was decorated in stickers and other colourful things, clinging to it loosely for a second while watching with amusement. It was only when one of them dropped their glass and spilled their drink with an audible yelp that you turned away with a wince and headed up towards your husband.
“Hey, sweetheart,” your voice was a soft approach, going under his bicep and wrapping around him loosely. Your wrists knocking against each other as you slung them around the back of his neck. Instinctively he placed a hand upon your lower back, fingers splaying against the small space of bare skin that was made available from your sweater rising.
“Hey,” he brightened at the sight of you, as if you had become his only source of sunlight and it was a privilege to bask in the glow you provided. “Alright, guys,” he looked around at the others, tightening his hold on you for a moment of reassurance. “This is my wife.”
It was instantaneous, the raised eyebrows and questioning looks towards one another. And then they began to introduce themselves, raising a hand in some cases and shaking your hand in others. All grinning smiles that spoke of how proud they were of their friend, obviously fighting the urge to pat him on the back in congratulations. “Hey there, I’m Natasha,” the woman with a slicked back hairstyle spoke confidently, leaning on a pool cue as she propped herself up. She was beautiful; somewhat pixie-like with her short bridged nose and enchantingly dark eyes. But she appeared sharp in personality. “I’m just going to say it- you are not what anyone was expecting. Wanna hear what Hangman thought you’d be?”
Before you could respond, he had caught sight of you and the inevitable happened. Hangman opened his mouth. “What do we have here?” he looked between you both with such glee that it was almost unnerving, putting the tray of drinks on the edge of the table. “No,” he refused the sight with a laugh, gesturing to you both as if that was enough. “No. I cannot believe that baby on board- no offence- managed to get into your pants, let alone get you in a white dress.”
Your eyebrows knit together. The fuck? It must have been enough of an expression to make him rethink his initial outburst, as he adjusted his stance and observed you critically; taking in the visible piercings and tattoos, the mini skirt split up one side and held together with thin links of chain; showing off the bold tattoos on your thighs, and the old, oversized sweater with graphic font of some band he didn’t recognise. It didn’t make sense. Not you. Not with straight-laced baby on board.
“Seriously?” He looked around at the others for some sign of fellowship in his disbelief. He received nothing in return. Nothing but the amused smile that was barely concealed on Phoenix’s face, her head tilting slightly with a mocking silence. “Goddamn, my man, you must be laying it down,” Hangman suddenly chuckled, and unfortunately caused a few others to smile at the comment, as he observed you both with mirth swirling in his eyes like some tornado building upon amusement. “Congratulations," he spoke while staring at the ring on your finger for a couple seconds, as if double-checking that one of you was wearing a wedding band.
“This is Jake,” Phoenix murmured from your side, leaning in slightly. “He has come to the assumption that he’s funny.”
“Huh, really? I know him as douchebag,” you shifted a little in your husbands arms while adjusting your attention on the smug inclined man.
“Hangman.”
“Gesundheit”
He smiled at that, crossing his arms as if to display them more promptly. A display that perfectly fitted his douchebag persona that had, so far, been the only memorable thing about him. “That’s cute,” he looked up towards your husband. “She’s cute. Bet you have your hands full with that.”
“Looks like it, yeah.” Bob sounded proud of it though, resting his chin upon the top of your head and swaying slightly with you in his arms. You couldn't resist the urge to preen brightly at that, grinning and melting into his embrace without shame.
“Hey, what’s that called?”
"Specify and i might have an answer for you." You raised an eyebrow at him, watching how that simple expression caught his attention as he stared at the glint of metal.
“The thing in your ear,” he continued. “I always wondered.”
“Did you?” You murmured with mocking disbelief. “Its a gauge,” you replied efficiently, leaning back against your husband as he curled his fingers around the waistband of your skirt, thumb brushing against the tattoo coating your hip. “Or you can call it an ear-stretcher.”
“Hmm… and how long does it take to get through a metal detector?”
“Why, are you thinking of getting one?” You grinned at the mere thought of someone like him getting a piercing. “I know a couple places.”
“Hmm, I bet. You got any tattoos or other piercings I could see?” He asked, leaning a bit closer and his eyes dropping low. “Maybe I’m thinking of getting a-”
“Jake,” your husband cut him off, his tone firm and leaving no distance with his displeasure at where the conversation was headed.
It was quiet for a moment as he grinned at the conversation, then he sighed and turned around to take the cue from another. “What are we play'n?” You shifted against Bob, holding onto his forearms and keeping them wrapped around your chest where you could press your chin upon them.
𝕋𝕒𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥
@wholerottentree
Write a comment or send an inbox if you want to be tagged in any specific or nonspecific posts! I'm so grateful for all the reblogs and love <3 especially as a new creator.
Hello! I love love love your writing! I have a request for a Jack Abbot x younger reader! Reader finally brings Jack home to meet her family at a big family gathering despite being super anxious about how it will go. At one point they separate and reader’s father approaches him without knowing who he is to reader, and assumes he is one of his sisters husbands or something like that, so he starts trying to gossip with Jack about reader. Telling Jack things like he doesn’t think she’ll ever find love cause she’s so needy, and how her anxiety is annoying, and that he thinks she’s emotional just for the attention. All these negative things. And Jack is just sitting there seething until he finally reveals he’s there with reader and rips the father a new one! Ty ty!!! 💚
💞Plot💞: You know that saying ‘that may be your daughter, but that’s also my girl’? Jack Abbot lives by that quote..
💞Characters💞: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
💞Title💞: I Can Handle Her
💞A/N💞: you are way too sweet!! Thank you sm, and I really hope you like it. Love yall!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
“Oh! No! Put that down!” Y/N fusses as she rushes back into the kitchen, heels hanging from one hand while both hands work on trying to put in an earring. Jack looks up from his feast. It was one cookie! He couldn’t help it if he loved his girl’s baking!
“One more bite!” He defends as he runs from her to the other side of the kitchen counter, mouth full of already half the snickerdoodle.
“Jack! That’s not for right now!” Y/N says as she chases him. She should’ve known his offer of using his oven last night so she could ‘sleepover’ was just an excuse for this..
“It’s so good..” He grumbles happily, mouth still full as he finishes the cookie before finally catching his girl by the waist with a soft chuckle.
“Jack..” Y/N complains as she brushes at his fresh navy blue polo. “You got crumbs..-“ He cuts her off as he gently tilts her chin.
“It’s just crumbs. I still look good, and you…” He backs away to spin her a bit. “You look perfect..” He says.
“Flattery will not distract me..” Y/N states firmly. He chuckles softly and pulls her back in.
“I can try..” He plays along before kissing her tenderly. She can’t help herself, giving in almost instantly as her arms wrap around his neck.
See, whereas Jack worked in the ED, dealing with life and death day in and day out, he always swore Y/N had the harder job. She worked in PEDs on the fourth floor. The two had met during a patient hand off. She’d been the one to go downstairs and get said patient, and something about her.. It woke Jack up after a twelve hour shift.
Maybe it was the bright, ‘Cinderella’ themed scrubs she was wearing. Maybe it was the fact that her tired face brightened the second she was in front of the child in order to make them feel less nervous. Maybe it was her smile. But.. Jack left the hospital that day knowing he was gonna remember her name.
Nurse Y/N..
And six months in, her name had changed. From Nurse Y/N to just ‘Y/N’, then again to the first letter of her name, to now… ‘Boop’.
As in Betty Boop.
He said he called her that because whenever she fussed or panicked, she was very animated with it. Like how Betty Boop would be. She rolled her eyes the first time he explained it to her, saying that wasn’t true. But he took note of her little foot stomp when she said that. And.. Bashfully, so did she..
She’d always been told she was too much. But.. Jack was the calm she needed. Panicking and fussing around him was like… Freaking out in a padded room. It was safe and contained and no judgement would ever be put on her afterwards.
Six months in, and she was about to introduce him to her family. Everyone was getting together at her old childhood home for her grandmother’s 70th birthday, and she wanted to make everything perfect..
She had even picked out everything Jack was wearing. And as always, he let her fuss about, but still calmly stood by for when she needed that assurance that she was doing great and everything would be fine.
“Today is gonna go great, Boop.” He whispers against her lips. She sighs softly as she sheepishly fusses with his collar, mostly to have something to do..
“Look at me..” He says softly as a way to get her attention. She grumbles softly but gives in fairly quickly, looking up at him. He smiles softly.
“Let me worry about meeting your family today. Okay? That’s for me to carry. Only thing I want on your mind is.. How excited you are to be seeing all your relatives.” Jack says, voice as calm as ever. It makes Y/N take a deep breath, relishing in his soothing tone and warm hands that rub along her arms.
“Okay..” She says finally.
“Good.” Jack states as he backs away a bit. “Only worry you should have is me finishing that bowl before we get to the house.” He jokes a bit as he nods towards the Tupperware of cookies.
“Jack!” Y/N warns, but a smile tugs on her lips as she quickly grabs the bowl from the counter to get it away from him.
He chuckles softly, shaking his head as he goes to get his keys..
*
*
*
Jack is able to distract her with some music on the radio, blasting as they sing along to it. It gets her laughing and by the time they pull up, Y/N is excitedly rushing to the backyard, leaving her anxiety in the passenger seat like an infection that seeps into Jack instead.
He takes a deep breath. All he could really do now is turn on the charm.
And turn it on he did..
Y/N’s arms wrapped around his bicep was an anchor for him. A safety rope. The two moved around the entirety of the backyard, introducing him to every family member in sight.
Back in high school, Jack remembered being told by a teacher that he was so charming, he’d be able to talk his way out of a murder charge. He kept that in mind as he spoke to everyone he met, hoping he’d talk his way into being seen as a man that was more than worthy enough for Y/N…
At a certain point of the grill out, Jack watches from his place on the backyard patio as Y/N begins playing with the children at the party, setting up a game of hide and seek. Jack had really hit it off with her uncles and cousins, so here is where he stood, by the grill, cracking jokes and watching his girl be her average amazing self..
At a certain point, all the men were pulled away for something, and Jack had taken it upon himself to start cleaning up the grill area a bit. Mostly to make himself useful. As he gathers up the pans and tongs and spatula used, a man moves over to his side instantly.
“If anybody asks, I’ve been here the whole time helping you out..” The man smirks at Jack, making him pause for only a moment before nodding slowly.
“Sounds about right to me.” Jack finally agrees before holding out a hand while balancing the dirty dishes on his free arm. “Jack Abbot..” He says politely.
“Sam. Sam Y/L/N..” The man says, and Jack slows his thoughts in slight astonishment.
Oh.
Y/N’s father..
While giving the rundown of her family, she’d brushed past her dad a bit, saying he’d probably be too busy to attend. So, Jack wasn’t given anymore information on the man.
Crap..
“That look on your face. Let me guess, you’ve heard of me..” Sam jokes. Jack cracks a small smile, mostly to save face.
“Funny enough.. No. Not much..” He says assuringly as Sam laughs while shaking his head.
“No, it’s alright. I get it. Now, I’ll only be worried depending on who you got your information from..” He teases as he slips his hands into his pockets while gazing out into the backyard. Jack sets the stuff down now, deciding it’s best to make a first impression without dirty dishes clinking around in his grasp.
“If you got it from my sister Sandra, just know I did pay her and her husband back. She just loves saying I didn’t..” Sam snorts with an amused shake of his head.
Jack pauses before trying to open his mouth, being cut off again.
“My brother Thomas has no room to talk. I let him sleep on my couch while he was between jobs.” He continues as Jack keeps up a small smile even though he’s beginning to feel a bit… Put off by the man. He shakes off the feeling. He still had to make a great impression.
“And.. If you got any stories from my ex-wife…” He trails off. “Well. You know what they say, ‘you wanna put a man away for life, make the defendant his ex-wife’..” Sam jokes. Jack stiffens a cringe, instead laughing along with Sam, nodding as if agreeing with the dreadfully cliché ‘bitter ex-wife’ narrative.
Jack had met Y/N’s mom while helping to set up, and the woman was a beautiful spirit. It was clear to him that that’s where Y/N got her heart. Watching Sam, now.. It made Jack wonder what the hell Y/N got from him?
“Let me guess. You’re Maddie’s new man?” Sam asks, speaking about his baby sister now. Jack chuckles at that, feeling iffy on correcting him. No one at the party had brought it up, but Jack knew the age difference was very much apparent.
“Actually-“ Sam cuts him off.
“Don’t get all shy. I get it. Meeting the older brother. But.. It’s all good. I’m not gonna judge.” Sam shrugs. Jack straightens his shoulders a bit as he realizes who’s really standing in front of him.
Jack has met a man like him in the past. Many men, actually. A man who got by on the false image they shined out on to the world that couldn’t be further from who they actually were. A man who used shiny objects to distract from their sour mindset. A man who thought any failure they faced was due to the world and not from their own actions. In short, Sam Y/L/N was just a man.
A man who liked to hear himself talk.
Jack clears his throat a bit as he gazes back out into the backyard. “I should actually-“ Sam cuts him off again, this time stepping a bit closer as he puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“Don’t scurry away now. You seem like the most fun person here. I mean, you leave me, I have no one.” Sam snickers. Jack’s eyes narrow slightly. He says it as a joke, but.. Jack has a hunch there’s truth in that.
“Who else can I talk with, hm?” He continues anyways.
“Maybe your daughter..” Jack offers, giving Sam a pointed look.
“Oh. God..” Sam chuckles and Jack stiffens, turning to him.
He didn’t like the sound of that..
“What?” Jack asks slowly.
“I love that girl. I do. But.. Between you and me? She can be…” Sam shakes his head. Jack moves away from his grip slowly, crossing his arms as he corks his head a bit. A voice in his head was telling him to keep calm.
“Can be… What?” Jack asks, voice getting tight.
“The girl is too… Sensitive. That’s all her mother’s doing. She’s always been so.. I don’t know how to describe it. Needy? Clingy?” Sam shakes his head, not knowing how to put it into words.
“All I’m saying is..” He finally says instead, leaving the attempt where it’s at, not caring to continue his train of thought. “Lord help the man who she latches on to..” He jokes with a heavy sigh.
Jack clenches his jaw now. He needed to walk away..
“I should go.” He says again, this time meaning it for Sam’s safety.
He didn’t want to swing on this man. Not when he should be making a good first impression.
“Oh, come on! Don’t go yet..” Sam chuckles as he stops Jack again. “Look.. I love my daughter. But.. There’s times where she can be.. Too much, ya know? Too.. Too..” He snaps his fingers as he thinks, free arm wrapped around Jack’s shoulders.
“Dramatic!” He says as it finally pops into his head. “That’s the word! Dramatic..” He nods. “I used to tell her ‘what are you gonna do in the real world’, you know what I mean? If you’re stressed out in the fifth grade, I can’t imagine you when you’re actually paying bills..” Sam laughs as he shakes his head.
“I think she’s doing real good for herself..” Jack finally states, unable to hide the glare on his face. Sam doesn’t pick up on the mood shift between the two, watching as Y/N chases around the kids while he shakes his head.
“Still the same attention seeker though. And now she’s this uh.. Baby nurse, I think.” Sam continues on with a shrug. As if not impressed.
“Pediatric Nurse Practitioner..” Jack mutters, tone tense.
“What?” Sam asks looking at Jack now.
“Your daughter…” Jack begins slowly. “Isn’t a ‘baby nurse’.” He states as he watches Sam closely, his fists clenching a bit at the belittling name given to her career. “She’s a Pediatric Nurse Practitioner..” He corrects.
Sam blinks a bit, as if not knowing what to say for a moment. Then he smiles a bit. “Yeah. Same thing.” He tries with a shrug as Jack watches him closely, letting those three words sink in.
He’d gotten his answer now.
Y/N had gotten something from Sam.
She’d gotten her self-doubt.
Y/N hadn’t gotten her father’s eyes, or laugh, or even smile.
No.
She got his insecurities. His fears, his shortcomings. She carried around his words and they weighed her down everyday.
All she’d gotten from her father.. Was an anxiety of never being good enough. And out into the world, he sent her. To stumble and fall and claw at her own skin out of a desperate attempt to escape his perception of her.
But she never could.
Because if he looked away from her, he’d have to then face a mirror. And he wasn’t ready to do that.
But Jack wasn’t waiting..
“No. It’s not.” Jack says. Sam pauses, finally sensing the tension. He tries to chuckle in order to lighten the mood a bit, but Jack only stares at him.
“Okay..” Sam finally says. “Alright, noted..” He says. “Don’t have to get all serious about it..” He tries to joke as he nods at Jack to lighten up.
“Well, when someone makes light of my girl’s accompaniments, I tend to get serious.” Jack finally says. Sam’s smile slowly drops as he realizes who he’s been talking to.
“You’re..” Sam pauses as Jack moves closer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder now.
“Let’s get some things straight here for next time...” He begins, voice low as he leans a bit closer to Sam’s ear. “Y/N isn’t a ‘baby nurse’. She is an advanced practice registered nurse who specializes in the healthcare of children. In an emergency setting, at that.” He says slowly as he watches Sam. “She’s not clingy or needy, she’s human. Her emotions.. Are what make her an amazing nurse to those kids. She’s doing great things for herself, and she’s doing it all on her own. Which is a miracle, because that means that somehow, even with your shitty parenting, she’s managed to stay a beautiful, bright, and honest young woman with her heart on her sleeve.” Jack says, not holding back now. He backs away from Sam, rolling his shoulders a bit to get the rest of his aggression out.
“I’ll give you some time to get right before you go and say hi to your daughter.” Jack says softly, turning to walk away before pausing. “Oh!” He says, turning back to a now silent and brooding Sam. “And.. Just so you know.. I’m not swinging on you out of respect for Y/N. She’s been looking forward to this party all month. But the next time I hear anything leave your mouth about my girl.. You’ll be on the floor.” Jack says certainly, nodding his head slightly to show that’s a promise.
Sam clenches his jaw slightly, watching as Jack walks down the patio steps and into the backyard. “I’ll be seeker!” He announces as the kids cheer at that. Y/N smiles brightly, walking over to him.
“Having fun?” She asks eagerly.
“A blast.” He smirks at her before tenderly kissing her forehead.
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imagine being a young teacher at gotham prep and being the only member of staff that had a somewhat amicable relationship with the youngest wayne. you weren't the type to try and curry his favor like some teachers but you didn't outright butt heads with damian like most teachers did. on the first day of your class, he figured you just didn't have the spine or tenure to defy the blood son of bruce wayne.
and damian wasn't at all shy in proclaiming this to you.
imagine the utter disbelief he feels when you don't even blink when he curtly addressed you by your surname with no title. your smile doesn't waver, but you cock an eyebrow at the boy with your hands on your hips.
"alright, wayne, will you be taking a seat?" it wasn't unkind or mocking, but the snicker from the other students made damian decide you were disrespecting him.
imagine how much damian acts out, seemingly in your class more than any other teacher. but it's not even the normal way a child acts out, like talking during the lesson, being disruptive, or refusing to do course work.
no, it was like everything was a direct challenge to damian.
imagine the building tension in the classroom, day after day. although he was obviously intelligent, damian made it a point to defy, to criticize, or outirght argue with you. it wasn't even in the same way a rebeliious child who thought they knew everything. it was almost like a show of dominance, every scathing remark he had for your lessons, your intellect, your position, and everything in between.
imagine how frustrating it is for damian when you barely break a sweat, always answering with a quick witted reponse.
"ah, looks like you did your research, wayne, however that thereom was discredited years ago-"
"oh? has the lesson bored you, wayne? well, you don't have to participate. giving you a zero is much easier.
"wayne, if you think if i don't have anything of value to say, let's talk about what is important then?"
imagine damian always coming back to your classroom, even during lunch or after school. to him, damian is just refusing to let you win these arguements, returning to assert his superiorty.
but to you? it was an outcast gravitating towards the only one that treated him like a person.
imagine damian eating lunch in your classroom. not because he has no one else to eat with, of course, it was because the sniveling masses never had anything to say except incessant boot licking or posturing. and, even if he refused to admit it, damian found your prescence less irritating than most people. as the lunch hour passed, you'd grade papers or prepare for the next class while damian watched you.
"...i must admit," damian started haltingly one day before pressing forward, "although your lessons are juvenile and insipid...you at least have some a level of astuteness"
"my, damian wayne, was that a compliment?" you quipped back so quickly that he regrettes saying anything, his cheeks warming even though your back was to him.
but before he could retort in indignation, you look over your shouder at him and smiles fondly.
"guess i'll work hard to meet your expectations, huh?"
imagine bruce noticing how damian gradually started to change. his overt hostility began to subside, even if his curt nature didn't, but that all seemed to happen once he started school. though he was devoted to his work as robin, damian would linger at school for sometime after students should have been let out already. and when alfted drove him home, he wouldn't be scowling as much as he usually did.
imagine bruce being called to a parent teacher conference at the school. it was expected of him, of course, to see the acadmeic progression of his mysterious blood son who had no other school records and waa severely behind socially. and the teacher's all say more or less what he expected them to. they rave about how "independent" and "gifted" damian is, with even the teachers damian antagonized tactifully referring to him as a "willful student". none of them spoke about any friends he had or what he was enjotying at school.
imagine bruce's fake smile never faltering at the equally empty words. not until he meets you. your younger than him, maybe around dick's age at a glance, but the glint in your eyes screamed experience.
"ah, mister wayne, it's nice to meet you" you greeted him passively, like he was an afterthought.
"the pleasure's mine mrs..?"
"miss, actually" you corrected and bruce saved that detail for later. "shall we begin?"
imagine bruce wayne, the billionaire philanthropist that moon lit as a masked vigilante, sitting across from your desk in a plastic chair while you dutifully went over damian's grades, interests, strengths, and weaknesses. you barely spare him a glance as you scanned damian's records and spoke about his education at gotham prep.
bruce notices how you trail your fingertips along the paper as you consider his son, how your soft lips formed each word and your eyes traced each page
"he is an intelligent boy, that's evident by his the standardized testing he took at the start of the. enough to skip some grades if he wanted to because he seems to already know advanced mathematics, world history, natural science and..."
you trail off when you glance up at the man, who is staring fixatedly at you and seemingly not listening to a word you say.
you clear your throat and bruce blinks from his trance.
you're unimpressed.
imagine bruce slipping into his civilian persona instinctively and picking up where you left off smoothly, asking if there was anything else he should know. you pauses a moment and your eyes narrow slightly, before you say, very bluntly,
"he's a smart kid, but his social development is lacking"
bruce's smile dims a little, and he asks you to explain.
"students, kids, at this age should making friends. some might not be social butterflies, but damian hasn't made a single friend, started any extracurriculars, he doesn't even eat with the other students" you speak sharply, almost accusingly, with concern lacing each word.
imagine bruce being astonished at this young woman, the same age range as his oldest son, staring him down for damian's sake. he straightens in the chair to look down at you more authoritatively, but you don't even blink.
"...and then there is the matter of his bruises. i've had to break a few fights up between damian and other students, but some days he comes in bruised before school even starts."
you narrows your eyes in suspicison.
"is there be anything I should be made aware of mister wayne?"
he clears his throat and tries to assuage your worry.
"i assure you, ma'am, damian has just been having trouble adjusting from homeschool to traditional schooling."
bruce's eyes soften a bit, "...but thank you for the concern"
you sniff suspicously and look back down. the conference ends.
imagine damian entering the batcave to see bruce at the batcomputer, in costume with his cowl down. on the monitors are countless pictures of you.
imagine damian's hackles rising to attention. were you connected to a criminal case? a witness? possible target (his gut twists at that thought) or...
a suspect?
"father what are you doing?" damian all but demands.
"research" he answers back stoically, even as his eyes drink in you image.
imagine how dissatisfed his answer is to damian, who remains behind him as he digs into your past. according to records, you were a gotham prep alumnus, but not in the traditonal sense. you didn't belong to any wealthy gothamite family, instead you were a scholarship student who had been homeschooled up until ten years old in various foster homes. right now, you were still a new teacher, two years from getting tenure, but you were known as a dedicated and devoted teacher.
imagine that night, seeing the silhouette of gotham's caped crusader on a rooftop across from your apartment. you close the blinds of your window but still feel his gaze.
imagine bruce wayne finding every reason to come see you. damian got into a fight? he'd come with a sheepish apology. your running a fundraiser? he'd always make a generous donation. pta meeting? he'd rival the presdent with how often he attended.
imagine the whispers and rumors when bruce starts openly pursuing you. news tabloids have dozens of pictures of you two, even when you swore there was no one else when the billionaire blind sided you. some are innocent and idealistic, the billionaire falling head over heels for a school teacher. others paint you as an opportunistic upstart who decided teaching wasn't enough.
you don't dignify them with a response, letting the prickling whispers slide off you as you walk past the staff in the teacher's lounge. honestly, you expect teachers to be above petty gossip, but some people never grow out of it.
imagine a field trip for your class rearing it's head and, unfortunately, bruce wayne insisted he volunteer as a chaperone. and of course he's the only one who did, so now you were forced to corral a whole class with him. it was a simple trip to the gotham art museum, but damian seemed to be looking forward to it, in his aloof way, so you bit your tongue.
imagine bruce standing far too close as you watch the children explore the museum. you focus more on damian, who was interested in the art gallery more than the tactile children's exhibits. you don't trust the man, not in the slightest, but damian seemed to hold his father to a high esteem.
imagine immediately doubting that esteem when he all but dissapears when armed men run into the museum with guns.
imagine the fear that runs through your veins, which you refused to let the children see as they huddle behind your outstreched arms. your alone, shielding them with your body as the men shout out for everyone to get to the ground.
imagine softly sushing the whimpering and crying children as you kneeled with them while the men ransacked the museum. you take a quick head count and your heart drops as you come up one short.
you whip your head to just in time to see damian being roughly grabbed by one of the masked men.
"damian!" you cry out as he squirms and tries to break free, like an animal in a trap, and the man raises his pistol-
imagine how stupid it is, to dive for the boy, catching the butt of the pistol on your temple and crumpling to the ground. you both fall to the ground, you holding damian and him pinned underneath your weak body.
imagine the skylight breaking above just in time, and batman landing in front of you all, seeing your crumpled, bloodied form shielding the young boy in your arms.
Summary: Jack abbot x reader!friends, reader has contamination OCD and hesitates to have dinner at Jack’s. Eventually he comes over and picks up on your OCD.
It’s a story about friendship, with a hint towards them possibly loving each other.
Word count: 2.3k
TW: expect anything medical you’d see on the Pitt, mention of OCD spiralling or OCD traits
Notes: I would have loved to explore more of a love-dynamic between reader and Jack, but I didn’t know how reader’s OCD would cope if Jack were to kiss reader etc…and I truly didnt want to get it wrong. Or pretend that reader is okay with kissing him when saliva is FULL of bacteria.
Based on this brain dump. The brain dump originally mentions reader as female, but this particular fic has no pronouns or gender specified for reader.
@natchitchat @lacy1986
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
OCD is a compulsive disorder which means it’s a compulsion you have to act out on, otherwise this will cause severe mental distress.
Any illness is a spectrum and not everyone will have the same symptoms. In the case of OCD, not everyone will have the same obsessions. Everything I’ve written about OCD is from experience, what I’ve learnt in therapy, or other people’s experiences that they’ve told me about.
In my opinion, it’s one of the most common illnesses that is people often self-diagnose, and misdiagnosed. Please educate yourself on the difference between being a neat freak because you like to be that way, or being a neat freak because grandma died 20 years ago because of you. (If you have OCD you will know exactly what I mean.)
OCD isn’t about being tidy. It’s about making sure things are tidy, because if they aren’t, then your mind will convince you that your uncle will die. Its not about wearing white socks only. It’s not about wearing a specific colour at all, it’s about wearing the colour so you don’t get hit by a car later that day. It’s not about checking if all the plug sockets are turned off. It’s about your mind convincing you that if you don’t check them then count to 10, then you’re going to burn the apartment complex down and the neighbour in apartment 3 will die. It’s about making sure things are spaced out evenly, because if they’re not, then the house will burn down. ere are many other types of OCD, the fic will be focusing on contamination OCD. If you read this and think to yourself ‘why is reader doing this, it makes no sense’ then bravo, that’s what OCD is like. It makes no sense why your brain convinces you to do certain things, but you do it anyway, in a specific way, repeatedly until the OCD is satisfied.
Please don’t self diagnose based on anything said in this fic.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
Contamination OCD, for you was as the name suggests, getting contaminated with bacteria, virus, anything that your mind convinces you isn’t clean. But it’s wasn’t just about the contamination, it was about taking it a step further.
Washing your hands for 15 seconds each time. The recommended is 20 seconds, but your mind prefers 15. So you do 15.
Not eating out in most restaurants. The type of plate they serve food on has to be specific. Why? Because that’s what your OCD tells you and that’s what you do. But you’ve so far managed, and it doesn’t bother you, as long as you’re in control. It bothered other people however, and you reached a point where you started to feel embarrassed about your OCD.
To be loved is not to be forced to change. That’s what you reminded yourself.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
“Morning neighbour” Jack waves you down the hallway, all hot and sweaty and must have just come back from a run.
“Morning Jack” you wave back. “Good workout?”
“Heat doesn’t help with my leg sometimes. But I manage. How have you been?”
“I’m okay” you’ve recently come out of an OCD loop, so you’ve been physically exhausted. Also mentally. “I’m sorry I never got back to you about dinner.”
“Hey don’t stress. As I said, I can cook us a nice dinner one evening if you like.”
Your biggest issue was eating at other people’s homes, and you were running out of excuses to say to him. “How about uh… you come to mine? I can cook…”
“You a good cook?” He teases.
“I think so… you can be the judge of that.” You were worried about him coming into your home and judging it, because it was all sterile, and basic. Less equipment to clean meant less potential for bacteria. But he was going to start taking offence soon on why you can’t have dinner with him, so you knew you had to invite him over. “How about tonight? 7pm?
“I’d love that” he smiles, wiping the sweat beads off his forehead, “see you tonight.”
You shut the door behind you and look around at your apartment. For you, it was exactly what you preferred. But for other people, it may look empty. The surfaces were clear of all clutter, especially the kitchen.
You decide not to make any changes to it or move things around, because if Jack found it weird, then that’s on him. You cooked specific types of foods, with ingredients you bought on the day. Chicken was tricky, but you cooked it a specific type of way, and for a certain amount of time. Red meat was a bit less tricky. Fish was a no. Raw salmon was a definite avoid. People who don’t fear bacteria don’t realise that strawberries for example, are one of the dirtiest foods you can buy at the supermarket. But an avocado? Much cleaner. So your meals were planned around that.
It was just after 6.30pm, and you were prepping dinner when the door bell rings. Jack was waiting by the door, with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine.
“Hi! You’re… early.”
He looks at his watch, “Shit. I thought we agreed 6.30? Sorry.”
“That’s okay! Come in.” He hands you the flower bouquet, and you hesitantly take it and set it on the dining table, making an immediate mental reminder to throw it away. And also not to eat anywhere near it. “These are beautiful, thank you.”
“Do you need a hand with dinner?”
“Oh it’s okay!” You say quickly, “you can… uh watch.” You couldn’t risk him contaminating anything, because you have no idea what his level of cleanliness would be. And he may not be on an OCD-level of cleanliness.
You pour him a glass of wine, then wash your hands thoroughly before you get back to cooking. At first, Jack doesn’t notice anything different about the way you cook. He doesn’t notice how you handle the raw meat with gloves. Some people do that, right? But what got his attention the most was when you washed your hands multiple times when handling vegetable, then bread, then meat. How you couldn’t keep up with a conversation when you washed them, as if you were counting. Jack then counts: 15 seconds each wash. He doesn’t assume anything and carries on with the conversation.
“Do you like where you work Jack?”
“I… like it most days. It’s rewarding in a sense, but you can’t forget about the trauma most days.”
“How do you deal with blood?”
Jack may have a feeling what you mean. “We wear scrubs, and usually take them off before we leave the hospital so we don’t bring anything home. We also wear a lot of protective equipment.”
“Does it worry you?”
“The contamination?”
You nod, avoiding eye contact. You’re desperate to know more about what he thinks of contamination. Because so far he looks clean.
“I got used to it, but we’re also always sanitising. And with proper equipment… you don’t really catch that much bacteria.”
You smile softly and plate up both of your food.
“Can I use your bathroom? To wash my hands?” Jack sees how your reaction changes once he asks the question. When you start paying attention to how clean people are, you realise how many people don’t wash their hands before eating, prior to touching so many contaminated items.
“First door to the right.”
Once he’s out of the room, you move the flowers over to the area that is now ‘contaminated’ with raw chicken. You scrub your hands again, and set the table up. A minute later, he comes out.
“It’s nice to finally catch up” Jack says as he sits down to eat. “And thank you for cooking, this looks amazing.”
“Of course, anytime. Sorry about before I-“
“Hey as I said, no stress. If you prefer we eat here, then I’m happy with that.”
You murmur shyly, “thank you.”
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
Your dinners with Jack became a regular occasion. You found comfort in the lack of questioning about your habits, and how much he respected your routine without looking or sounding judgemental.
It didn’t take him long to figure out that you have contamination OCD, but he never brought it up with you. You washed your hands at least five times, he lost count after that. There was a lack of appliances on the kitchen counter, hand sanitizer scattered all over the apartment. He also saw the binned flowers that he got you — he wasn’t offended in the slightest, and made a mental note to not buy you them anymore so you don’t have to worry about pesticides. Instead, the next time he came over, he brought you something even more special. He walks into your apartment with a bag in his hand. “Hey neighbour, this is for you”
“You didn’t have to get me anything!” He opens the bag for you to reach in, and inside was three boxes of sterile gloves. “For me?”
“I… umm thought you could use them when cooking?” Jack mutters shyly. He doesn’t want to offend you, by indirectly saying he guessed your diagnosis. “We use them in surgery so they’re very very sterile”
“You.. know?”
“About your OCD? Yeah…I hope that’s okay”
“Sorry”
“What for!”
“Did I make you feel uncomfortable?”
“What! No! I thought this… might make it easier for you.”
“I don’t know what to say…” the gift was thoughtful and kind, and you desperately wanted to give him a hug as a thank you. “Did you come here from work?”
“No, I went home showered, got dressed then came here.”
You smile and hesitantly reach over for a hug. “Thank you, I love it.”
Jack embraces your hug, although doesn’t allow his arms to fully touch you. “You’re so welcome. So what’s for dinner?”
“Home made pizzas!”
“Seriously?”
You usually don’t buy pizza from restaurants, something your brain has convinced you that there was a lot of cross contamination. “Do you like pizza?”
“Sweetheart I love all foods. I’ll eat anything!” He makes you feel at ease, being so comfortable with your little habits. And you might have found the friend you’re been looking for this whole time. You don’t let him help with dinner, instead he stands in one corner of the kitchen and watches you work.
“How do you cope with it most days?”
“My OCD? Uh… I just take it day by day.”
“Did you ever do therapy for it?”
“Once but… I couldn’t do the exposure therapy. Too many panic attacks and meltdowns and I eventually got exhausted.”
“Would you do it again?”
Silence follows for a few minutes and Jack doesn’t question it.
“Jack I lost many friends because of my OCD” you say quietly, feeling somewhat embarrassed, “and with exposure therapy, you need a support system to help you get through it. I don’t have that.”
“You do now” Jack says softly, smiling at you once he sees you smile, “whenever you are ready, let me know. I’ll be there.”
“Thank you Jack.. now I’m gonna let you do something which… I don’t let anyone else do. But you’re gonna help me prep the pizza.”
Jack’s face lights up with excitement; this meant that you trust him enough and he couldn’t be happier. “You’re the boss, tell me what you’d like me to do.”
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
Your friendship developed beautifully, a mixture of regular hang outs, easy conversation, dinner and a lot of flirting. Jack started bringing you more little things from work, like hospital grade hand sanitiser, more gloves, disinfectant….
But all it took sometimes is for one inconvenience to send you back into your OCD loop, and this time it was catching a cold. Catching a virus or spreading it was one of your worst nightmares, so your OCD told you to scrub. Scrub scrub scrub. You scrubbed your hands over and over again, but your OCD told you it wasn’t good enough. So you scrubbed harder and harder until you cried and scrubbed.
Your anxiety was an at all high. You started to spiral and you felt like there was no saving you.
Jack texted asking you about dinner but you told him you weren’t feeling very well. The next thing you know, he’s knocking on your door.
“You can’t be here” you’re tired, weak, anxious and your hands were red and sore.
“I want to be here.” Jack says softly as he clicks the door shut behind him. “I’m gonna make you soup.”
“But-“
“But you’re gonna tell me exactly how you want me to make it. What to touch and what not to. Okay?”
You shake your head, “I can’t, no I-“
“What’s ticking in your mind? Tell me. How can I help?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do. I feel disgusting. I feel dirty and I keep scrubbing my hands over and over and over-“
“Hey that’s okay, that’s okay don’t panic.” He approaches you slowly, “I’m showered and these are fresh clothes. I have gloves and masks. I’ll start on soup.”
“I don’t know if I can eat it”
“That’s okay, let’s make it, and then we’ll see okay?”
As promised, he spends the day in your kitchen making you food exactly how you’d prepare it. He followed every exact instruction, and he didn’t protest it. You wondered if he’s doing it out of love? Or sympathy?
But Jack was doing it out of love. He was doing it out of love for his friend, who’s struggling and needs help. You manage to eat some of the soup, this time forcing yourself to. Because you needed food and your body was starving.
Jack noticed your hands, the scratch marks that trailed between your fingers all the way up to your elbow. “Is it always this bad?”
“No…” you look at your hands, “I haven’t spiralled this bad in a long time.”
“I’m gonna get you a cream for your hands, and then we’re gonna wrap them up.”
“I don’t know if I can do that…”
“You can because you won’t need to touch anything else. Okay?”
He grabs a cream from his medical bag, along with bandages and gently wraps it around your hand. His touch is slow, calculated and gentle. You found yourself crying at the way he took care of you, and you’re well aware that people often use physical touch to thank someone but you weren’t sure if you could do that yet. He helps you sit on the sofa, and he sits beside you with another bowl of soup, that he helps feed you. “Sleep and rest, this time tomorrow you’ll be better.”
“Thank you Jack, I don’t know how to repay you.”
“You being my friend is enough.”
“I like being your friend. You don’t judge me”
“There’s literally nothing for me to judge. You’re uniquely you, I’m me. I have my own quirks you know…” he teases softly.
“I can’t wait to know more about your quirks”
“But for now… rest and sleep. I’ll stay on the sofa if that’s okay?”
You shift over next to him, he gently wraps an arm around you and you willingly ignore any OCD thoughts as you drift off to sleep.
By the time the morning comes, you wake up feeling much worse, this time your chest is aching and the fever is burning you alive. You called Jack crying on the phone, “I don’t know if it’s my anxiety making me feel this way…. Or something’s wrong”
“Can you get a taxi over here? Do you think you can manage?”
“I uh… I don’t know”
“I’ll come pick you up”
“No, no, you’re busy I’ll uh manage”
“Can you keep me updated? Please? I’ll be waiting for you in triage okay?”
You use up the last bit of energy you have left in you and fight the OCD as you head over to the hospital.
Jack paces around the floor, constantly popping into triage to see if you arrived, but you’re late and not answering your phone.
He never once expects that you’d be brought in via ambulance. “Jack there’s someone in trauma 1 — saying it’s a friend of yours? There’s been an accident.”
Jack bolts over to the room and finds you on the bed, covered in cuts and blood. You’re not crying, but hyperventilating in panic, trying to reach over to scratch your arms but the nurses were pinning them down, trying to work on you.
“I’m here, hey I’m here”
“Jack I did as you said” you whimper, your lips shaking and jaw tight from the anxiety, “but the car it came out of nowhere and the driver wasn’t waking up and-“
“You’re here, with me and we’re gonna make it all better.” He looks at your hands and sees them shaking. “Tell me what you’re feeling”
“There’s something on my hands-“ there was blood on your hand and it was making your skin crawl. “Please make it stop it’s making me spiral please please please”
“Everyone stop what they’re doing please”
Confused faces look at him, about to protest.
“Let go now!” He says, voice stern and authoritative.
“But-“
“Everyone gown up, mask up and change your gloves please. I’m gonna clean up the blood from the hands and we’re gonna start again. No questions asked.”
You’ve been searching for what love meant to you, all these years.
the small silver bell chimed over the coffee shop door making her look looked up automatically with that ready smile, pushing her hair behind her shoulders.
“hi, welcome i— in.” she stumbled, the words caught in her throat as she started at a man walking in the doorway.
his hair was disheveled and he looked like he'd walked straight out of the longest hospital shift that she’d never want to work.
hospital junkie, she thought.
he effortlessly wore a pair of navy scrubs with a faded pittsburgh baseball cap pulled low over his brow line making her cheeks warm as she noticed his broad biceps peaking out from under his sleeve.
her eyes glanced towards his salt-and-pepper stubble and she waved as she noticed his hospital id clipped to his waistband.
she bit back a smile, noticing he had the most confused expression she'd ever seen directed at a coffee menu.
"is this your first time here?” she chirped.
he looked over at her— hazel eyes meeting hers. “is it that obvious?" he gave her a crooked sideways smile that caused her heart to flutter.
"a little." she chuckled but the second she said it, her face fell. "oh— sorry." she winced. "i’m sorry! that sounded mean."
"it did." he said flatly.
"oh my god—” she panicked walking her hands, motioning that she didn’t mean it that way.
"i’m kidding, kid.” his mouth tugged into the faintest smile making her gasp out as relief washed over her so visibly that he almost laughed.
"i was told to come here," he said as he stepped up to the register. "apparently the coffee across the street doesn’t hit the spot like this place does."
she giggled. "yeah, i’ve heard that before."
"you have?" he rose a brow, tilting his head causing her to to the same.
"mostly from doctors like you." she shrugged.
"how do you know i’m a doctor?"
"i mean..." she pointed sheepishly. "the badge gave it away."
he looked at it, "right."
great job. you moron, he thought.
she looked at him as he looked at the menu and ten back at her.
“i’m going to be honest." drawled.
"okay."
"i have no idea what any of this means." he pointed at all of the specialty items causing her to smile widely.
"t— the menu?"
he nodded once, "feels like i'm taking another board exam." he joked making her laugh— a bright sound that a couple people turned to look as she covered her mouth.
"oops, sorry."
"for laughing?" he tilted his head.
"i laugh really loud." she blushed shaking her head.
"i don't think you do."
"you don't?"
"no." he said as he found himself studying her for a second. she had this habit of apologizing for things that didn't need apologizing for.
"so," she said, trying to recover, "what do you usually drink?"
"eh” he shrugged, “a black coffee."
"no flavor?" she wondered.
"nope."
she nodded, "okay, any sugar?"
"no."
"creamer?"
"nah." he shook his head making her tilt her head, her hair fanning over her face.
"so, just a coffee then."
"yes, please."
"hm,” she pretended to think very hard, “i think i have just the thing." she chirped making him smile.
"i was hoping you'd say that."
she turned to make the drink while he looked around the shop. it was cozy, quiet and nothing like the emergency department he'd left twenty minutes ago.
"you know,” she hummed, her voice carrying over the sound of steaming milk, "you look less confused now."
"it’s because i’m not looking at the menu anymore."
"that helps." she mused.
"it does."
she finished pouring the coffee before grabbing a lid as she reached for a marker, she hesitated. she did it all of the time, the little smiley faces on the cups.. but he looked almost too serious for that. she bit her bottom lip, tapping the marker against the cup— then, before she could overthink it she drew a tny smiley face.
"there you go." she huffed out with a smile and slid the cup across the counter.
jack reached for it, looking down at the cup then back up at her. "you drew a smiley face."
eery ounce of confidence left her body, “oh.. i—” she laughed, “i do that sometimes.. b-it if people don’t like it i can—”
this is so embarrassing, she thought.
“you do it for everybody?"
she nodded quickly, “yeah, most of the time."
"why?"
she shrugged, "i don't know."
she gave him a bashful smile as she averted her eyes from him while giving him a tiny smile. “i think coffee should make people smile before they even drink it."
he looked at the cup again and then at her. "damn that's a good answer."
his words made her shiver causing her hands to rub her hands together ti distract herself on how nervous he was making her. her heart was beating so fast she almost thought he could actually hear it.
“i’m glad." she said quietly as he took a sip. jack paused, rolling his eyes making her stomach drop in anticipation.
"this is really good."
she stated at him while he started back. neither of them looking away from one another. neither of them moved. she opened her mouth to say ‘thank you’ but someone behind him politely cleared their throat.
he stepped aside, "right." he shook his head motioning for the person to walk up to the counter but her coworker came form the kitchen waved down the customer towards them, noticing how her cheeks were bright pink and the order man stood staring at her with a molten hot stare.
she laughed softly, "busy morning." she said, nervously twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.
"guess so." he hummed. he picked up his coffee again before heading toward the door but just before he pushed it open, he glanced back. "you know..” she looked up, "i never got your name."
for a second, she completely forgot how to speak as she opened and closed her mouth a few times before finally spitting it out to him. he repeated it quietly, like he was making sure he'd remember.
"jack." he pointed to himself making her laugh.
"i know."
"you do?" he asked in slight confusion.
he pointed toward the hospital badge still clipped to his waistband causing him to look down.
"i really should stop forgetting that's there." he blushed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck out and ofnervous habit.
"it keeps giving you away." she joked.
he laughed.
"i guess i’ll be seeing more of you” he smiled causing her to nod slowly.
"i hope so." she tilted her head as she watched him walk backwards towards the front door.
hack nodded once, biting his bottom lip like he was in his mid twenties all over again before disappearing out the door.
the little bell chimed behind him and stood there for another few seconds, staring at the door.
"you forgot to charge him for the extra espresso shot." her coworker's voice snapped her back to reality.
"w— what?"
"you gave him a double shot." her coworker laughed as she fished off the counter filled with croissant crumbs.
"i did?"
"mhm."
"oops." she shook her head before looking at the computer to see how she put in his order.
her coworker smirked. “you were flirting it up with that silver fox.” she laughed excitedly.
"hey! i was not." she protested.
"you absolutely were."
she looked down at the register, "do you think he'll actually come back here?"
her coworker grinned, "well considering how he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, i’ll bet you twenty bucks he’ll be here tomorrow.”
that last clip and she’s checking you out. imagining your figure under your scrubs oh my
“so he didn’t even pay?”
“she.”
“ohhh.”
oh.
“yeah, it just wasn’t a very good date, but it could’ve been first date nerves. we might click if we go out again…”
blah blah blah i need to see her gorgeous body. her curves. her tummy. i need to put my hands on her ass and grip her tits. god, i need to fucking worship this woman. i—
“cassie? should i go on another date?”
“hm? oh, uh…”
“i think she should’ve paid for you or at the very least talked about splitting the bill. i mean that’s what i would do.”
“my opinion? don’t waste your time.”
“but what if i’m single for the rest of my life? maybe i should just give up. i’ve been single for a while, maybe i’m a lost cause.”
“what? don’t say that, sweetheart.”
“it’s true! i’m going to have to make peace with the fact that i could be alone. i mean… this may be tmi, but cassie, i haven’t even gotten laid in two years.”
“do you want to change that?”
“i uh…”
“oh, god i’m kidding!”
“ohhhh! ha!”
“unless you’re not.”
“you would want to go out with me? me?”
“why wouldn’t i?”
“and you’re saying you… you want to sleep with me?”
“that’s one way of putting it.”
“oh, o-okay, yeah.”
“yeah?”
“oh my god, stop laughing, cass!”
“sorry! so… do you want to go out after our shift’s over, pretty girl?”
summary: working at the hospital morgue didn't exactly endear you to the emergency room staff, especially when you're always cracking jokes. you think Jack might be warming up to you, but are quickly proven wrong when he berates you in front of the department after an ill-timed joke.
tags/warnings: sfw just a steamy kiss, big time angst, morgue technician!reader, socially awkward reader, discussions of death and grief (seriously, a lot of talk about death and grieving), mean Jack :(, age gap (not specified, but i wrote her as being between 28-30), mean girl nurses, medical inaccuracies probably
wc: 8.9k
a/n: baby's first request!!! feeling very nervy about this one as its my first time writing angst so please be kind <3 it turned into much more of a meditation on death than i expected but i hope you enjoy the jack angst!! also please go read @nightpitt's take on this request!!! it was incredible <3 (and in the future please don't send me requests that you've sent to multiple other authors, it makes me uncomfy)
credits: gif credits to @vanillarot <3
Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.
That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience.
You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it?
Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming?
83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her.
You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created.
You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.
You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest.
You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list.
A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts.
“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?”
You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department.
Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room.
You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.
And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life.
It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong.
You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.
But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station.
“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.”
You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine.
“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.
“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that.
The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out.
His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.
You couldn’t get out of there sooner.
It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible.
You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare.
You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears.
But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.
You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all.
You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird.
“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station.
“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime.
There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.
“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head.
“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.”
He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused.
“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through.
Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night.
You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out.
He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket.
“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse.
“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact.
There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over.
“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving.
He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.”
Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.
You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.
“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction.
You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator.
The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs.
“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman.
You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head.
You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements.
By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.
The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill.
You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way.
And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance.
It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body.
You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central.
“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips.
And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again.
He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”
“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him.
He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”
You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack.
“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.”
“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.”
Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried.
You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you.
“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale.
He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in.
“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you.
You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there.
Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had.
It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician.
Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak.
You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.
“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in.
“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded.
“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?”
Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face.
“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”
Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times.
It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath.
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could.
It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him.
He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.
He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling.
He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.
And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up.
“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.
“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.
The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that.
You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue.
You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor.
Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you.
You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break.
That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?”
Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory.
And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now.
His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now.
You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions.
He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office.
Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.
It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock.
“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy.
The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?
It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you.
He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.”
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing.
You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.”
He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.”
Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.
He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.”
You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk.
He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.”
Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it.
“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips.
He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.”
You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.
“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?”
You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.”
He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology.
Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway.
It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam, caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth.
You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time.
It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up.
You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through.
Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later?
Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it.
You: sounds great, see you later :)
You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.
It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office.
“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.”
You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him.
It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend.
But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop.
“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?”
“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.”
“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”
“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.
“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.”
You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.
“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly.
He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?”
“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”
Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.”
You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you.
“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”
You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.”
Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.
“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”
You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones.
You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul.
But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him.
You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door.
“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow.
Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing.
He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk.
You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly.
“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away.
You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.
He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–
CLANG!
The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.
You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise.
A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it.
“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face.
“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.
He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.
“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back.
You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.”
He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out.
“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.
You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.
You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak.
You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously.
You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face.
You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought.
“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously.
“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.
“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.”
“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.”
“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.”
You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force.
Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind.
You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always.
But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel.
And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure.
You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork.
“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate.
“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break.
He looked skeptical, but didn’t push.
“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient.
You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you?
Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will.
He just doesn’t know how to let her down.
He probably feels guilty.
Her fawning over him is not cute.
You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say.
He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.
“Sure,” you muttered under your breath.
“What was that?”
You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.”
Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you.
He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?”
You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish.
“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now.
“Like what?”
“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back?
He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing.
“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.”
You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?”
He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words.
“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?
“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color.
“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.”
You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to.
“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again.
“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked.
“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.”
“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,”
“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively.
He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday.
“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek.
You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in.
His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.
He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss.
He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was.
You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate.
When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach.
He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?”
“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him.
He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw.
You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you.
“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?”
“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss.
“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.”
A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job
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Summary: At an awards ceremony, Jack makes a speech when he wins thanking everyone, especially his late wife. he just forgot one person: you, his fiancée. And it's only once you're gone that he understands how much you meant to him. Only it might be too late. (6.6k)
Pairing: Jack Abbot x fiancée!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW; Smut—very descriptive with p-in-v, vaginal fingering, praise kink if you squint (this scene got away from me. I sincerely apologize); Angst; break-up and get back together; insecurities of the reader; comparing herself to Jack's late wife; psychiatrist reader; Parker Ellis is the reader's best friend; Jack calls the reader sweet girl and good girl in a scene; usage of y/n (sorry, not sorry).
Credit: GIF by @iluvseb and idea by @lunarayletters
You can tell that Jack is nervous even though he’d never admit it, you can tell by the way he’s smoothing his hands incessantly against the fabric of his pants, expression darker than normal and attention set on the stage, on a fixed point never wavering. Jack never likes to admit that he’s a normal human, that he feels nervousness like everyone else because for so long he wasn’t. He couldn’t.
He’s told you this, how showing nerves could sometimes be the difference between life and death. A steady grip on a rifle was needed when someone’s life was in the balance. But you’ve also reminded him that nerves about things like this, awards, are different. They are by their nature, self-directed things, no one else is relying on you for anything.
It doesn’t mean he listens.
“Jack,” you whisper, reaching over and lifting one of his hands, stopping his ceaseless rhythm of rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, Adam’s apple bobbing, bobbing, bobbing. “It’s going to be fine.”
“Hm…what?” he asks you, tearing his eyes from the stage, the movement looking pained as if the stage is the only thing that really exists, the only thing holding him together, right hand still rubbing, left held in yours, palm sweaty, clammy, cold.
“It’s going to be okay,” you tell him, the words said slow and calm and enunciated clearly. You do not want the ringing in his ears, the one that gets worse when he’s nervous, when his blood pressure is high, to drown out what you’re telling. To drown out your assurances.
“I know,” he says, the words fast and bitten out, his eyes shifting, roving over your face, taking in every detail as if he’ll forget, as if he needs it all to bring himself back for a moment. “I know,” he says again, slower this time, less believing.
“No, you don’t,” you say and his eyes flick up from where they’ve settled on your lips, the eyes like sun through fall bare branches fixing on yours. “But it’s okay because I do. You are going to win this award and go up there and give your speech and everything will be. Okay.”
“You just can’t stop being a psychiatrist, can you?” he asks with a broken kind of laugh, a cracking, breathy chuckle, deep and dark and bitter.
“Do you want me to give your speech a read through before they call the winner? You haven’t let me see it so…” you pause, but he shakes his head, simply squeezing your hand with his left, his right stilling its ceaseless motion.
“I’ll be okay,” he whispers, lips curving into his crooked grin as the announcer steps up to the podium, feedback crackling from the microphone, the kind of staticky sound echoing, squealing around you, fading slowly, slowly, slowly.
“You’ll be better than okay,” you tell him as the announcer’s voice cuts through the last of the feedback, calling up the award for PTMC Doctor of the Year.
“…Jack Abbot, everyone! Can we please put our hands together for Dr. Abbot, our new Doctor of the Year!” Jack is frozen, every muscle rigid, the paper on which he wrote his acceptance speech by hand crumpling in his fist. You teased him about the old-fashioned writing of his, the speech he wrote in between traumas and consults and cases, but really you loved that he wrote it by hand, on paper, the way you love to do everything.
“Jack, honey,” you whisper, your free hand coming to rest between his shoulder blades, shaking him awake from his frozen, dazed stupor. “You won. Go up there.” And he does, albeit shakily, his body seeming to move on muscle memory alone, programming from the time he was a toddler, learning to walk, learning control over the intricate network of his skelature.
He looks dashing, silver curls glinting in the gleam of the overhead lights as he steps onto the stage, his movements wooden, but the grin on his face anything but. He shakes hands with the announcer, accepting the engraved glass plaque and stepping up to the podium, setting the award on it along with his speech, his hand smoothing away the creases from his previous clenching of it.
“Good evening, everyone,” he says, voice low and sultry even without trying, his voice quiet but amplified without feedback, just perfect. Like him. “I would like to start off by saying thank you for the award. It means so much to me to know that I have helped people and that I have helped enough, well enough, to be…well, doctor of the year.
“But I would not be doctor of the year without the rest of the dedicated staff at PTMC. Even if you don’t work in the ED, I rely on you for consults and beds and patient help so I would not be the doctor that I am without all of you. Most importantly, I want to acknowledge the most important person in my life,” you know it’s not you, you know what’s coming, your hand fidgeting with your engagement ring, waiting for her name even as the people around look at you, smiling, mistaken.
“My late wife, Regina. She was everything to me, my supporter and my partner and the one who held me when I couldn’t hold myself up. She gave me enough to keep going so that I could keep everyone else going. She was my opposite, preferring to stay at home and keep it and that’s what she did. She told me that I could save the world and she would save me so even though I’ve been missing her for years, I still want to thank her. Losing her was the worst pain I’ve ever felt, but…” you wait, thinking now. Now he’ll address you, but I was lucky enough to find love again. Not a replacement, that’s not what you are, but someone else.
“But I was not alone, my best friend, Robby, helped me through it. He kept me going and told me that the ED needed us, that we needed to keep it running. So, I stayed. Because he reminded me that it needed me. I also want to thank,” me, you think. Me, “Dana Evans, Parker Ellis, John Shen, Crus Henderson and Lena Handzo. My team. And again—”
You can feel the tears in your eyes, a burn and sting that echoes in your throat, so bitter a taste that it spreads through your mouth as your throat thickens and tightens, seizes with a sob you can’t let out. Even through your blurring vision, you can see that he’s not looking at you and so you rise from the table, feeling just a bit unsteady, feet burning in the heels you bought, torso feeling squeezed by the dress’s tight bodice. The dress you bought for him, for tonight.
It’s a familiar pain, one that you know. The feeling of inadequacy, the one you have every time you’ve been forgotten, like you are not enough. Never enough for anyone. That’s how it’s been your entire life, but you thought Jack was different. You thought he saw you, but apparently he didn’t.
You didn’t even warrant a single line in his thank you address, not even thank you to my fiancée. Not even thank you to Y/N. You didn’t even warrant a single fucking mention. And that hurts. It hurts because of the mention of Regina and Robby, the way he twined the two and left you out. It’s like the four years you’ve been his have never mattered at all. What were you? Just some warm body in his bed?
Some Barbie doll replacement for the wife he lost? Were you just something he thought he should have?
Did he ever see you at all?
You don’t want to know, you realize, as you leave the hall, flagging down a taxi, your hands gripping your clutch so tightly that your knuckles feel stiff, fake, wooden. False. Your nails are bending from the way they’re digging into the fabric and the clasp, but you don’t care. Pain is good.
Pain is a distraction from the image in your head as you climb into the taxi, whispering your address, the vehicle screeching away from the curb, tire tracks no doubt left behind on the damp asphalt road. Pain distracts you from the image of Jack, finishing his speech and walking back to the table, sitting down, unaware of your empty spot at all.
Almost like you were never there at all.
You’ve forgotten how many material things you seem to acquire over a life, things you can’t let go of even when they’re stupid, silly, materialistic. Like the mug Parker got you back when you were in med school, the one with a picture of a pipe and the Freud quote Sometimes a pipe is just a pipe. They always did like to tease you about your profession.
Or the wooden car you picked up at a flea market when you were abroad, the one carved and painted by hand to look like a Corvette, your favourite type of car. Or, even, the stuffed snake Parker got you when you held one for the first time even though it scared you.
Stupid things really, but all pieces of a life. But everything Jack is staying here, like the hoodie he brought you one day when you came in for a consult, the one he gave because he noticed you were cold the last time you were down. Or the Lego bouquet of flowers that the two of you spent a rainy afternoon assembling together.
Those are pieces of the life you’re leaving. You wish you could say that you were just overreacting to a one-time event of being forgotten, but you’re not. Because this wasn’t the only time.
You knew when you fell in love that he had already been in love and you do not begrudge him that or hate that or her. You hate that he has expected you to be her. When you get home late and he asks why you weren’t already home and you explain for the millionth time that you have work, patients, your residency and he makes some off-hand comment about Regina always being home.
You hate the comparison that’s always drawn between you and her, her and you, but it’s so automatic, that’s the worst part. You don’t even think he’s noticing it, as if he’s just hard-wired to compare everyone to her. And you keep coming up short.
“What are you doing?” you hear Jack say from behind you, his voice confused, but not broken. It’s like he’s just curious and doesn’t even wonder why you left the ceremony. He just wonders why you’re packing your bags, the suitcases your parents gave you when you graduated high school.
“I’m leaving,” you tell him, your voice thick and pained and broken. You can hear him stepping into the room, pulling open the closet door, the wood squeaking just a little along the metal tracks.
“Where? Did you get called away for something?” he asks, his voice seeming distracted, the sound of him undressing, shirt unbuttoning and being pulled from his body enough to make you turn around, the ever present tears burning away, evaporating as you look at him with anger.
“I’m leaving you,” you tell him and that’s enough to have him pause, muscles frozen mid-flex, the shirt half-off, half-on. You can tell by the slight shift in his head, the slight cant to the right that he sees your missing clothes, missing shoes and everything else.
“Why?” The question sounds broken now, his voice cracking into that huskier register he has, the one you know from when he wakes you at night with screams caught in his throat, mind on rains of bullets and cold, limp hands, beeping medical monitors and all his other demons.
“In your entire speech,” you say, your voice flat, broken no longer breaking, “you never once thanked me. Not that I need it, but you thanked Shen and Parker and Lena and Dana and Robby and Regina, but I never warranted a mention aside from everyone at PTMC.”
“You knew my wife was important to me,” he says, turning around, his face set like stone as you shake your head, the exhale sounding more like a whispered cry as you haul your first suitcase off the bed.
“That’s not the problem, Jack,” you tell him, pulling the second one, the last one, the others in your car already except for these two. “The problem is the fact that you spent time waxing poetic about Robby and the ED, but I, your fiancée didn’t get a single line. I didn’t get anything and that hurts.”
“Then let’s work through this,” he says, stepping towards you, shedding his shirt in one fluid motion and reaching for your hands in another, “instead of just leaving.”
“You didn’t mention a fiancée, Jack,” you whisper, wrenching your hands from his and pushing him away with both hands flat on his chest, “so you don’t have one.” The back of your throat is stinging with tears, thick and pained and your skin is drawn is too tight.
“No,” he says, his hands taking yours from where they’ve been resting on his chest, left ring finger bare except for a faint line from where the ring had been. “No, you’re not leaving.”
“Yeah, I am,” you say, but he shakes his head, jaw tense as he pulls on your hands, tugging you towards him, his head canting, lips pressing against yours in a kiss that burns, a kiss that tastes like fire and pain and ash. Like everything broken.
“I don’t want you to go,” he whispers against your lips, the vibrations of his words echoing through you, down your spine, shivers in its wake. His hands tighten on your wrists, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough that you can feel it, feel him.
“You don’t really want me to stay either,” you reply, pulling back and taking in the way his eyes are heavy-lidden and pupil-blown, lips swollen from the kiss, from the way it was each side taking, a sheen of saliva lingering on his bottom one.
“I do,” he whispers, stepping towards you, pushing you back until you fall back onto the bed, the springs bouncing underneath you as he stands over you, his hands still holding your wrists, “let me show you how much.”
He lifts your hands to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss against each one, that look in his eyes that you know well shining through, the one that says he wants you, the one that looks for all the world, like he’s hungry. Like he’s the predator and you’re the prey.
“What are you gonna do to change my mind?” you whisper, that feeling of burning inside of your skin taking over because even though you feel invisible, you cannot deny that sex with Jack Abbot is perfect. Kind and gentle and rough and explosive in equal measures.
“You know what,” he whispers, letting go of your hands and smiling that roguish smile he has at you, the one that promises fun and good times for a little while. Until reality decides it’s time to come back, but you don’t care now.
You want the good times, the fun. You can handle reality’s crash-landing after. Because you’d rather not feel right now.
He looks at you, right now, with desire and want and love, but the burning in your body is only lust and hate. Because a part of you does hate him for the you that you are becoming. He reaches for your hands, drawing you up from the bed again, hands drifting to the hem of your shirt as he presses his lips against you, hands sliding underneath the t-shirt and up your stomach, fingers trailing across, inching towards your breasts while his lips move against yours.
It’s an open-mouthed kiss, desirous and destructive and the way his tongue slides against yours, the feelings it elicits, should be illegal. His hands are cool against your fevered skin, your one hand on his back, fingers digging in, the other twining in your hair, the two of you moving, shifting your back slammed against the bedroom wall.
“I hate you,” you whisper as he pulls back from your lips, a kiss-drunk expression on his face as he trails his lips over your jaw, the hot press of his mouth causing the ache in your stomach to grow.
“No, you don’t,” he whispers against you, his hips grinding against yours, hands roaming over the expanse of your lace-clad dress. When you got home, climbing out of the taxi with tear-stained cheeks, you stripped out of the dress, pulling on boxers and an old t-shirt, perfect for leaving and crying on a warm summer’s night.
“I do,” you whisper, your breath hitching as he sucks on the sensitive skin of your neck, the spot just below your ear, your back arching, pressing you deeper against him, wetness pooling between your legs as his hips continue to move against you. “But I also love you.”
You’re rewarded for that admission by a pinch of both your nipples, the ones covered only by the thinnest expanse of lace.
“Good girl,” he whispers, pulling back from you, hands sliding back down the expanse of your stomach, fire burning in your skin with every trail of his fingers on your skin. “I don’t like it when you lie.” You hate the way your body reacts to his good girl, the way he says it in that raspy voice, his hands now at your t-shirt hem, pulling it up in slow drags along your body. “Arms up, baby girl.”
You hate how you listen, lifting your arms as he lifts the shirt up and over your head, along your arms, tossing it aside, his hands on your waist, hot and firm and possessive. His pupils expand even more when he takes in your body, in your breasts, a sight that every time seems to short circuit him.
That’s the worst part of this losing because he likes you, he just can’t love you. He sees your body not your soul and you can’t stay with someone who is only a spark and not a fire. A bonfire over a blaze. In truth, you want water over fire, something essential and lasting and life sustaining.
His mouth is hot on your chest, the touch bringing you back here and now, the way he trails his mouth across the lace, pressing kisses along it as your breath hitches, breathing changes and a throbbing begins to take place with vigor between your legs. His hands trail up from your waist to your bra, unhooking the strapless number, the material falling away in the space between one breath and the next, his mouth instead on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting at his touch.
“God, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your breasts, eyes flicking up to you, dark and pupil blown, “the things you do to me.” One hand is steady on your waist, but the other dips below the waistband of your boxers (his boxers, actually, ones he gave you, but they were too comfortable not to keep in the leaving) finding your folds, stroking them, taking in the feeling of your pussy, your arousal.
“Fuck,” you breathe as he dips one finger between them, the tip of it touching your entrance, pressing against it but never entering, rather teasing you with the pressure and the presence.
“Do you like that?” he whispers, thumb straying to your clit, circling it and pressing on it at the same time.
“I hate you,” you hiss at the same time that he pushes a singular finger into you, the stretching feeling not too much, but he curls his finger inside, dragging it along your walls before pulling back out and pushing back in, the sound of skin in slickness dulled by the layer of cloth still covering you.
“Really, sweet girl?” he asks you, his lips back on your neck. “Because it doesn’t feel like you do.” He plunges two fingers into you, his other hand rising from your waist, trailing along the side of your body, your ribcage, his fingers drumming a rhythm on your skin as he inches towards your breasts.
He flicks your nipple as he plunges a third finger inside of you, curling and drawing out, curling and drawing out, curling and drawing out, the coil in your stomach drawing tight, tight, tight as his thumb circles your clit in lazy gestures.
It’s when he puts four fingers inside of you, curling one and pulling out, followed by another and another, the last one dragging lazily down and out of you that you can feel your orgasm coming, can feel it when he slips his index finger back in, applying pressure to your clit, just enough to have you shattering around him, his smile growing as he waits out your aftershocks before withdrawing his fingers and popping them into his mouth, the mouth that was previously on your neck, the one that has left hickeys on your skin for sure, the mouth curving into a smirk as he releases his fingers with a pop.
“Don’t think you hate me, sweetheart,” he whispers, hands bracketing you on the wall as he leans forwards, aiming to give you a kiss, but you turn your head, removing your hands from where the nails have dug into his back, the back of his neck, planting them on his chest and pushing him back and away until he falls onto the bed.
“I do,” you whisper, kneeling before him, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs, your hands going to the waistband of his pants where a noticeable bulge sits. “I just like fucking you more.” You help him out of his pants and boxers, his lower half free, cock up, hard, a vein on the underside prominent as your hands find his prosthetic, releasing it and pulling it off, setting it aside.
“Sweet girl,” he whispers, watching as you stand, stepping out of the boxers, letting them fall to the floor, now as naked as him. You step over, lining yourself up with the head of his cock, teasing him as you move back and forth, his hands flying to your hips, gripping them tight. He makes a small noise, one from the back of his throat as you move back and forth, back and forth, teasing him. “Stop teasing me.”
“Why?” you ask him, your voice breathy as you stop, just hovering over him. “How badly do you want it?”
“Badly,” he growls, pushing down on your hips, pushing you down on his cock. You give a surprised cry as he pushes you down, down, down until you’re sitting on him and he seems to be everywhere, stimulating every inch. “You started this game,” he whispers, leaning forwards, his lips inches from your own, “now finish it, sweet girl. Ride me.”
And you do, pushing up, swirling around the tip before sinking back down. He lets out a noise, another one from deep in his gut, a dark, deep sound that echoes through the room as you build a steady rhythm, up, swirl, down, over and over.
“That’s it,” he praises. “Good girl.” You hate how much his words effect you but it is what it is and you like how he is as you ride him, the noises he makes, the praise he gives, the way he kisses your neck and your breasts and your lips. The way his eyes darken even more when he takes in the sight of you bouncing on him, using him like his good girl.
It’s not long before your release is close, your legs shaking from the pose, from the feelings. You know that Jack is close too, can tell by the way he groans, his head falling forwards into your chest. “Keep going,” he urges, his hands on your hips, helping you up and down, but then you’re orgasming, your walls clenching once hard around him, enough to pull his own from him too, his cock twitching inside of you as your walls flutter with the aftershocks of your release.
“I finished the game,” you whisper, your voice tired but teasing as he leans forwards, pressing a soft kiss against your lips, helping you up and off of him.
“That you did,” he replies, watching as you walk around, legs shaking as you fall beside him in the bed. Already you can feel reality crashing into you, but you’ll let Jack think he’s won. That you’re staying, but you can’t.
You wait until he falls asleep, his breathing heavy and even and then you climb from the bed, dressing quietly, taking the last two suitcases and slipping from the bedroom, from the house, out to your car.
You dump your suitcases into the trunk, climbing into the driver’s seat, your phone waiting for you, a text from Parker glowing on the screen.
Parker: Your room’s waiting, bestie
Parker: Come home.
“Jesus!” you whine at the bright white light shining through your curtains. Your suspiciously drawn-back curtains. “PARKER!”
“Get out of bed,” they say, arms crossed and lips pursed as they look at you. You know what they see. Someone who hasn’t gotten out of bed all weekend, who changed their number just to avoid seeing messages from their ex. Someone who is falling apart because they weren’t enough.
“I don’t wanna,” you whine, pulling your comforter over your head, but they’re there already, pulling it back off.
“We’re going to the farmer’s market,” they tell you. “And if I have to drag you kicking and screaming from this bed into a shower and into clothes, I will. Do not doubt me. I have dealt with worse.”
“Why can’t you let me mourn in peace?” you grumble, pushing yourself up to sitting as they sit down on the edge of the bed, holding out one hand to you which you take, their palm calloused against yours.
“Because you’re not mourning,” they say, “you’re self-deprecating, okay? You may not have been enough for that fucker Jack Abbot, but you are more than enough for me, okay? You’re my best friend and I don’t hang around with losers.”
“You hang out with Shen,” you point out, your eyebrows rising and they roll their eyes, standing up from the edge of the bed, pulling you along with them. Your feet land on the cold hardwood floor, the rough unsanded finish scraping against the soles of your feet.
“He’s not that bad,” they tell you and you shrug.
“Just saying.” They roll their eyes at you, their hands going to your shoulders as they peer at you, their gaze unrelenting, warm, steady and familiar.
“You. Are. My. Best friend. And, you know what? That is not nothing, that is everything, okay? You are more than enough for me so let me be enough for you right now, okay?”
“Okay.”
“There’s an ED consult,” Nurse Gia says, knocking on your office door, you look up from your computer, from the file open.
“You know I’m not taking those,” you tell her and she sighs, scuffing one sneaker on the carpeted floor. Only Psychiatry has carpet floor and you will never understand why. Blood flows out of everyone, this floor is no exception to that rule. “Pass it onto Caleb.”
“You know,” she says, thick black eyebrows arched as she takes a step backwards, out of your office, “you tell your patients to confront their demons, yet…have you?” She wiggles her brows and you shake your head at her.
“Go nurse the patients!” you tell her, but your voice is teasing and she laughs as she closes your door, the consult onto Caleb while you sit at your desk, feeling the familiar, ever-present thickness in the back of your throat.
You have felt hollow, relentlessly, endlessly hollow since you left Jack, since you left him when he was sleeping, the rings left on the dresser, right on top with the note, the one where you told him sorry. The one where you told him that you felt like you were never enough for him because you were not Regina. You were not a stay-at-home wife. You were a career woman, building her life, her name in psychiatry and you felt like that was not right for him. The one where you told him that you needed to feel seen, something you had never felt before.
The one where you told him that you wanted to feel enough for someone and you weren’t for him.
You feel hollow though, that loss of him even knowing that it was right, that now you can heal.
You just wish it didn’t have to hurt so bad.
You see a glimpse of Jack’s back in the parking lot and you duck down, breathing fast as you crouch behind your car, heart rate elevated, ears ringing from the increase in your blood pressure. Just the sight of him is enough to hurt you.
You wish it didn’t, but it does and as your breathing continues to stay fast, heart rate elevated, you realize that you’re crying, tears slipping down your cheeks, silent tears, silent cries.
“Oh, babes,” you hear Parker and you look up at them, noticing the hand they hold out to you, one which you take. “Go home.”
“I was—going to,” you hiccup and they draw you against them in a tight hug, tears falling on their black scrubs.
“You saw him, right?” they ask and you nod against them, their arms tightening in response. “Well, fuck him, okay? Not actually,” they say, drawing back, holding you at arm’s length, your tears having dried and stopped now. Breathing even.
“I’m good,” you tell them and they nod.
“You’re better than good,” they say and you can feel a smile growing on your face, cutting through your sadness as you say, “hell yeah, I’m badass.”
“Kicking ass and taking names, right?” they ask, holding out a pinky for you and you respond, linking your pinky with theirs, the two folding down.
“Right,” you tell them, “kicking ass and taking names.”
“You up for Backrooms?” you call out to Parker and they step out of their room, dressed in a Black Sabbath concert shirt the two of you found when thrifting and plaid pj pants—a matching outfit to yours.
“Does it look like it?” they ask, striking a dramatic pose, one hand waving down their body.
“Hell yeah!” you reply, holding a hand out which they slap, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the house, a stinging, burning feeling in your hand. “That was at least an eight of ten,” you say.
“I would go a solid nine on the high-five scale.”
What can you say about this year without Jack?
Well, it was long and hard and painful, but you’re here, you’re present. You hear his name and see his back and you don’t cry anymore.
And yesterday…yesterday you noticed the sunrise.
It’s hard, but it’s not worthless.
You hate award ceremonies, you truly do and you would not be here if you had not been nominated for the same award that ended with your heart in tatters one year ago today. But this time, you’re not wearing a dress, rather a dark emerald green suit, Parker as your guest in a matching suit, navy to your emerald green.
“And now,” the announcer says, as the applause for the last award dies down, “our second last award of this evening, PTMC Doctor of the Year. This year the award goes to a doctor who is strong and smart and willful. She is known for her recent publication on the systemic prejudice in the healthcare sector against those with schizophrenia. Please give a warm round of applause for Dr. Y/N L/N!”
You rise from your seat, a little light-headed as you smile, waving at people, walking up the stage to the sound of applause, your acceptance speech tucked into your suit jacket pocket. You shake hands with the announcer, their palm sweaty against yours; you accept the plaque and then you stand at the podium, pulling your speech from the inside pocket and laying it flat on the wooden surface of the lectern.
“Thank you, everyone. It means so much to be recognized tonight for my achievements in a room full of my peers who are just as accomplished, if not more, so thank you for this honor. I truly did not expect to win so my speech is a little bare bones, I apologize. I want to thank everyone at PTMC, doctors, nurses, social workers, all the staff. I want to thank my colleague, Dr. Caleb Jeffereson in particular for balancing a floor with me, which I do not believe is easy. And I want to thank my best friend, Dr. Parker Ellis, who refused to let me fly solo to this and insisted I needed to use that plus one ticket. Thank you, bestie, for never letting me fly solo. Um…yeah, thank you, everyone!” You wave again, taking your award and stepping off stage, feeling the burn of eyes upon you, eyes the colour of sunlit fall bare branches.
“Now,” the announcer says, their voice echoing behind you as you sink back into your seat at the table, double high-fiving Parker once you’ve set the award on the table, “the final award of the evening. The award of Most Integral PTMC staff member. This award goes to a very familiar face, known for winning Doctor of the Year just last year. Let’s give a round of applause for Dr. Jack Abbot everyone!”
You can feel the blood drain from your face, throat tightening at the sound of his name, but you are better, you are better. Seeing him will not hurt you like before. Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
You watch him with blurry vision, tears just lining your eyes, just a hint if you look down, enough to make his form blurry until he steps out onto the stage and you blink your eyes, blinking away the last of the pain, the last bit of tears, two slipping down your cheeks, framing from each eye. Your tears the frame for the portrait of your pain.
“Hello, everyone,” you hear him say and god, his voice is just like you remembered it. Deep and dark, but light in a way too, the sound singing in the marrow of your bones, that masochistic part of yourself that doesn’t mind being invisible.
Honestly though, they say psychiatrists become psychiatrists because they’re broken inside and trying to fix themselves and yeah that fits you. You so badly want to fix yourself and you had thought you had plastered up all your cracks, but the sound of his voice is enough to have them breaking all over again.
“Last speech I gave, I messed up. I forgot someone who meant everything to me and it was the last straw for her and she…well, she left. And I can’t blame her. I did at first when I woke up alone, but in her absence, I realized that I messed up because she felt like she was never enough for me because I forgot to tell her something.
“I forgot to tell her that she is ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough. I lost her because I forgot to tell her that, I forgot to tell her that I saw her, every inch of her, that I still do. That I still wait for her and always will because no one has fit me like her,” you lift your gaze from where you’ve had it trained on the tablecloth to meet his eyes, those sun dappled branches in brisk autumn light. It’s steady and warm and clear and you know. Oh, you know, he’s telling the truth.
“I forgot and I will regret it every day of my life but this award is only because of her. So, every thank you I have goes to her and only her. Always and forever. Thank you.” He steps back, confused applause sounding as he steps back, eyes never once leaving you.
And as you leave that night, walking with Parker, away from the man who left your heart in tatters but who is also repairing those same cracks, you feel more confused than ever.
“Jack Abbot!” you hiss, marching across the ED floor towards where he stands at the nurse’s station, his cocky grin set on his face as he watches you march towards him, heeled boots clicking on the tiled floor. You love psychiatry because you don’t have to wear scrubs, rather whatever you want, shoes always announcing your presence.
“What’s up, sweet girl?” he asks and you grab his arm when you reach him, electricity sparking across your skin at the contact. You pull him off to the side, into a small nook, jabbing a finger into his chest.
“I hate you,” you tell him, but your words lack the conviction, rather sound like a wish. His words of ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough having rung through your head all night.
“No,” he whispers, stepping closer, the cocky smirk fading away to a pensive, mournful expression as he reaches one hand beneath his scrubs, fingers hooking on a chain, “you don’t.” He pulls the chain from underneath his scrubs, revealing the ring you left behind, the simple, classic one with the diamond set in the solid gold band.
“You’ve been wearing that all year?” you ask him, your voice squeaking a little as he lets the ring hang there, his hands finding yours, fingers interlacing.
“Yeah,” he says, “because I’ve been waiting.”
“For me?” you clarify and he nods, a soft smile breaking across his face as he steps closer to you, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Always for you,” he whispers, “because you are ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough. Now, can we try again?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, looking into those eyes that you love, eyes that look at you like they see you. “I think so.”
“…I vow,” he says, “to always remind you that you are ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough every day. I vow to never make you feel unseen. I vow to listen when you speak because you’re everything. Because you understand me. I vow to you the rest of my life.” You can’t fight the tears that slip down your cheeks as you smile, laughing just slightly, a watery laugh that makes him smile at you, tear tracks on his own face from when he watched you walk down the aisle in your dress.
“Then,” Robby says, his voice thick and happy, “if there are no objections, I now pronounce you woman and husband.” You can’t help but laugh at Robby’s word choice, stolen from Enola Holmes 3, the movie you made him and Jack watch when it came out. “You may now kiss the husband.”
And you do, stepping forwards and placing your hands on his stubble covered cheeks, drawing him down into a kiss.
And this kiss doesn’t taste like fire or ash or burning. It tastes like love and light and second chances. The kind that work.
“God, I love you, sweet girl,” he whispers when you pull back and you smile at him, a happy one.
“Ditto, Jack.” And in this moment, with the way he’s looking at you, you know that he’s been speaking true.
I just read your Andrew with reader who is a student doctor and get this. Reader and Andrew are husband and wife and it's her first day at the Pitt so why is there a man who looks exactly like her husband ( and they are not related ) ..
Seeing double
tags: andrew "pope" cody x ms4!reader, implied age-gap relationship (late 20s reader/early 40s andrew), jack abbot is there and confused, even more confused reader, quiet and awkward andrew, stare-y reader, medical inaccuracies, the pitt chaos, robby robinavitch (always), season 1 the pitt, pittfest, reader's nickname is slugger (explained in fic), 18+ MDNI
notes: thank you @nocturnalrosey for requesting! I hope I did this piece just how you wanted it to go! I love getting to add pieces to my doppleganger collection so keep the requests coming! if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here! enjoy!
word count: 3.5k
To say you were nervous for your first day at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was an understatement. As you waited for your shift to start, you couldn’t stop rocking on your heels with your hands held behind your back, fingers twisting at your wedding ring, as you waited near the nurses’ station promptly at 6:55 am.
The ED bustled around the small, eager and probably equally nervous group that you were a part of. To your left, a brunette woman and a blond man held similar poses while a raven-haired, dark-skinned girl took the place next to your right, looking almost too young to be there. The urge to introduce yourself to the other three was swiftly put on hold when a rather tall, sad-looking man, probably your new attending, Dr. Robby, approached while talking to what you would call already-veteran doctors.
“Alright folks, listen up,” Robby announced before stopping. “As you can see, we have some new faces this morning. Starting with second-year resident Doctor Melissa King, fresh from the V.A.”
The happy-looking blond woman next to him smiled and slightly waved her hands. “Everybody calls me Mel. I’m super happy to be here.”
He nodded sat her before looking at your group. “And one new intern, three med students.”
You pursed your lips, waiting for him to start the introductions, but apparently it seemed like he had other ideas. He crossed his arms and continued to stare expectantly.
“This is where you introduce yourselves.”
Again, none of you spoke until the brunette to your left spoke up. “Trinity Santos. Intern.”
The raven-haired girl went next. “Victoria Javadi, M.S. Three.”
Then the blond. “Dennis Whitaker, M.S. Four.”
And that left you to finish out the group, finger still spinning your ring with nervousness. “Y/n Cody. Also M.S. Four.”
A redheaded woman with a fringe leaned over to a brunet male. “Would you look at that rock,” she whispered, but her voice carried enough that you were able to hear it.
You bashfully put your hands behind your back again. It wasn’t like you weren’t proud to be married, but the unwanted attention had you shrinking into yourself. Thankfully though, their eyes shifted away from you when a bleach blond older woman joined the group. Robby gestured toward her.
“For you new people, this is the most important person you’re going to meet today. Dana is our Charge Nurse; she is the ring linger of this circus. Do what she says, when she says it. Now, as you can see, the house is always packed.”
Your eyes drifted from the attending to look around. However, because of the motion, you weren’t able to get a good look at the person who spoke next.
“The ER is the gift that keeps on giving.”
Robby’s voice filled your ears again. “Most of our department is clogged up with boarders. Those are the admitted patients waiting for a room upstairs, sometimes for days. Beds are a precious commodity, so be quick and efficient with your workups. Half of your cases will be discharged from chairs. And while we treat the sicker patients back here, keep an eye on the waiting room to be sure no one’s about to die out there.” He turned to Dana. “Ready to rock and roll?”
Dana smiled. “To quote Wu-Tang, Bring the mother fuckin’ ruckus.”
Robby turned to the residents, and you finally turned your eyes back to him.
“Senior residents got sign outs?” he asked.
Two of them—the brunet man and a dark-skinned woman—nodded, their hands both holding tablets.
“Alright, let’s do this,” Robby said before turning away, already moving further into the department.
He quickly began to integrate your group into their daily routine. First stop was an exhausted-looking mother holding an even louder and exhausted-sounding baby. You kept quiet while they worked, wanting to more take in everything instead of jumping the gun and calling the wrong diagnoses. After Dana walked away to get some Nair for the baby’s hair tourniquet, Robby continued on, each of you following him like a lost duckling.
After the small moments of calm in the morning, the following hours ascended into madness. The first traumas had been a woman who’d been pushed down onto subway tracks and ended up with a degloved foot. The second adjacent trauma had been the man who’d tried to save her life.
During the procedure to reset the woman’s foot, you were unfortunate enough to be closest to Victoria, who had been looking sick since the wrapping came off. Not wanting her to hit the ground, you stepped into her freefall and stuck your arms under hers, keeping her semi-upright while she became dead weight.
Trinity looked over with a smirk. “Med students are playing dominos.”
“Just didn’t want her to hit her head,” you grunted, easing her down until she was flat on the ground. “That’d be too much paperwork that I absolutely do not want to deal with on the first day.”
An echo of “preach” followed your statement.
“You’re certainly a good catch, slugger,” Trinity quipped. “Ever think about playing for the Pirates? I’ve heard their outfield has been struggling this season.”
You shook your head and flashed her a sarcastic smile. “Sadly, I think my hand eye coordination is better for catching my peers instead of balls flying at 90 miles an hour. And I really don’t think my husband would been too keen on me switching careers this fast after one day.”
You knew she wanted to say something back, maybe ask a question or throw another snarky remark, but you were quickly called away to help another resident.
By noon, your brain was quickly getting overwhelmed with the sheer number of patients in the halls and the number still waiting to be seen. Thankfully, charting gave you a small moment to catch your breath, the tying quickly getting your mind off the panic that’d been building for a small while. While you sat there, you wished your phone would buzz even though you knew you wouldn’t.
Andrew was out for the day, and that normally meant you wouldn’t see him until you got home after shift. But that was fine; you really didn’t need any distractions on your first day, mind too focused on making a good enough impression that they might consider you for residency after you graduated.
The thought had you sighing, which somehow caught the attention of Dana just behind you.
“Why the loud sigh, hun?” she asked, coming into your line of sight. “Shift treating you that bad already?”
You winced, smile slightly slanted as you met her gray eyes. “It is bad I’m already ready for it to be over?”
She smiled sympathetically. “Welcome to emergency medicine. This is how it’ll probably be for the rest of your time here.”
“Should have gone into cosmetology then,” you joked. “Maybe the assholes there would be different than the assholes here.”
“Ha!” Dana barked, hand coming down gently on your shoulder. “I like you, kid.” She turned back towards her board. “So, what’s your story. Why you here?” Her accented twang sounded lovely in your ears, comforting you in a way.
“My husband, actually. We needed a fresh start; Pittsburg seemed like a good enough place to do so. We just moved from California.”
She cocked her head. “Beaches not enticing enough for you to stay?”
“I’m more of a mountains girl,” you responded. “Plus, I didn’t pick here. My first thought would have been Kentucky. But the gloom here was enough to satiate me.”
“Well, we’re glad to have you here. The Pitt can’t be a teaching hospital without people to teach.”
You folded your hands on the desk. “I’m excited to learn.”
Apparently, that had her handing you a tablet. “Then Room 4 is all yours, slugger.”
A groan rumbled your chest as you stood. “Did Santos already blab about that?”
“News travels fast everywhere, but it travels even faster in a hospital.” She tuned back towards her board. “Better get to your patients. Robby’s available for when you need him or find Samira; she’s probably looking for someone to help.”
You looked down at the tablet. “Thank you, Dana.”
“Don’t mention it, hun. It’s my job.”
Your eyes trailed the tablet as you left the hub in search for your new attending or one of the senior residents. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for you to find Samira, the tablet still clutched to your front.
“Dr. Mohan?” you asked as you walked up to her. “Dana handed me the chart for Room 4, and I was wondering if I could tag along with you for it?”
“Samira is just fine.” Her deep brown eyes gleamed, matching her shining smile. “But sure! Mrs. Thompson is one of our regulars,” she began while walking in the direction of the room. “Her husband died a couple of months ago, and she has a history of OCD and hypochondria.”
You hummed. “So for her, do you normally listen and bring her down?”
“We at least try to. Sometimes we’ll give her plain saline but say it’s a medication so she believes she’s getting treatment.”
“Isn’t that lying though?” you asked with pinched brows.
Samira, in return, gave you an understanding look. “That’s just sometimes the best thing for her when she gets stuck inside her head.” She gave one knock on the door before entering with a large gin. “Hi, Mrs. Thompson. I’m Dr. Mohon, and we have one of our med students here if you’re comfortable with that.”
Mrs. Thompson was exactly how you imagined her: graying hair, wide and scared eyes that roamed the room, and nervous hands that rested on her skirted lap. You stayed next to the door just in case she asked for you to step out.
“No, that’s fine,” she answered, looking right at you.
“Thank you, ma’am,” you answered before pulling the privacy curtain shut.
You stayed close to Samira as she sat down on the edge of the bed. While she talked to Mrs. Thompson, you let your eyes roam while staying alert to any questions. However, once your eyes landed on the small side table, you noticed how the instruments weren’t that straight. Another thing you noticed was how Mrs. Thompson kept glancing towards them as well, and the twitch of her finger had you guessing that she too wanted to straighten them. Without saying anything, you shuffled quietly over and rearranged them from shortest to largest, also making sure that they were evenly spaced out while staying as straight as possible. When they were to your liking, you stepped back behind Samira in time to see Mrs. Thomspon take a large inhale, her shoulders relaxing just a bit more as she went over why she was in today.
It wasn’t until you left the room that Samira put a hand on your shoulder.
“What was with the instruments?” she asked. “
You took another glance back at the room. “You said Mrs. Thompson has a history of OCD, and she kept looking over at them. Her fingers would twitch each time she did. I thought I’d just go ahead and put them in order, thinking she might be able to focus more on what you were saying instead of overthinking about them.”
Samira cocked her head. “Oh; I didn’t think about that. Great catch then.”
“What did Slugger catch this time?” Trinity asked as she walked right up to the two of you, hands deep in her pockets, a wide smirk on her face. “Did your patient fall over this time?”
“Our patient was showing non-verbal signs of an OCD tick,” you replied. “I just wanted to make her more comfortable.”
“How’d you even know to look for stuff like that? Did you take a specific course in school?” Trinity asked.
You shook your head. “Not really. Uh, my husband has OCD, and if you live with someone for long enough, you pick up on the little things.”
Samira handed the tablet back to you. “Like I said, good catch. That was actually the smoothest conversation I’ve had with Mrs. Thompson before.”
“Glad I could help,” you said. “Should I give this back to Dana since she’ll be discharged soon?”
“That’d be great. I’ll find you when I get my next patient.”
“Common, Slugger. Let’s see if there’s any other fun patients to grab,” Trinity said while taking your wrist. “Maybe the next one you can show of your catching skills again.”
“Ha, ha.”
_______________________
The one rule you should have paid more attention to was that if everything seemed to go well in the ER, it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. With only one hour left of your shift, Robby announced a Code Triage alter, and your stomach sunk so deep you feared it’d disappear into your feet.
“Okay, everybody listen up,” Robby yelled over the growing panic. “There is an active shooter at Pittfest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims. We don’t know yet how many we are getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. They either go home, they go upstairs, or they go to Family Medicine. Call you loved ones now if you need to. I can guarantee your cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there’s time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes.”
With that, you quickly turned away, hand already digging for your phone. Your heart clenched at the screen that indicated you still hadn’t received any notification from Andrew, but that didn’t stop you from pulling up his contact and pushing the call button. When his voicemail answered instead, you closed your eyes and sighed sadly.
“Hey, Andy. Um, listen, I’ll probably be home late tonight unless you want to come pick me up. There’s a shooter at that festival, and pretty much all hell’s about to break loose. If you try to call back, I probably won’t be able to answer. Just know I love you, and I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
You ended the call there, hoping and wishing the cell service would hold enough for it to go through. Your hands were already slightly shaking as you put your phone back into your pocket, also sliding off your rings so they wouldn’t get lost. However, the moment you looked up, you froze completely.
Because, for some odd reason, Andrew was currently talking to your attending like they’d known each other for years. You wanted to go up to him right then and there, but your feet kept you from doing so. Honestly, after a few moments, you were glad as it gave you enough time to figure out that, no, that man wasn’t Andrew at all. While they shared the same hazel eyes and muscular build, this man’s curls were salt-and-peppered where Andrew’s was still holding onto bits and parts of auburn. You also didn’t realize how long you were staring, brain desperately trying to separate Andrew and whoever this man was.
Across the way, Jack could feel a pair of eyes on him, and one quick look had him finding your wide and confused eyes.
“Brother, you hiring med students with staring problems now?” he asked with furrowed brows.
Robby turned around and also caught your surprised look. “Cody,” he called out, breaking you from staring at his friend. “Everything okay?”
You shook your head. “Sorry, Dr. Robby. I'm just trying to figure out if my husband has a twin he never knew about,” you nervously laughed, eyes finding the man's ID tag. “I didn't mean to stare for so long, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack waved a dismissive hand. "No trouble. You were just looking at me like you'd seen a ghost. And last I checked, I haven't died just yet."
That earned a small snort from your nose. "Thank goodness for that, yeah? However, I think if I see you and my husband in the same room, I might explode."
He smirked widely. "Well, we don't need that happening."
“Okay, party people, our first ambulance in on its way in, so let’s get moving,” Dana announced while walking right between the three of you. “Cody, go help Whitaker with the disaster bins.”
“On it.” You paused. “Again, sorry for staring, Dr. Abbot.” Without waiting for an answer, you turned away and began searching for your fellow M.S. 4, leaving the two attendings by themselves.
“So, do you think her husband really looks like me?” Jack questioned after a short moment while his eyes followed where you were walking away.
“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve seen, brother.”
_______________________
By now, you were sweating more than a sinner in the middle of a Southern Baptist choir special. Blood dripped off your arms, your front, and onto your shoes. Everywhere you stepped squished with the thick liquid, and you knew you’d still smell the iron scent hours after you’d gone home. Thankfully, though, the worst was over, and like Dana announced, the Pitt would be opening back up soon to take in regular patients.
Trinity shoulder nudged you slightly while you leaned on an empty gurney. “That was fucking exhausting.”
“I can’t wait to get in my bed,” you replied with a groan.
“With your husband that looks just like Dr. Abbot, right?” she teased.
“Fucking fast traveling news.” You pushed yourself up, back protesting at the sudden change. “Hey, I need to go change, and I don't know if he's coming to pick me up or not. In the event that he does, if you happen to see him, can you let him know I'll be back soon?”
Trinity smiled and nodded. “Oh, I definitely will!”
"Thank you, Santos," you replied, hand coming up to cover a yawn as you walked away in the direction of the locker rooms.
Trinity turned and ripped the smock off and pushed in down into the nearest bin. Around her, the ED gave a large sigh of relief, and everyone slowed down for the first time in hours. As she waited by the nurses’ station, she watched a few regular patients start to trickle in, but one in particular caught her attention.
The man was tall and rocked a head of auburn curls that were just starting to gray near his ears. His hazel eyes were narrowed as he looked out of place in his civilian clothes in a sea of scrubs and gowns. Trinity noted the amount of freckles that spanned across his face, and for one tiny moment, she saw a vision of Jack Abbot in his face. Not even a breath later, it clicked that the man was probably one who put that rock on your finger.
Her lips stretched into a smile, and she itched to walk up to him and ask if he was your husband. However, Samira, still in the adrenaline rush with a wide eyes, hastily walked up to him. Trinity didn't even think she knew that the man she was approaching was not the night shift attending she'd been stealing glances at between blood transfusions and saving lives.
"Dr. Abbot!" Trinity heard her all but yell right in the guy's face, voice a little too stretched. "I was hoping I'd catch you. I have a patient who's about to go up to the OR, but I need an attending's sign off on it first."
As she rattled off, Trinity watched the man looked at her with the most confused expression she’d ever seen someone have. His eyes had widened just a fraction, but that didn't stop him from looking around every so often like he was desperate to find someone who wasn't in the room. His mouth parted in an attempt to say something, but Samira, bless her heart, wasn't even looking at him. Her eyes stayed glued to the tablet in her hands.
“Oh, this is absolute gold,” Trinity muttered before turning to the charge nurse. “Hey, Dana. Look at this.”
Dana’s attention moved from her board over to where the man was standing awkwardly while Samira continued to talk at him. “Did Abbot dye his hair?”
“Not that I know of,” Jack responded, suddenly appearing at the nurses' station, brows pinched at Dana's question. “When would I have had time to dye my hair?”
The sound of his voice must have caught Samira, because in the next moment, she looked up at the man like a dear caught in headlights. Horrified, she turned her head and met Jack's confused gaze that had moved from her and to the man she had been talking to.
For once in his life, Jack didn’t know whether to start laughing or run away. Because staring right back at him was a man that looked like him in pictures from 10 years ago. His brain struggled to comprehend until he remembered what you had said earlier before the chaos of the casualty.
"Oh."
By now, the commotion had drawn eyes from everywhere, and everyone who looked over wondered if they were truly seeing double.
The man, who did look exactly like a younger Jack Abbot, walked quietly over to the station and stopped right in front of Jack, chest puffing slightly even if both of them were the same height. His hazel eyes scanned behind Jack's shoulder before he met hazel hues that mirrored his own.
“I’m looking for my wife,” Andrew finally gruffed, hands curling into fists by his side, and obviously not liking the number of eyes that were on him. “She works here.”
Trinity stepped into his line of sight. “You must be Mr. Cody; damn, I was not expecting this. Slugger wanted me to let you know that she's changing, but she should be out soon.”
His brows somehow furrowed deeper, and the corners of his mouth tugged downwards in a matching frown. “Slugger?”
“Your wife has an affinity for catching people. Baseball might be her actual calling.”
“Trinity, I told you that I have no want to switch careers, thank you very little," you announced after you walked out of the hallway. Your eyes gleamed when they landed on a very, uncomfortable-looking Andrew and equally confused coworkers. "Hi, baby."
Andrew looked over and down at you. “Hi.”
“You didn't have to come pick me up,” you said. "I didn't mind driving home."
“Wanted to,” he muttered while taking your hand into his. "Knew you'd be tired."
You warmly smiled up at him. "Well, I'm glad you're here then." Your face turned as you looked over at the small crowd that had gathered; their jaws wide open. "I guess I should explain. Everyone, this is my husband, Andrew. Andrew, these are my coworkers." You gestured towards Jack. "And I guess this is your secret twin."
Andrew stayed silent for a second too long. “Hi.” He offered nothing more than a fleeting moment of eye contact with each of them before turning to you with what people could only call puppy-dog eyes. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah. Let's go home.” But before Andrew could tug you away, you quickly waved at everyone. “See y’all in twelve hours!”
They all stayed silent as Andrew led you out of the ER with you babbling the entire way while he seemed to not say anything, just looking happy to be the center of your attention after a long day.
Finally, Jack broke the silence. “I should probably call my mom and see if I had a twin she gave up and never told me.”
Robby patted him on the shoulder. “You do that, brother.”
Summary: It's just never the right time for you and Jack Abbot, not since you left the first time. Until it is. Or four times you and Jack Abbot miss your chances and the one time you don't. (5.6k)
Pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!childhood friend!reader
TW: Sunshine x grumpy trope used literally; angst; fluff; Jack calls Reader "Sunshine"; Military and war inaccuracies; Jack was injured young; mentions of surviving a car accident; reader loses her husband; jack loses his wife to CF; mentions of grief; Jack is a sap for the reader; reader and jack do end up married.
Credit: Gif by @keeryscupid
i. Before
Jack Abbot was born the same day as you, the same time and hospital, same floor and wing, in the room just beside the one you were born in. It’s the story both of you grew up with, your mother’s deciding that it meant you were bonded for life, fated. Really, you thought, they just wanted grandkids to share. To spoil together as best friends do.
But you can’t deny that the story did one thing as they wanted—it made Jack Abbot your best friend.
Your first steps were taken at the same time, your first words were names for one another rather your mothers or your fathers—as corroborated by video evidence, recorded on a VHS tape stored in your mother’s basement. You were Sunny and he was Gumpy.
When you were able to speak a little more, a little clearer, he was Grumpy and you were Sunshine. Sunshine bear and Grumpy bear being the inspiration for the names. For the first years of your life, you truly thought his name was Grumpy and he truly thought yours was Sunshine.
It wasn’t until preschool, the two of you linked together, small hands linked, tiny fingers curled around tiny fingers that you learned you each had different names. And he became Jackie, your Jackie, but you stayed Sunshine. His Sunshine.
There is not an instance in your early life that you recall where Jack Abbot was not present. Holidays were spent together, vacations and extracurriculars, classes and hobbies done together. He was always there, present in a way that you can’t recall anyone else ever being.
No, when asked what you most remember of your childhood, your answer is always Jack Abbot, your childhood best friend of the hazel eyes like sun shining through tree branches and the auburn curls which were always just a tad too long.
Jack Abbot was your best friend, the one you trusted the most, the one you went to when you were hurt, excited or anything in-between.
It was a friendship forged from birth, quenched in playground tears and jeers. Your first day of kindergarten, you never cried, never clung to your mother’s leg, rather you held onto Jackie’s hand and dragged him after you into the school, into the room which was painted a bright pink and bright blue with posters all over and toys lining shelves.
Every day after was you and Jack. Always you and Jack.
“Jackie,” you had whispered one day in the first grade, the two of you just sitting on the swings at recess, “can you promise me something?”
“What, Sunshine?” he had replied, his attention fixed on the sky as his hands twined around the rusting metal chains of the swing.
“Promise me that we’ll stay together,” you said and he looked at you, his forest solemn and serious in only the way of a little kid.
“I promise,” he told you and he reached his hand across the divide for yours, your fingers interlocking, the two of you swinging softly, gently back and forth while the rest of the children at the school, shrieked and ran about laughing.
“Sunshine,” he had said once in the third grade, the two of you seated on the bleachers at lunch recess, sharing apple slices, “what do you think growing up means?”
“I don’t know,” you’d told him, your brows knitting together as you thought, a slice held in the air, halfway to your mouth, “but I’d like to think we’re together.”
That was the way it always was, you and Jack, Jack and you, always and forever, you always said. Always and forever, though, is the kind of vow a child makes, never knowing that life can change in an instant.
Or it can change in a long span of time, change creeping up over the years until one morning you wake up in a reality that seems so different, but was really coming all along.
Like it did in high school.
Because one day it seemed like you and Jack were friends, just friends and the next, things seemed…different. The next it seemed like every graze of his skin against yours made you feel alive, even when you were alive. The next it seemed like just over night, you had developed a colony of butterflies in your stomach that only came to life around him.
But you ignored it, ignored all the signs, preferring to have him as your friend, have him as you know him. Have him the way you always have. And it worked.
You went to school, went to class with him and did your sports and clubs and waited for each other like nothing had changed even when it felt like everything had.
It wasn’t until senior year that you realized you couldn’t ignore it anymore because the dreams and the butterflies and the sweaty palms and the ache in your chest watching him kiss and date and dance around with others girls was too strong. A force that said, it didn’t want to be ignored any longer.
You wanted to be the lips he kissed, the girl he dated, the body he danced with, twirling around with him on the dance floor. You wanted to be the one he wanted. And that want was slowly killing you.
“Prom,” you said one day, the two of seated on the swing set in your backyard, the one you spent hours on with him.
“What about it?” he replied and you looked at him, really looked, in the way you’d been denying yourself for years in effort to make that ache a little less, the butterflies less strong.
“Do you have a date?” you asked and he looked at you strangely, just a little differently like a recalibration was going on in his mind, the loading circle behind his eyes shining at you.
“No,” he said finally, words slow, kind of drawn-out as if he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. “Do you?”
“I’ve been asked,” you told him, twisting on the swing, twisting chains around as they creaked, the cracking, aging plastic scraping against your palms as you faced him, chains wound tight around you like a barrier between you. “But not by who I want to ask me.”
“Who do you want to ask you?” he said, brows knitting together, his one hand drifting up to smooth his unruly curls back, the ones he let grow just a bit too long, just enough to drive his mother nuts.
“Jack,” you whispered, raising your eyebrows at him. “Who do you think?” He looked at you, surprised, that pleased glimmer shining in his eyes.
“Me?” he asked, his own finger drifting to his chest, his voice rising in excitement. “You want me to ask you to prom?!”
“Yeah,” you answered, squealing as he jumped out of his swing, over to yours, swinging you right, your legs locking around his waist, his hands just on top of yours on the chain, his body shadowed by the setting sun, eyes on you. Locked on you, the colony of butterflies warring in your gut, rising to your lungs.
“Well, Sunshine,” he said, a teasing smirk on his face. “Do you want to go to prom with me?”
“Of course,” you told him, your lips curving up in a matching grin, “I thought you’d never ask, Jackrabbit.”
“Don’t call me that,” he whispered, the nickname the one he earned playing basketball, his jumps well-known. “Call me what you’ve always called me, Sunshine.”
“I thought you’d never ask, Grumpy Bear.” And, in truth, that which you remember most from your youth is that smile he gave you right then, the one that is light and bright and innocent. One that you dreamt of as you fell asleep, one that you held onto over the years. The long, long years.
But you thought nothing of years and the future then, only disappearing inside your house after pressing a kiss against Jack’s cheek, one that glimmered in the light when he turned to watch you go, a lip gloss print upon the smoothness of his left cheek.
You spent the weeks leading up to prom in a daze, going shopping with your friend Elizabeth, the two of you picking out gowns and laughing. You were excited to finally be the lips that Jack Abbot, your Grumpy Bear and Jackie, kissed.
You didn’t yet realize that sometimes our plans are derailed by the most mundane of things. Like an email sent, a promotion given and a fraying marriage. Last ditch efforts where you’re never truly a consideration at all.
You came home with a dark, forest green ballgown and emerald heels, excited and happy only to walk into your parents sitting on the couch, their hands joined as they looked at you and said; “we’re moving to Seattle.”
ii. The First Missing—A week before Senior Prom
“Jack!” you call out, your bag slung on one shoulder, a notebook clutched in the crook of your arm, a red pen hooked into the circular rings. “Jack!” He’s standing at his locker, attention on one of his basketball friends, but he turns, catching sight of you, his eyes lighting up as his lips curve into a soft and satisfied smile.
“Hey, Sunshine!” he calls out, lifting one hand to you in greeting, two fingers up, signalling two minutes, the final bell having rung minutes before you saw him. You wait, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes and a clamminess in your palms. You thought, you really thought that this was it. That this was your chance.
That maybe, finally, you could have a love story, a high school love story like the ones in all the romance books you’ve read. A friends to lovers story of your own.
But, you suppose, it’s just not your time.
“What’s up, my sunshine?” Jack says, crossing to you, his steps fast and long, the distance closed in no time at all, his locker locked and his friend gone.
“I have bad news, Jack,” you whisper, looking down as your vision begins to go blurry, the tears lining your eyes so fully now that it’s just minutes before they fall, your throat thick and your hand sweaty even as he takes yours, his fingers interlacing with yours as he guides you out the front door, out towards his car.
“Whatever it is, Sunny,” he whispers, “we’ll get through it together.”
“We can’t this time, Jack,” you say, looking up from the ground where you’ve been watching your high-top covered feet as they cut across the green of the lawn, of the dusty gravel on the parking lot. “This is something we can’t fix or get through…together.”
“What do you mean?” he asks and you look at him, really looking, drinking in every detail of his face, from the faint acne on his forehead and his cheekbones, to the now trimmed curls that he must have cut last night and his knitted brow over shadowed hazel eyes.
“Let’s get in your car and just drive for a bit, okay?” you say and he nods, his expression still worried and dark, darkening more as you separate from him, climbing into his car, the one he spent a whole year fixing up, the ’67 Firebird in bright blue.
He climbs in and puts the key in the ignition, turning it and backing out of the parking lot, switching gears to first and getting on the road, the one that leads to nowhere, out to open fields, the one you used to bike on as kids, your bike rides going nowhere. The adventure of little kids.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” you whisper, your window down, the wind rolling and ruffling the strands of your hair as your hand sticks out, fingers moving, tracing circles in the breeze.
“Leaving where?” he asks, voice soft and quiet, worried and contemplative at the same time.
“Seattle,” you answer, turning to look at him, rather than the open fields of canola and mustard. “My dad got a promotion. I’m not gonna make it to prom.”
“But you were all excited about your dress,” he says, taking his eyes off the road for a minute to look at you, the look in his eyes like yours just moments before, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.
“I’ll save it for a rainy day,” you whisper, face folding down into sadness, the tears falling in a soft and steady way, warm like a summer rainstorm.
“I thought…” he whispers, pulling over to the side of the road, putting his car in park and turning to you, eyes alight with intensity. “I thought this was our chance. Just like our mom’s said…we’re…fated.”
“I guess,” you whisper, swallowing hard around the growing lump in your throat, your hand reaching for his, lacing through his fingers, “it’s not our time yet.”
“So, we’re just gonna…gonna be left with what could have been,” he whispers, lifting your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles.
“A beautiful, brilliant…possibility,” you tell him, watching with despair as a single tear rolls down his cheek, slipping down his chin, falling onto the neck of his t-shirt, the one you got him with Grumpy Bear on it. The one he’s fearless enough to wear.
“For now,” he whispers, letting go of you and putting the car back into gear, doing a U-turn back to the town, heading somewhere from nowhere. “We’ll get our time, Sunshine,” he vows, looking back at you, a small, sad smile on his face. “I know it.”
And you want to know it too so you nod, playing along, but in your heart you wonder when?
When will it be the chance you’ve been waiting for? When will you get your love story with this boy, this boy who holds your heart, will always hold your heart?
When will he become a story rather than a dream?
When will the boy that could have been become the boy who was?
iii. The Second Missing—Early Deployment
San Diego has not been what you expected when you first showed up here, your room packed into boxes, hauled from Seattle to San Diego University. It was warm year round and it didn’t snow and the first time you stepped outside in December, you were surprised that you didn’t need a coat.
It’s picturesque and pretty and perfect and exactly what you need to outrun the ghosts of your broken home, your mother having divorced your father, moving back home just as you packed up for half-way across the country. It’s not like you didn’t know it was coming, but you don’t want to see their broken faces when you carry your own ghost, the dream of what could have been.
Letters from Jack just weren’t the same and no one can write letters forever because life gets busy and things happen and then…they just stop coming. The last thing he sent you was a letter that ended with some day, Sunshine, it will be our turn. You never did believe him.
“What med school are you applying to next year?” Paris asks you, her voice low and calm and soothing, the way it’s always been these past three years.
“Stanford, Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Yale, what about you?” you answer, glancing over at her, at the way her dark hair is braided back tightly from her face, the way her light brown eyes look shadowed in a sexy way from her smoky eye.
“The same,” she answers. “I’m hoping for Harvard, but I know you will always be hoping for Johns Hopkins.” Her voice has a teasing lilt that causes your lips to curve up with just a bit of a smile, your eyes rolling affectionately when a voice so familiar that your heart feels like it stops breaks through the din.
“Sunshine?!”
“Jackie?!” you call out, turning around, high-top sneaker laces, twisting under your feet, grinding into the cracked, expanding sidewalk. You see him standing there, but he looks so different, his hair buzzed off and hands clasped behind his back, posture stiff. “Omigod! Jackie!” you cry, running to him as he holds open his arms for you. You don’t hesitate, just launching yourself at him, your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, his arms holding tight to you.
“Hey, Sunshine,” he says, his voice a husky kind of drawl, “miss me much?”
“Shut up! What are you doing here?” you say, hopping off of him, but keeping your arms around his neck, his staying on your waist, warm and giving light to the butterflies you long since thought dormant.
“I’m a Marine,” he tells you, one corner of his lips pulling up into that crooked smile he has, the one that is delicious and perfect and everything you’ve missed. “I chose the recruitment base here in the warmth rather than old South Carolina.”
“Smart choice,” you tell him, stepping to the side, your one arm staying slung around his neck as you pull him down, your fist shaking against his buzz cut, the short hairs on his head, dragging strangely against your skin. “Damn,” you say, releasing his head, but keeping your arm around him, “not as much fun anymore to noogie you, Mr. Marine.”
“Ha!” he says, his one arm still around your waist, Paris shooting wide wtf eyes at you as she ducks into the coffee shop, taking a seat at the window. “That was my plan all along. The entire reason for signing up to serve my country.”
“Uh-huh,” you reply, your voice deadpan as you walk in step with him, stopping just outside of the coffee shop where your study group waits, the one you don’t want to go to because you don’t want to lose out on Jack. Not again.
You feel like this is the chance you’ve been waiting for. Like you can make it work now.
“How long are you here for?” you ask, your voice veering up, hopeful to the last.
“I have four months until my scheduled deployment,” he tells you, lips never once curving down from the crooked grin, that half-lipped smile. “Why? Are you hinting at something, Sunshine?”
“I don’t hint at anything, Jackrabbit,” you counter, the words just slightly venomous, but mostly teasing. Really all the way teasing. “I suggest and you’re supposed to turn my suggestions into reality.”
“Like prom?” he asks and you smile at him, reaching up, placing your hands on his shoulders.
“Exactly like prom,” you whisper and in that moment, you can feel the breath catch in your throat as you look at him, at the ghost of what could have been crosses your mind. He wrote you after prom, saying he didn’t go. That he couldn’t without his Sunshine, that it just wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t be what he wanted.
“So…” he whispers, leaning in, pressing his forehead against yours, that crooked smile still firmly on his lips, just a little tainted as if he, too, is haunted by the ghost of what could have been. “Do you want to go on a date?”
“Are you allowed, Mr. Marine?” you whisper and he smiles a full smile at you, letting out a breathy kind of chuckle as he nods, the movement echoing through you.
“Yeah, Sunshine,” he whispers. “I’m allowed.”
“Then yes,” you tell him and he pulls away, smiling that bright smile, the one that’s haunted you for years now as he turns and waves.
“Tomorrow, nine am, here, okay?” he says and you nod, biting your lip to suppress the smile that’s threatening to grow as he backs up, waving once before jogging off and you turn around, entering the coffee shop, Paris standing there, hands on her hips.
“Is that him?” she demands. “Mr. Possibility?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, your throat thick with the good kind of tears as she squeals, running to you and embracing you, the two of you jumping up and down before composing yourselves, turning to the study group, to the test.
But your mind is on Jack for the rest of the day, the taste of possibility becoming reality heady on your tongue. You should know by now though that nothing goes according to plan.
Because when you get up in the morning, dressing with care in a yellow blouse with flowy sleeves and a light green flowy skirt with sandals, you feel something off in the pit of your gut. You ignore it as you go to the coffee shop, order and sit at a table, waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting.
Nine ticks into ten into eleven into twelve. Three coffee refills and five sugar packets later, a man walks in, an army uniform on and a letter in his hand. “Is a…Sunshine here?” he calls out and you stand, swallowing hard around a lump as you hold up a hand.
“I’m Sunshine,” you whisper as he walks to you, holding out a letter.
“Private Jack Abbot requested that I give this to you,” he says, “he was deployed this morning for active duty in the Bosnian conflict.” He turns then, leaving as you stand there, unfolding the letter, Jack’s voice jumping out at you, echoing in your ears as you scan his tight, slanting scrawl.
Sunshine,
We just can’t catch a break, can we? I’ve been deployed, leaving this morning, or…I guess when you read this, I’ll already be gone so…now I guess. God, Sunshine, I really thought this was our chance, you know.
But I’ll tell you this: you are the great star-crossed love of my life. The one I feel like I’m meant to be with, but can never quite reach. I’m ever hopeful though, Sunshine. Ever waiting. Because this I know:
One day, we will reach one another. One day, I will give you this kiss I should have given you long ago. The one I should have taken yesterday.
One day, Sunshine, we won’t be star crossed. We’ll just be real. I don’t know where, I don’t know when. I just know that someday. And that’s enough for now, Sunshine, for me at least.
Know that I love you and I’m sorry. Know that I carry you with me always and the dream of what could have been.
Love,
Your Jackie, your Grumpy Bear.
You want to scream as you read it, the letter crumpling in your fist but you can’t. Instead, you fold it up, slipping it into the pocket of your skirt and you walk out of the coffee shop, never looking back at the memory lingering in the window.
The one of you waiting, hopeful, for a chance that was never coming.
It seems like you and Jack are fated to always miss one another.
iv. The Third Missing—The Ring on His Finger
You’re against the wall, waiting for your coffee, your scrubs on your body, doctor badge pinned to your chest as you wait, glancing at your watch every few minutes, the ticking of the second hand just another tick closer to what awaits you on the surgical floor.
Orthopedic surgery is not a place that women are expected to go to, most of your professors and mentors tried to talk you out of it, but you’re set. It’s going to be what you do for the rest of your life because you like putting broken things back together. Putting them together the way you’ve never been able to put yourself together.
“It couldn’t be Sunshine, could it?” you hear a voice call out, one that is familiar and painful as you glance over your shoulder, taking in an older, more battle-worn version of Jack Abbot. The boy who could have been.
“I think it could,” you call out and he crosses the room towards you, his pace excited, lips tugging up into that crooked grin of his. “How are you, Jackie?”
“I’m okay,” he says, leaning against the counter, the one where they set the drinks when they’re finished. “How ‘bout you?”
“Been good,” you tell him, lips curving up of their own accord, “been busy. In case you can’t tell,” you say, spinning slightly, “I’m a doctor now. In my first year of residency, so…you know, woot-woot!” You pump your hands a little in the air as he lets out a small laugh, the sound deep and light at the same time, ringing through the small coffee shop.
“I’ve missed you,” he says and you can feel that twinge in your heart, the one caused by hope, the hope that maybe, finally, it’s time. Then you see the glint of silver on his finger and the hope comes crashing down, shattering again, reminding you that Jack Abbot was just a beautiful possibility when you were a child.
And that you’re not a child anymore.
“Look at you,” you sing-song, “Jack Abbot, a married man. Tell me about her, man, come on.” He just looks at you, his face kind of falling, hesitant and you sigh, rolling your eyes. “Jackie, we were friends first, before we said we were possibilities. I think…maybe, we’re just meant to be friends.”
“Right,” he says, his voice slightly broken before he smiles again, glancing down at his finger, at the ring, the smile shifting to one of softness and joy. “Her name’s Emma and she’s a teacher, elementary school. I told her she shouldn’t, but she doesn’t listen.”
“Why shouldn’t she?” you ask as the barista walks over, nodding at you, your drink set down and you step forwards, taking it and stepping back, looking at the way Jack’s smile is tinged with sadness.
“She has CF,” he says, lips pressing together sadly as he looks up at you. “Kids carry germs, but she loves them and…we can’t have any, so…”
“She sounds perfect for you, Jack,” you whisper, reaching forwards and taking his hand, giving it a brief but meaningful squeeze before you step back and nod. “I wish you well, Grumpy Bear.”
“Where are you going, Sunshine?” he calls out as you turn, heading for the door, adjusting your messenger bag strap as it rides up and cuts into your throat.
“I have my job, Jackrabbit,” you call out, saluting him once. “That waits for no man.” You place both hands on the metal bar of the café door and push out, the cool November air hitting you in the face, burning like the pain of losing out on a dream.
It always hurts when reality hits you in the face.
v. The Fourth Missing—The Ring on Your Finger
Your hand rests on your stomach, the bump protruding in a highly visible way, the six month mark just hit last week, yet you carry twins so you’ve looked six months along since month three. The classical music of the medical awards celebration spins out as people wander from table to table, whispering to one another before the awards are announced.
Your husband, Graham, stands off to the side of the stage. He’s the one responsible for tonight and he sees you looking at him, waving a bit as you wave back, your lips curving up in that smile that only he has ever seemed to bring about.
Jack Abbot was a dream, but Graham is reality. A beautiful, precious reality that you wouldn’t trade for anything.
“Sunshine?” you hear behind you and you glance over your shoulder, your breath hitching in surprise as you see that beautiful dream standing behind you, in a tuxedo.
“Well, if isn’t, Jack Abbot,” you call out, rising slowly to your feet, hand never once leaving your bump, your other stabilizing you on the table as you stand. “I forgot you clean up nice. Now, where’s Emma?”
“She…uh,” he swallows hard as you turn around, his gaze falling to the ring on his finger before back up to you, “she passed. Contracted B. cepacia before new lungs could come in. Five years ago now.”
“Oh, god!” you whisper, your hand flying to your mouth, covering it as you let out a small, choked gasp. “I’m so sorry, Jackie!”
“It’s okay,” he whispers, his expression conveying that it’s not, in fact, okay, but that there’s nothing you could do to make it better. “You know,” he muses, “when I saw you sitting there I thought, maybe…maybe it’s our time, now, but I can see…” his gaze falls to your stomach, to the rings on your finger, “that’s it not.”
“Jack,” you whisper, “I don’t know if there’s ever gonna be a time for us. I think…I think we were just a childish dream and we each have found reality. Whether good or not.”
“Yeah,” he says, shifting, adjusting his pant leg, the fabric riding up to reveal a gleam of metal and plastic. “Lost it not long after I saw you last.”
“It’s badass, man,” you tell him and the two of you laugh, a shared laugh between people with a history not entirely good, not entirely bad. “So, Emma inspired you to be a doctor, huh?”
“You always did know me, Sunshine,” he says, nodding once as Graham’s voice cuts through the room. “I’m sorry that our time never came.” He walks off and you sit back down, watching his retreating back, whispering, “me too, Jackie.”
vi. The Meeting—PTMC Roof
Your hands grip the smooth metal railing in both hands, the outside air refreshing in the way that anything not sterile becomes after a while, the lights of Pittsburgh twinkling all around you. The twins are at a friend’s place for the night and your house rings with silence when they’re gone.
“Of all the rooves, in all the world,” calls a familiar cocksure voice behind you, “you had to walk onto mine, Sunshine!”
“Heard you were in the ED, Jackie!” you call back without turning around, hearing his slightly uneven gait approach, his body appearing beside yours, his hands gripping the railing, one right beside yours, the heat of his skin radiating over to you.
“When did you get to Pittsburgh?” he asks and you lean down, your forearms on the metal as you glance over at him.
“Five years ago,” you tell him. “Moved here…after I lost my husband.” You hear him suck in a breath, his body turning, angling to face you.
“What happened?” he asks and you sigh, standing up, the cool metal no longer kissing your skin as you turn to him, lips pressed in a thin line, his face older but still the same.
“Car accident,” you whisper. “Drunk driver hit us. He was gone the second the car hit us.”
“You were in it?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, hiking up the pant leg of your purple scrubs, the one that say surgery. “Took my leg, that car. I have the matching limb for yours,” you joke, the sound of crushing metal echoing, the feeling of compression, pain and then, blissfully, nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and you shrug, looking back out at the skyline of Pittsburgh, of the city so different than New York and yet, in so many ways, identical.
“Don’t be,” you tell him, “it wasn’t your fault.”
“How are the twins?” he asks you and you can feel as your lips twist of their accord, your head turning back to him, torso aligning to him, the boy who could have been.
“They don’t know what they lost, to be honest,” you whisper. “They were five. They know they had a dad, but they don’t really remember. They have nightmares and they need me, but…they only have a lack of something, they don’t remember the man who made the shape of the absence.”
“It’s rough,” he says, his arm looping around your shoulders, “but I’m here now. I’ve always been your Jackie.”
“My Grumpy Bear, right?” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder, his hand squeezing yours.
“Exactly,” he whispers. “By the way, what do you do?” You loop your own arm around his waist, anchoring yourself here.
“I’m the chief attending orthopedic surgeon,” you tell him and he lets out a small laugh, squeezing you tighter before turning, his hands resting on your shoulders, yours on his waist.
“Is it…” he trails off, swallowing hard and glancing off to the side. “I mean…Emma’s been gone…a long time, like fifteen years now, but…is it…not to be insensitive, but…is it our time now?”
“You don’t mind kids?” you ask and he turns to look at you, his expression entirely serious as he shakes his head.
“No,” he whispers. “I have spent thirty years loving something that never even happened and I want it to happen, Sunshine. I’m tired of missing you every time. I want you.”
“Then I think…” you pause, nodding once, smiling despite the pain in your heart, “I think it’s, yeah, it’s our time.”
vii. After
“Everyone,” Jack says, “this is the Chief Attending Orthopedic Surgeon gracing us with her presence so don’t fuck around.”
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” you reply, rolling your eyes at him affectionately as you step into the trauma room, pulling on gloves as you approach the patient, the severed limb, your own prosthetic never feeling heavier than on cases like these.
“No problem, Dr. Abbot,” he says, tone teasing and you roll your eyes. Again.
“Even after ten years, you’re still not tired of saying that, are you?”
“I’ll never be tired of saying it, Dr. Abbot,” he says and you glance over at him, heart singing at the boyish smile on his face. “It’s our time, after all.”
“Shut up,” you tell him, turning to the shocked med students and residents standing, mouths agape. “Present the case, please. I’m doing this consult as a favour to my husband so don’t waste my time.”
And as a med student hurriedly explains the case, you can’t help but share a smile with Jack, your Jack.
Because after all those years of missing one another, of being just a second too late, you can’t help but love the fact that it’s finally your time.
That the boy who could have been became the man who is.
Just an idea that came into my head and I just wanted to share it!
Vampire meta!Reader [villain to vigilante] being adopted by Batfam.
Vampire meta humans is just a person with vampire abilies like speed, strength, stealth and the ability to turn into a bat creature instead of of a small bat and other abilities vampires might have. Downside would be that reader will still age and dont really have immortality and if reader over uses their powers would get a thirst for blood.
Just an idea ^^
Batfam x “vampire” meta male reader
Headcanons
(how Bruce sees reader after he causes major property damage)
Reader is kinda based on Dracula and Sonar from Dispatch. Just a funky guy.
I like to think you would be a Gotham local, because of the whole, anti-meta thing and all that. You'd be from a poor family, maybe even from crime alley, meaning you slide under the radar for a long time.
It's only when you start working for different rogues that you start gathering attention. At first they’d assume you were man-bat who somehow got out of Arkham, or wherever he’s kept.
Except for the fact that your ‘bat’ form is different. It looks better put together, more solid and sleek. Where Man-bat looks like a vampire bat, you look more like a giant golden-crowned flying fox.
There's still a vague human shape to you, as well as you having arms and legs alongside wings. And of course, the obvious intelligence in your eyes and actions.
They also discover you have abilities aside from the usual flight, like Bane level strength, and speed that outpaces any normal rogue.
In the beginning you try to avoid hurting them too much, since chances are, you’re a young teen yourself. Hurting someone is just wrong, but you have your reasons to do what you do.
As you get older, and more bats appear, you start to do your own thing as a criminal. At this point Red Hood would have rocked up to crime alley and started taking over.
Your family would be dead, or have disowned you because of your ‘disability’, so you slink into the shadows and keep doing what you’ve always done. The only thing you feel you’re good at.
As time passes you also get more violent. As the world gets crueler to you, even when you aren’t in your bat form, the crueler you get in return.
You’ve always looked a little off-putting, with red rims around your irises, and sharper than average fangs and nails that naturally grow sharp and hooked.
Sometimes you don’t even know why you keep hunting and stealing. It's all you have left, and feels like your only purpose. Chances are you just hang out your stolen goods to those who need them, because you don’t. The less fortunate will jokingly call you their batman.
The bats have obviously kept track of you all these years, they may even have figured out who you were but left you be because your crimes were mostly theft. So, it becomes clear when you get more wreckless and careless.
Maybe the last good family member you have died, maybe they even died during a rogue attack, and the only thing you can do is blame the bats for not stopping this rogue, for letting them live long enough to kill that one person.
It would be your first true rampage. People of Gotham have gotten used to the shape of your wings compared to man-bat, and have stopped worrying quite as much, but this night they’ll regret not running.
Your eyes are glowing red as you shriek, the pitch high enough to blow out ear-drums and shatter glass, as you tear through the night. You don’t know if it’s to kill the rogue, the bats, or yourself, all you have is grief and pain.
Your powers are pushed past limits never pushed before, as you almost decapitate Batman, had he not been fast enough. The only reason their ears survive is thanks to working alongside people with shriek-based abilities before, but that doesn’t save the innocents nearby.
Out of them all, it’s Damian who tracks down why you’ve snapped. And sadly, he understands. Damian can only imagine what it would be like to lose the only person you have left, something he too fears on the regular.
Bruce can only regret not reaching out to you sooner, because maybe if you’d had them, this wouldn’t be what broke you.
At some point they have to use the bat-jet to keep up with you, as you slice through the sky, crashing through skyscrapers and ripping apart infrastructure, searching for the rogue that killed your family member.
I like to think it’s Jason who finally talks you down when they get so far, because he gets it. He wants the rogues dead too, but look around you. So many people have gotten hurt and for what?
Being a fellow crime alley brat means Jason has a different way into your grief-stricken mind. It's not enough to get you back to your full self, but it does calm you enough for them to use Killer croc level tranqs on you.
Normally, the bats would take you to Arkham, but some parts of them don’t want to. In the end you’re brought to the cells in the batcave, so they can keep an eye on you, and help you if possible.
For a while you stay in your giant bat form, curled up in a corner and looking mean and miserable. You'll cry when you think nobody is watching, because it’s all you can do.
Damian brings you papaya and banyan tree fruits, because he read that the bat you look like eats those, and what can I say, Dami has a soft spot for creatures looked down on by others.
You don’t really need the diet of a bat, you actually prefer a bloody diet or just meat in general, but you do eat the fruit, letting the sweet taste help you forget for a bit.
Each bat comes by and just sits with you. Some talk, some don’t, some play on their phones or read books. But they spend time with you, never seeing you as lesser for being a ‘monster’.
When you finally transform back into yourself, you look worse to wear. No matter your body type, you’ll still look starved, dirty and hollowed out. You are also completely naked.
Like this you can talk better, though you say little. After some more time and testing, the bats just kinda, accept you into their fold. It's kinda like being pulled into a bat colony, which maybe it is, in a way.
Having so little hope means you don’t really fight it, even as Bruce helps you bathe, or Alfred cooks you a meal that makes you feel full for the first time in your life, or when Steph files and paints your nails, or when Damian reads bat facts to you from a well-loved book.
It's... nice. To be part of something, even though you like to hang upside down from the rafters in the room you were given, and you have a habit of hoarding food under your unused bed, which then rots.
Being with the bats slowly warms you from the inside. And yeah, you get a lot of lectures about your actions, and why you shouldn’t do them again, and it’s fine.
They never make you feel wrong or gross for being what you are, or when you feel more comfortable as a massive human-ish shaped bat. It feels almost like being part of a family.
You never really thought about returning to crime, as long as the batfam wanted you around. That is until multiple rogues have gotten out of Arkham, and most of your new family are hurt and in danger.
It's not even a question if you’ll go. Alfred knows this too, and is at least smart enough to help you kit up, as well as your bat form can.
It’s mainly belts with supplies, and of course, a bat shaped domino mask, to go with theme.
Your body is pushed to the same extreme limits as your last appearance, but this time it’s to help, not destroy. Rogues like The Joker and Penguin are easier to take out with brute force, and your shrieks and extreme speed. It's mainly surprise that does them in, having not expected you.
Killer Croc and Mr freeze are harder, but you get it done. Even if you’re left covered in freezer burns and claw marks, your family is safe.
Out of all the rogues who escaped, Man-bat is one of them, and the two of you tear into each other in the night sky. It's a very bloody and intense sight, and the few people still out and about during the night can only stand and stare.
You barely get to land, more so crash, when Man-bat is finally defeated, before you collapse.
Luckily the bats have been tracking and following the fight, so they get to work securing man-bat, and making sure you’re okay, as well as covering you with Bruce’s cape when you swap back to your human form. They really have to work on that if you want to start doing vigilante work.
You end up getting a scolding from Bruce when you make up back at the batcave, because that was such a bad idea. You have no real training and could have gotten hurt a lot worse or even died.
You can visibly see him melt a little when you argue back that it was to help your family, as it’s the first time you’ve called them all that.
After that night, you healing, and a lot of training from the bats, but also other league friends, you can finally take a step into professional hero-work. Or well, as professional as illegal vigilante work can be.
You do end up getting a suit, kinda. On your bat form it looks more like a wing cover and a scarf, but it warps into a suit in your human form. Don't ask how it works, but it does.
Somehow you end up getting on really well with heroes like Martian Manhunter and Red Tornado. A strange friendship is kicked up between you and King Shark too.
Old habits are still present, and you find yourself leaning towards violence when things get too complicated, but your new family loves you anyways. And hey, you and Jason can bond over thinking lethal force is great sometimes.
You're also get a bit too excited when you see shitty plastic toys of you in a kids meal at Bat-burger. That's what makes it feel like you really made it.
Along with the family celebrating your birthday, and giving you more gifts than you know what to do with. They'll claim it’s to make up for all the years of missed gifts.
Dennis Whitaker x male reader fic where reader is a nurse in the Pitt and keeps getting hit on by the new intern James ogilvie that Dennis is training because he thinks reader is a girl and doesn’t know that reader and Dennis are married please read thank you 🙏
Title: cute nurse
Chapter: one shot
Fandom: the pitt
Pairing: Whitaker x reader, James Ogilvie x reader (one sided)
Genre: fluff
Warnings: male reader, feminine reader, mistaken gender, reader is chill, Whitaker thinks it's funny
Notes:
Summary: the new med student has the hots for the pretty nurse, unaware that the doctor he's shadowing is married to that nurse
Tag list: @polluxhasrisen @lazyanimal-things @ilocuras24 @rainglitchblonde
“Seriously, why you never pursued modeling is beyond me” princess said with a fake sadness and (name) snorted while setting his travel mug down “I have no interest in that and besides I already have my side gig” the other nurses nodded, the young man streaming Video Games when he wasn't doing his main gig as a nurse. “Hey... I'm looking for Dr. Whitaker” a voice spoke and (name) turned with a bored expression, painfully pretty to the point of stunning the student “you're the med student, yeah? James?”
“Yeah... And you are?” James grinned with a flirty grin, (name) tilting his head with an analyzing look before paging Dr. Whitaker “he will be here in a moment” his husband was probably talking to Robbie or something “so, you a doctor or something?” James asked and (name) blinked slowly “nope, I'm a nurse” he found it odd that he assumed he was a doctor, he was proud of his career after all.
He saw what his husband went through as a doctor, the two busted their asses daily.
“Nice, so we're going to see a lot of each other?”
“Typically that's how being co-workers works” (name) wandered off to go change IV bags and James looked at the other nurses “is he si--” “James Ogilvie?” A calm voice spoke out and James saw the calm and mild doctor “hi, yeah that's me!” Dennis noted how... Enthusiastic and sure fire he was, reminding him of Santos in a way “great, I'm going to be training you and you're my shadow” he said simply, unaware that the student just hit on his husband who had no interest in him whatsoever.
“So who is that cute nurse? The pretty girl?” James asked and Whitaker looked confused, the nurses were all attractive in their own respective ways but he only had eyes for (name) “gotta be specific, saying things like that is risky” he wasn't nervous but he wasn't playing those games. “The tomboy one-- the one talking to Dr. Robbie” he pointed and Whitaker followed to see his husband going over charts with the man, Dennis holding back a laugh because he could send how (name) could be mistaken for a girl.
He was softer in features, more feminine looks and build, body struggled gaining muscles while fat clung to him, filling the hourglass figure and his ass could have a quarter bounced on it.
“Ah, that pretty nurse,” Whitaker hummed before they walked to their first patient of the day.
(Name) was Dana’s right hand in running the nurses station, he was no nonsense and was the last person you wanted to see as an unruly patient, having a look to him that made the strongest sit their asses down and listen... Though a certain intern constantly found his way back to the nurses station while (name) typed away at the computer “hey..” James grinned and (name) didn't bat an eye “hello, Ogilvie” he mumbled without much notice at the man's flirting “so, what do you do after work?”
“Sleep.” (name) said bluntly before princess called him over and (name) wandered away, always buzzing around and handling things.
All while his husband glanced periodically as he went from patient to patient, he didn't step into his husband's battles unless needed and he knew (name) wasn't even paying the student any mind, he didn't get paid enough to deal with that amongst everything else.
“(Name), do you have those files?” Dennis asked softly, James noting the way (name)s eyes lit up when the doctor spoke to him “yep I do” he leaned over to hand them to Dennis who hummed “thank you” his words having a gentleness to them that one may not catch.
James was busy most of his shift, (name) watching the realization hit him and slowly the young man's cocky persona shifted into something different.
It wasn't until he went to the washroom that he saw James trying to collect himself “I remember my first day in the Pitt... It changes a person” James snapped his head up and looked at (name) confused “you should have seen Whitaker-- he got pissed on twice” (name) chuckled at the memory “him and I were two years into our relationship, I'm from (place) but went to Nebraska because my cousin was going and I had no plans and boom met him and became a nurse” (name) was strangely distracting, he was beautiful but he had a way of talking that just calmed James “wait... You and dr. Whitaker are...?”
“Married” (name) pulled his ring around his neck on a silver chain “also I'm a guy by the way but thank you for thinking I'm girl level pretty” he teased and James felt warm in the face from embarrassment “don't worry I'm not mad, thought it was pretty funny-- now! Lets get the day handled!” James had whiplash from everything he just experienced in thirty seconds, too distracted by (name).
He did know one thing though.
He needed to apologize to Whitaker.
...and Whitaker.
(Name) Was slumped against his husband, both showered and in pajamas all while cuddling in bed “New guy apologized to me” (name) said softly “broke his brain when I told him I was a guy” his voice slightly muffled in his husband's chest “thats why he mumbled and apology while looking traumatized” Dennis gently rubbed circles into (name)s hips “shame, kind of wanted to see jealous Dr. Whitaker... Love angry sex” (name) pouted and Dennis rolled his eyes playfully and smacked (name)s ass gently “you're insufferable”
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Request - You write so gooddddddddd omgg i like your stories right as you post them before even reading their that good. Ok I don't know if you're taking requests but i want to know the beef between reader and dr collins so baddd you mentioned in one story that she sometimes makes comments about their relationship only if you like the idea of course. Love your work a lotttt :))
The first time Dr. Heather Collins made a comment, you let it slide. The second time, you told yourself you were imagining it. By the fifth, you knew exactly what she was doing.
You stood in the pediatric workroom, flipping through a chart while the smell of stale coffee and antiseptic hung in the air. It was just after six in the morning, the start of another long shift. You had only been at PTMC for six months as a pediatric emergency medicine fellow and still felt like the new kid most days. Everyone else seemed to know where they belonged. You still felt like you were trying to earn your seat at the table.
Heather wandered in, coat hanging open and face tired, but still pretty. She was one of the senior emergency medicine residents, well-liked, smart, and apparently incapable of minding her own business. She glanced at you. Then at your coffee. Then smiled.
“You take it black now.”
You looked up from the chart.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your coffee.” She shrugged. “Robby used to always drink it black. Funny how people rub off on each other.”
You blinked. It was such a strange thing to say that for a second, you didn’t even know how to respond.
“Okay,” you said slowly.
She smiled a little wider.
“I’m just saying.”
Then she walked out. You stared after her. A few seconds later, your co-fellow, Sarah, looked up from her laptop.
“That was weird.”
You huffed a laugh.
“Right?”
“Very weird.”
You nodded and let it go. Because it was weird. But not enough to start something over.
******
The comments continued. Sometimes they were subtle. Sometimes they weren’t. Three days later, you were discussing a treatment plan with one of the residents when Heather walked by.
“You should ask Dr. Robinavich what he thinks.”
You frowned.
“Why?”
She lifted one shoulder.
“I don’t know. I assume you two talk shop.”
“We don’t really discuss my patients.”
“Really?” she said innocently. “Huh.”
Then she walked away. The resident beside you looked uncomfortable. You ignored it.
A week after that, you ran into her in the cafeteria. You were carrying your lunch and she sat down across from you without asking.
“How long have you two been dating now?”
You nearly choked on your sandwich. You and Robby hadn’t exactly hidden your relationship, but neither of you advertised it.
“A few months.”
She nodded.
“Still new.”
“I guess.”
“You know, he and I lasted almost a year.”
You looked at her. She smiled.
“He always works too much. Just something to keep in mind.”
You stared at her for several seconds. Then you forced a polite smile.
“Thanks for the advice.”
She seemed pleased with herself. You wanted to throw your sandwich at her. Instead, you got up and left.
******
By the end of the month, you dreaded running into her. Which made you angry. Because you weren’t a jealous person. You weren’t insecure. At least… you hadn’t been.
But there was something about Heather’s comments that left you feeling off balance. Like she knew something you didn’t. Like she was standing on the outside of your relationship, peering in and making judgments. It didn’t help that your relationship with Robby was still so new.
Three months. Three wonderful, confusing, beautiful months. You still got butterflies when he kissed you. Still smiled every time his name lit up your phone. Still couldn’t quite believe someone like him had chosen you.
You were protective of it. Protective of him. Protective of the little bubble the two of you had built. So when Heather poked at it, it bothered you more than you wanted to admit.
You found Robby later that evening in the emergency department. He was standing at the central station, glasses low on his nose, reading a chart. God, he looked good. Hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled up, stethoscope hanging around his neck.
He looked up. The second he saw you, his face softened.
“Hey.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Hey.”
He held out his hand and you stepped closer, letting him tug you beside him.
“You surviving?”
“Barely.”
“Same.”
You laughed. He smiled.
“So you still can do it.”
“What?”
“You haven’t smiled all day.”
You frowned.
“I have.”
“No, you haven’t.”
He knew you too well already. That was dangerous. You sighed.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
You looked around to make sure no one was listening.
“Were you and Heather Collins serious?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“That’s random.”
“Answer the question.”
He considered you.
“Yeah. For a while.”
“Like… really serious?”
“No.” He shook his head. “We dated. It didn’t work.”
You tried to sound casual.
“Does she hate me?”
His face changed immediately.
“What?”
“I don’t know. She’s just… weird with me.”
“Weird how?”
You shrugged.
“She makes comments.”
“What comments?”
You recounted a few of them. By the end, he looked more confused than concerned.
“That’s it?”
You frowned.
“What do you mean, that’s it?”
“I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think she’s trying to upset you.”
Your stomach sank.
“Okay.”
“I mean, Heather’s sarcastic with everyone.”
“It doesn’t feel sarcastic.”
He studied your face.
“You think she’s jealous?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You kind of did.”
You looked away. He reached out and touched your arm.
“Hey.”
You looked back at him.
“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”
There it was. That awful little feeling. Like maybe you were overreacting. Like maybe you were being childish. You forced a smile.
“Yeah. You’re probably right.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
You leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
“I’m okay.”
He looked at you for another moment before sighing.
“All right.”
You smiled.
“Go save lives, Dr. Robinavich.”
His mouth twitched.
“You know you don’t have to call me that.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you?”
You smiled.
“Because it annoys you.”
He laughed softly.
“Brat.”
You grinned and started walking backward.
“Bye, Chief.”
He shook his head.
“Have a good night.”
“You too.”
You turned and headed toward the elevators. You didn’t see Heather standing at the end of the hall. You didn’t see her watching the two of you. And you definitely didn’t hear her quiet voice as she walked away.
“Three months,” she murmured to herself. “We’ll see.”
And unfortunately, she wasn’t finished with you yet.
******
By the following week, you had convinced yourself that maybe you really was overthinking things. You hated that feeling. You hated feeling insecure.
You hated feeling like a teenager with a crush instead of a thirty-something physician who had survived medical school, residency, fellowship applications, and enough overnight shifts to last a lifetime. You had worked too hard to end up questioning yourself over one woman and a few comments.
So you decided to ignore it. That lasted approximately forty-eight hours. You were sitting at one of the workstations in the emergency department, finishing your note on a six-year-old with pneumonia, when Heather slid into the chair beside you. You didn’t look up.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” she replied pleasantly.
A beat of silence.
“You and Robby have plans tonight?”
You sighed inwardly.
“We’re getting dinner.”
“Oh.”
You kept typing.
“He still likes that Italian place downtown?”
You finally looked at her.
“I don’t know. We haven’t decided.”
She smiled.
“He always picked that place.”
You stared at her. She smiled wider.
“You’ll learn.”
You went back to your chart. A few moments passed.
“You know, he used to bring me coffee every Friday.”
You closed your eyes. There it is.
“I don’t really need a history lesson, Heather.”
She blinked innocently.
“I was just making conversation.”
“Okay.”
“You seem tense.”
You looked at her again.
“No, I seem busy.”
For a second, something flickered across her face. Then she stood.
“Have a good shift.”
You waited until she walked away before muttering under your breath.
“For fuck’s sake.”
Sarah beside you snorted.
“You okay?”
You rubbed your temple.
“Does she do this with everyone?”
She looked confused.
“Do what?”
You gestured vaguely.
“The comments.”
She looked over toward where Heather had disappeared. Then she looked back at you.
“Oh.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Oh what?”
SHe shifted awkwardly.
“I don’t know. I guess she… talks about Dr. Robinavich sometimes.”
“Wonderful.”
“You know how hospitals are.”
Unfortunately, you did. Hospitals were giant high schools with medical degrees. Everybody knew who dated who. Everybody knew who had divorced. Who had cheated. Who had gotten drunk at the Christmas party. Who had cried in a stairwell.
You had worked in enough hospitals to know better. Still, this felt different. This felt personal.
That evening, you met Robby at the little Italian restaurant downtown. The irony wasn’t lost on you. The second you sat down, he frowned.
“What happened?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You’ve got your work face on.”
“My work face?”
“The one where you look like you’re mentally fighting someone.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“I do not have a face for that.”
“You absolutely do.”
The waiter came and took your drink order. The second he left, Robby leaned forward.
“Okay. What’s going on?”
You looked down at the menu.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
You looked up. He was smiling. You sighed.
“Heather made another comment today.”
His smile disappeared.
“What did she say?”
You repeated the conversation. By the end, he looked more tired than angry.
“She’s weird.”
You blinked.
“That’s your response?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I don’t know either.”
He leaned back.
“I really don’t think she’s trying to be mean.”
You looked at him. There it was again. That same little ache.
“I didn’t say she was mean.”
“You seem upset.”
“Because it’s weird, Robby.”
He sighed.
“I just don’t think she’s sitting around obsessing over us.”
You swallowed.
“It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
You looked away. He waited. Eventually, you sighed.
“I already feel like a kid here.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“I’m younger than a lot of the attendings. I’m new. I’m still proving myself every day.”
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
You gave him a look.
“Easy for you to say.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re you.”
He blinked.
“What does that mean?”
You laughed softly.
“Come on.”
“No, explain.”
“You’ve been here forever. Everyone respects you. They listen when you speak.”
He looked almost offended.
“You think people don’t respect you?”
“I think I have to earn it.”
“You’ve already earned it.”
“You say that because you’re my boyfriend.”
He sat back.
“No. I say that because you’re a damn good doctor.”
You looked down at the table. His voice softened.
“Hey.”
You looked up.
“You’re younger than me but,” he started. “You’re not a kid.”
You smiled faintly.
“Thanks.”
“You know I mean it.”
“I know.”
The waiter appeared with your drinks. The conversation shifted. You talked about patients. About how tired you both were. About a movie you wanted to watch. By the end of dinner, you felt better.
Mostly. Then as you walked out onto the sidewalk, your phone buzzed. You glanced down. A message from one of the senior pediatric residents.
Emergency department needs peds consult in room eighteen. Looks like you’re getting called back in. Sorry.
You groaned. Robby laughed.
“Date night officially over.”
You sighed dramatically.
“We got forty-five whole minutes.”
“Very romantic.”
You shoved his shoulder. He smiled.
“I’ll walk you back.”
The two of you started toward the hospital. The summer air was warm, the sun setting behind the buildings. When you reached the emergency department entrance, you stopped.
“Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Because our date got interrupted.”
He smiled softly.
“We work in emergency medicine.”
“I know.”
“This is practically foreplay.”
You laughed. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
He grinned. You shook your head. Then he stepped closer. Close enough that no one walking by could hear him.
“You know I like spending time with you, right?”
You smiled.
“I would hope so.”
“No. I mean it.”
His hand brushed your arm.
“I know this thing is still new.”
Your heart did an annoying little flip.
“ I like you though.” Robby said. “I like us.”
You looked at him.
“You do?”
He gave you a look.
“Obviously.”
You smiled.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
A smile slowly spread across his face.
“You like us too?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Don’t make this weird.”
“Oh, it’s too late.”
You laughed. Then you leaned forward and kissed him quickly. His hand came to your waist for a second.
“Go see your patient,” he murmured.
“Bossy.”
“Damn right.”
You smiled and headed inside. The second you stepped into the emergency department, you saw Heather standing at the central station. She looked up. Her eyes immediately landed on you. Then the doors behind you. Where Robby was still standing outside for another moment before walking away. Heather looked back at you. A tiny smile crossed her face.
“Date night?”
You sighed.
“Apparently.”
She hummed.
“Enjoy it while you can.”
You froze.
“What?”
She picked up a chart.
“I said enjoy it.”
“No. You said, ‘while you can.’”
She looked at you as though you were being silly.
“I just meant our schedules are awful.”
You stared at her. She smiled.
“You seem really defensive lately.”
You felt your cheeks grow warm.
“I think I have a patient.”
“Mm.”
You started walking away. Then her voice followed you.
“He always gets bored with hospital relationships eventually.”
You stopped. The department around you seemed to quiet. You turned slowly. Heather looked up from her chart.
“What did you say?”
She blinked.
“I said he gets busy.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Her face remained perfectly calm. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then she smiled.
“Maybe I didn’t.”
Your jaw clenched. You wanted to say something. Anything. Instead, you turned and walked away. But your hands were shaking. And for the first time since this whole thing had started, you realized something terrifying. You weren’t just annoyed anymore. You were angry. Very, very angry.
******
The next two days were hell. Not because of your patients. Not because of the workload. Not even because you were on your third twelve-hour shift in a row. It was because every time you saw Heather Collins, your entire body tensed.
You were angry. And you hated being angry at work. Pediatrics required patience. It required calm. It required you to walk into rooms where parents were terrified and somehow be the steady person in the chaos. You couldn’t do that if your blood pressure spiked every time one particular resident opened her mouth.
So you avoided her. You rounded through different hallways. Took different elevators. Ate lunch in the pediatric workroom instead of the cafeteria. It was ridiculous. You were a grown woman hiding from another grown woman.
By Thursday, you were irritated with yourself. By Friday, you were exhausted. And exhaustion was dangerous. Because exhausted people had short tempers. Exhausted people cried in supply closets. Exhausted people snapped. You should have known you were heading toward a disaster.
******
The emergency department was slammed. There were no beds. The waiting room was overflowing. Someone was crying. Someone else was yelling. One of the monitors at the central station was beeping incessantly.
It was, in other words, a perfectly normal Friday night. You had just finished seeing a four-year-old with a nasty asthma exacerbation when your pager went off again. Then your phone rang. Then another resident stuck her head into the room.
“Hey, peds needs you in twenty-three.”
“I’m literally walking there.”
“Cool. Sorry.”
She vanished. You blew out a breath. You had a headache. You hadn’t eaten since seven that morning. You were surviving entirely on coffee and spite. As you approached room twenty-three, you heard voices.
Heather’s was one of them. You almost turned around. Almost. Instead, you squared your shoulders and walked in. The patient was a teenage boy with abdominal pain. Heather stood beside the bed with one of the interns, discussing the case. She looked up when you entered.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
You smiled politely at the family and introduced yourself. The next twenty minutes were perfectly normal. You examined the patient. Asked questions. Reviewed labs. Discussed a plan. For a brief, glorious period of time, you thought maybe today would be different. Then the patient’s mother looked at Heather.
“So, are you two doctors working together?”
Heather smiled.
“Technically.”
The woman nodded toward you.
“She seems very young.”
You laughed softly.
“I promise I’m old enough to be here.”
The mother smiled. Heather did not.
“No kidding. The first time I met her, I thought she was a med student.”
You smiled politely.
“I get that a lot.”
The mother chuckled.
“You’ll appreciate it when you’re older.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
Heather crossed her arms.
“She’s our pediatric fellow.”
The mother nodded.
“Oh! That’s wonderful.”
“It is,” Heather said. “Especially considering she has such… excellent support.”
You looked at her. The woman looked confused.
“What do you mean?”
Heather smiled.
“She’s dating our chief attending.”
The room went silent. You felt every muscle in your body tighten. The patient’s mother blinked.
“Oh.”
You forced a smile.
“It has nothing to do with my fellowship.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
Her voice was pleasant. Friendly. You wanted to scream. The mother looked awkward. The intern suddenly found the floor very interesting. You took a breath.
“Can we discuss the patient’s care outside?”
“Of course.”
You both stepped into the hallway. The second the door shut, you looked at her.
“What the hell was that?”
She blinked.
“What?”
“You know exactly what.”
“I was making conversation.”
“No, you weren’t.”
She folded her arms.
“You seem upset again.”
You stared at her.
“You need to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“The comments.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“What comments?”
You actually laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound.
“Jesus Christ.”
She tilted her head.
“I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You keep bringing up my relationship.”
“Because you’re dating my ex.”
There it was. Finally. You stared at her. She stared back. Then she shrugged.
“It’s not exactly a secret.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“So why are you acting like I said something inappropriate?”
Because you implied I only got here because of him. Because you act like I’m temporary. Because every comment feels like you’re waiting for us to fail. You wanted to say all of that.
Instead, you said, “You’re being incredibly unprofessional.”
Her expression changed.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
She crossed her arms.
“I think you’re being sensitive.”
There it was again. Sensitive. Defensive. You’d heard those words your entire career. Usually from people who didn’t want to admit they were being assholes. You took a slow breath.
“I’ve tried really hard to ignore this.”
“Ignore what?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Heather.”
Her eyes widened.
“I have done everything in my power to be nice to you.”
“I never said you weren’t nice.”
“You make comments constantly.”
“I make observations.”
“No. You make digs.”
She laughed softly.
“Digs? Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
Her expression cooled.
“You know, maybe you’re just insecure.”
That hit. Hard. Because maybe you were. Maybe that’s why all of this had gotten under your skin. Maybe that’s why you suddenly felt twenty-two years old and completely out of place. She saw it on your face. And then she made the mistake.
She smiled. A tiny, knowing smile.
“You seem really worried about me being his ex.”
Something in you snapped.
“No. I’m worried that you keep acting like I slept my way into this fucking fellowship.”
Her eyes widened.
“I never said that.”
“You imply it every chance you get.”
“I think that’s your own issue.”
“No, I think you’re pissed because he moved on.”
The words were out before you could stop them. Silence. Complete silence. Heather’s face changed.
“Oh my God.”
“You heard me.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re exhausting.”
Her cheeks flushed.
“I dated him years ago.”
“Then act like it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Her voice rose.
“I am not jealous of your relationship.”
“Really? Because you sure spend a lot of time talking about it.”
“You don’t know a damn thing.”
“No, but apparently you know every restaurant he likes and how he takes his coffee.”
A few heads had turned. Someone was definitely listening. You didn’t care. Heather looked furious.
“You are acting incredibly immature.”
You laughed.
“That’s rich.”
“No, what’s rich is that you’re making this into some giant issue because you’re threatened by a woman he dated years ago.”
“I’m not threatened by you.”
“Liar.”
That was it. That one word. Liar. You stepped closer.
“I have worked too fucking hard to have my accomplishments reduced to who I’m dating.”
“I didn’t reduce anything.”
“You absolutely did.”
“You are putting words in my mouth.”
“You know what? Maybe you’re right.”
You were breathing hard now. People were openly staring.
“I am sensitive. Because every time you open your mouth, you find another way to remind me that you dated my boyfriend.”
She scoffed.
“Boyfriend. God, that sounds high school.”
You stared at her. Then something in you broke.
“You know what? Go to hell.”
The entire nurses’ station went silent. A beat passed. Then a voice behind you spoke.
“Well. This looks fun.”
You closed your eyes. You knew that voice. Slowly, you turned.
Dr. Susan Ross stood there. Chief of Pediatrics. Your boss. Her arms were crossed. And she looked deeply unimpressed.
“Oh, shit,” you whispered.
Susan sighed.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Heather looked equally horrified.
“Dr. Ross—”
“Nope.” Susan held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it here.”
She looked directly at you.
“My office.”
Then at Heather.
“You too.”
You felt sick. Absolutely sick. As Susan turned and walked away, one of the nurses winced.
Princess muttered, “Damn.”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. Because in the span of five minutes, you had gone from irritated fellow to physician screaming in the middle of the emergency department. And there was absolutely no way this was ending well.
******
You sat in Dr. Susan Ross’s office for nearly forty minutes. Forty miserable, humiliating minutes. Susan had heard both sides. Or rather, she had listened while Heather defended herself and you sat there feeling like you were twelve years old and had just been sent to the principal’s office.
The worst part was that Susan wasn’t angry. She was disappointed. That somehow felt worse.
“I don’t particularly care who dated whom,” she’d finally said, taking off her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose. “I care that two physicians had a personal disagreement in the middle of my emergency department.”
Neither of you had spoken. Susan’s gaze had landed on you.
“And I especially care that one of my fellows told a resident to go to hell in front of staff and a patient’s family.”
You had swallowed hard.
“I know.”
“I know you know.” She sighed. “I think there is more going on here than what happened tonight.”
Your eyes had dropped to your lap.
“But I cannot ignore the behavior.”
You nodded.
“I understand.”
“I am giving you a formal write-up.”
The words had felt like a punch. Not because you thought you didn’t deserve it. You did. You had lost your temper. You had been unprofessional. But it still hurt.
“I understand,” you repeated quietly.
Susan’s voice softened.
“I think you’re an excellent fellow.”
That almost made it worse.
“I really do.”
You nodded again.
“But tonight was unacceptable.”
“I know.”
“And I need you to figure out why you got to that point.”
You had barely managed a nod. By the time you left her office, your face was burning with embarrassment. You wanted to disappear. Instead, you went home. You showered. Put on sweatpants. Then sat on your couch and stared at absolutely nothing.
The write-up sat folded on your coffee table. You hadn’t moved it. You couldn’t bear to look at it. Your phone had buzzed three times. Once from Sarah. Once from another fellow, Jeremy. Once from Robby.
Heard there was an incident. Are you okay?
You hadn’t answered. Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on your door. You knew it was him. Part of you wanted to pretend you weren’t home. Instead, you got up and opened the door.
Robby stood there in jeans and a navy T-shirt, his hair still messy from work. He looked tired. And concerned.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I know.”
A beat passed.
“Can I come in?”
You stepped aside. He walked in slowly and looked around. Then his eyes landed on the paper sitting on your coffee table. He looked back at you.
“You got written up?”
You crossed your arms.
“Yep.”
He sighed softly.
“Jesus.”
Silence filled the apartment. Neither of you knew where to start. Eventually, he looked at you.
“So… what happened?”
You stared at him.
“What did you hear?”
“Not much.”
You nodded.
“Then what happened?”
You looked away.
“Apparently I told Heather Collins to go to hell.”
“Apparently?”
You huffed a humorless laugh.
“I definitely did.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“You don’t seem particularly sorry.”
“I am.”
“Okay.”
You folded your arms tighter. He took a breath.
“Talk to me.”
You stayed quiet.
“Please.”
You looked at him. He looked genuinely concerned. And exhausted. And somehow that made everything hurt more.
“I lost my temper.”
“Okay.”
“And now I have a write-up.”
“Okay.”
Silence. Then he said the thing. The very wrong thing.
“You can’t do that.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You can’t lose your temper like that at work.”
You stared at him. His voice stayed calm.
“I know you’re upset, but you have to keep your cool.”
Something sharp twisted in your chest.
“I know that.”
“I’m just saying—”
“No. Don’t.”
He frowned.
“Don’t what?”
“Do this.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
You laughed once.
“You came over here and the first thing you did was ask me what I did wrong.”
His eyebrows furrowed.
“I asked what happened.”
“And then immediately told me I can’t do that.”
“Because you can’t.”
You looked at him in disbelief.
“Seriously?”
“What?”
You shook your head.
“Wow.”
“Okay, I clearly missed something.”
“Yeah. You did.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Then explain it to me.”
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you laughed. Again. Except this time it sounded a little broken.
“You really don’t get it.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Exactly.”
Silence. He looked genuinely confused. And suddenly you were angry. Not at him. Not really. At everything. At the write-up. At Heather. At yourself. At this stupid feeling of being small all the time.
“You know what the worst part of tonight was?”
He stayed quiet.
“It wasn’t getting written up.” You swallowed. “It wasn’t embarrassing myself.”
Your voice started to shake.
“It was sitting in Susan’s office and realizing I sound like a fucking child.”
His face softened.
“Hey.”
“No.” You shook your head. “No, let me finish.”
He stayed quiet.
“I have worked my ass off to get here.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
He looked taken aback.
“I know everyone thinks pediatrics is cute and fun and all sunshine and stickers but I busted my ass for this fellowship.”
“I know you did.”
“I already feel like I have to prove myself every single day.” You looked at him. “And then I have someone making comments all the time like I only got here because I’m sleeping with the chief attending.”
His eyes widened.
“What?”
You laughed bitterly.
“That got your attention.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I told you this was happening.”
“You never said she implied that.”
“I shouldn’t have had to spell it out!”
He stared at you. You could see him trying to put the pieces together. Trying to understand. But it felt too late.
“I kept telling you something was wrong.”
“You said she made comments.”
“Yes.”
“And I didn’t realize—”
“Exactly.” Your eyes burned. “You didn’t realize.”
Silence. He looked at you carefully.
“Did she actually say that?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“Oh my God.” You threw your hands in the air. “There you go again.”
“What?”
“You don’t believe me.”
His face fell.
“That isn’t true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“You are literally questioning me right now.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“No, you’re trying to figure out if I overreacted.”
“Look, I’m not the one who got into a screaming match at work!”
The apartment fell silent. You both stared at each other. The fact that he had raised his voice shocked both of you. You had never fought before. Not really. Disagreements, sure. Teasing. Annoyance. But this?
This was new territory. Your eyes filled immediately. And you hated yourself for it. Robby’s expression changed.
“Hey.”
You looked away.
“No.”
“You don’t have to cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You absolutely are.”
You laughed shakily.
“Fantastic. That’s exactly what I need right now.”
He stepped closer. You stepped back. That hurt him. You saw it. But you couldn’t help it.
“You know what I needed tonight?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer.
“I needed my boyfriend.”
Silence.
“I needed you to come in here and ask if I was okay.”
His face crumpled.
“I am asking.”
“No. You’re investigating.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It feels fair.” You wiped at your eyes angrily. “For once, I needed you to be my boyfriend instead of Chief Robinavich.”
The words landed. Hard. He looked like you’d slapped him. You hated that. But you couldn’t take it back.
“I walked out of Susan’s office feeling like a complete idiot.” Your voice shook. “I felt embarrassed and immature and honestly kind of pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic.”
“But that’s how I felt, Robby!” A tear slipped down your cheek. “I needed the person I’m dating to just… believe me.”
Silence.
“You questioned what I did before you even asked why I did it.”
Robby’s jaw tightened.
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know.”
You looked at him.
“I know you weren’t.”
A long silence followed. Neither of you moved. Finally, he spoke. Very quietly.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
That hurt too. Because honestly? Neither did you. You were both so new at this. Three months. Three months of stolen dinners and overnight shifts and sleepy kisses and learning each other’s coffee orders. You didn’t know how to fight. You didn’t know how to fix this. You looked away.
“I don’t know either.”
Silence. Then he nodded once. You looked back up. He looked tired. And hurt. And lost.
“Maybe we should both get some sleep.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Okay.”
He swallowed.
“I think we’re both upset.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moved. Finally, he grabbed his keys.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
You nodded. He walked to the door. Opened it. Then stopped. You thought maybe he’d come back. Thought maybe he’d kiss you. Maybe hug you. Instead, he looked over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry you had a bad day.”
The tears in your eyes nearly spilled over.
“Thanks.”
He nodded once. Then he left. The door clicked shut. And the apartment suddenly felt enormous. You stood there for a long time.
Then slowly sat down on the couch. The write-up was still sitting on the coffee table. You picked it up. Stared at it. And finally let yourself cry. Because the fight with Heather hurt. Getting written up hurt.
But somehow the thing that hurt the most was realizing that sometimes even good people—people who cared about you—could completely miss what you needed. And tonight, the two of you had missed each other entirely.
******
You slept terribly. Which wasn’t surprising. You cried yourself to sleep sometime after midnight, woke up twice, and finally gave up around seven in the morning. Your apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
You made coffee. Didn’t drink it. Turned on the television. Didn’t watch it. By ten o’clock, you were sitting on your couch in leggings and an old college sweatshirt, staring out the window.
You kept replaying everything. The fight. The look on Robby’s face. The way he’d left. The way neither of you had known what to say. You hated it. You hated fighting with him.
Three months wasn’t long enough to know how to fight with someone. You didn’t know if he needed space. You didn’t know if he wanted you to text first. You didn’t know if you should apologize. You didn’t know anything. Your phone remained silent.
By noon, you felt sick. By one, you were convinced you’d ruined everything. At one-thirty, there was a knock at your door. You froze.
Another knock. Slowly, you stood and walked over. You opened the door. Robby was standing there.
Hands shoved into his pockets. He looked tired. You probably did too. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he said quietly, “Can I come in?”
You stepped aside. He walked into your apartment and stood awkwardly in the middle of your living room. The two of you had never been awkward with each other before. That somehow made it worse.
You crossed your arms. He looked at you. Then looked away. Then back at you. Finally, he exhaled.
“I owe you an apology.”
You blinked. He rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“I went to the hospital this morning.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What?”
“I talked to Susan.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
“And then I talked to a couple people in the department.”
You stared at him.
“They heard it.”
You said nothing.
“They heard what Heather has been saying.”
The apartment was very quiet. He looked miserable.
“I didn’t know.”
You swallowed.
“I know.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I promise you…I really didn’t know.”
“I know, Robby.”
He looked at you for a long moment.
“You were telling me.”
Your eyes started to sting.
“And I kept brushing it off.”
You looked down.
“I thought you were reading too much into it.”
A long pause.
“I was wrong.”
You looked back up. Robby looked devastated.
“I was completely wrong.”
The tears threatened immediately. He took a small step closer.
“Susan told me everything.”
You swallowed.
“She said you’ve been dealing with this for weeks.”
You nodded once.
“She said you’ve ignored it and ignored it and ignored it until you finally snapped.”
Another nod. He exhaled shakily.
“And then she looked at me and said…” He laughed softly, humorlessly. “‘Your girlfriend made a mistake yesterday, but she didn’t start this.’”
Silence.
“I felt about two inches tall.”
You looked at him. He looked right back.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were simple. Quiet. But they sounded sincere.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. He continued.
“I’m sorry I questioned you.”
Another tear followed.
“I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t believe you.”
You looked away. He stepped closer.
“I should’ve trusted you.”
Your chin trembled.
“I should’ve realized that if you were bringing it up, it mattered.”
You wiped angrily at your face.
“And…I should’ve been your boyfriend last night.”
That did it. You started crying. Immediately. Robby looked stricken.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He crossed the room in three long strides. Then he stopped. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. That somehow broke your heart. You laughed through your tears.
“Come here, you idiot.”
His shoulders visibly relaxed. Then he wrapped his arms around you. And you fell apart. You buried your face in his chest and cried. Not pretty crying. Real crying.
The kind where your shoulders shook. The kind where you couldn’t quite catch your breath. His arms tightened immediately.
“I’ve got you.”
You cried harder.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair.
You shook your head.
“No, don’t apologize.”
“I’m going to anyway.”
You laughed weakly. He held you tighter.
“I’m so sorry.”
You stood there for several minutes, simply letting him hold you. Eventually, your crying slowed. Then stopped. You pulled back enough to look at him. His hands remained on your arms. Your eyes were red. He looked pretty rough himself.
“You look terrible,” you said.
He blinked. Then laughed.
“Thanks.”
“You have eye bags.”
“I didn’t sleep.”
Your expression softened.
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Yeah. I figured.”
Silence settled between you. Then you sighed.
“I’m sorry too.”
He frowned.
“For what?”
“I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“You had every right to be upset.”
“I still shouldn’t have yelled.”
“You also shouldn’t have been pushed to that point.”
You looked at him. He looked angry now. Not at you. At the situation.
“I hate that someone made you feel like your accomplishments belong to anyone but you.”
Your throat tightened.
“You earned your fellowship.”
You blinked.
“You are one of the hardest-working doctors I know.”
A tear slid down your cheek again.
“And for the record, you absolutely do belong here…whether you’re dated a jerk like me or not.”
You looked down. He gently tipped your chin back up.
“No. Look at me.”
You did.
“You belong here.”
His voice was firm.
“You belong in that hospital.”
Another tear.
“You belong in that fellowship.”
Another.
“And you definitely belong with me.”
You laughed softly through your tears. Then his expression softened.
“I’m really sorry.”
You nodded.
“I know.” A beat. “I hated fighting with you.”
You laughed quietly.
“It sucked.”
“It really sucked.”
“You left.”
He winced.
“I know.”
“I thought maybe…”
You stopped.
“What?”
You looked away.
“Nothing.”
He gently touched your cheek.
“What?”
You sighed.
“I thought maybe we were done.”
His face changed immediately.
“What?”
“You left.”
“Baby.”
“You said we should get some sleep.”
“I meant exactly that.”
You looked at him. His eyebrows lifted.
“You thought I was breaking up with you?”
You shrugged weakly.
“We’ve never done this before.”
The look on his face softened entirely. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. A little.
“Well, that’s depressing.”
You laughed despite yourself. He stepped closer.
“I wasn’t leaving you.”
“Oh.”
“Not even a little.”
“Oh.”
His smile grew.
“You really don’t know me yet, do you?”
You huffed a laugh.
“I guess not.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“For future reference?”
You looked up.
“I’m a stubborn bastard.”
You smiled.
“I’ve noticed.”
“And once I care about someone…” He shrugged slightly. “I don’t leave because we had one bad fight.”
Your eyes softened.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
He smiled. Then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours. You both stayed there for a long moment. Quiet. Warm. Together. Finally, he spoke.
“You know what the really shitty part of all this is?”
“What?”
He sighed.
“Now I have to see Susan on Monday.”
You laughed. He groaned.
“She looked at me like I was an idiot.”
You laughed harder.
“I am never living that down.”
You wrapped your arms around him again. He immediately held you close.
“You kind of deserved it.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
You smiled into his shirt. After a long moment, he kissed the top of your head. Then another kiss. Then another. You looked up.
“How many of those are there?”
“As many as necessary.”
You laughed. His eyes softened.
“Better?”
You thought about it. Then nodded.
“Yeah.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then quietly said, “I really like you.”
He blinked. The admission seemed to surprise him. A smile slowly appeared.
“I really like you too.”
You laughed softly. It felt silly. And vulnerable. And somehow perfect. He looked at you for another second. Then kissed your forehead.
“Come on.”
“What?”
“When was the last time you ate?”
You frowned.
“That’s rude.”
“When?”
You thought about it.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You laughed. He smiled and slipped his hand into yours. And just like that, the heaviness of the last twenty-four hours eased. Not completely. There would still be awkward conversations. Work would still be messy. Heather would still exist. But as Robby squeezed your hand and led you toward your kitchen, one thing felt very certain.
You were both new at this. You didn’t know how to fight yet. You didn’t know all of each other’s scars or insecurities. But maybe that wasn’t the important part. The important part was that he’d shown up. And when it mattered, you’d both decided to stay.
******
The first few days back at work were awkward. Not because of Robby. Not because of Susan. Because of you.
You felt like everyone knew. Maybe they did. Hospitals had a way of making private things public in record time. You walked through the emergency department on Tuesday morning with your coffee in one hand and your laptop tucked under your arm, fully aware of every pair of eyes that glanced your way. Most people were kind.
Dana smiled at you. One of the residents asked how you were doing. Someone in radiology gave your shoulder a little squeeze as they passed. It somehow made you feel worse. You didn’t want pity. You wanted to rewind time and not lose your temper in front of half the department. You had just settled at one of the workstations when a voice spoke beside you.
“Morning.”
You looked up. Heather. You hadn’t spoken to her since Susan’s office. She looked tired. You probably did too.
“Morning.”
Silence. You opened your laptop. She remained standing there. Finally, she sighed.
“I heard you and Robby had a fight.”
You looked up slowly.
“I don’t think that’s your business.”
Her mouth tightened.
“I’m just saying… I’d hate for all this drama to affect your relationship.”
You stared at her. There it was again. That little comment. That little dig. Only this time, something was different. You weren’t angry. You were tired. Just… tired. You closed your laptop.
“Why are you doing this?”
She blinked.
“What?”
“Why?”
She folded her arms.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You sighed softly.
“That’s kind of the problem.”
She looked away. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then she shrugged.
“I guess I just don’t understand why everyone’s making this into such a big deal.”
You let out a slow breath.
“Because I don’t think you realize how your comments sound.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
You looked at her.
“I actually do.”
That seemed to surprise her.
“I think you say things without realizing how they come across.”
She looked uncomfortable.
“And I think I let it get under my skin more than I should have.”
Silence. Then she sighed.
“I’m not in love with him, you know.”
You blinked.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“No, but I think everyone assumes I am.”
You said nothing. She looked away.
“It ended years ago.” She laughed softly. “And honestly? We weren’t very good together.”
That made you smile a little.
“No?”
“No.”
A beat.
“He’s annoying.”
You couldn’t help it. You laughed. She did too.
Then a voice behind you said calmly, “I can hear both of you.”
You turned. Robby stood there holding a chart. Heather immediately looked horrified. You nearly laughed. He looked between the two of you.
“Should I be concerned?”
“No,” you said.
Heather sighed.
“Probably not.”
He looked suspicious. Then his eyes landed on Heather. Something seemed to click. His expression shifted.
“Actually… Dr. Collins? Can I speak with you for a minute?”
The entire nurses’ station went silent. You physically felt several people stop typing. Heather looked like she’d rather walk into traffic.
“Sure.”
Robby’s voice remained perfectly even.
“Private room?”
“Yep.”
She shot you one last look before following him. The second they disappeared, one of the nurses leaned over.
“Oh, I would pay money to hear that conversation.”
You snorted.
Princess whispered, “This is better than television.”
You covered your face.
“Oh my God.”
Ten minutes later, Robby returned. Alone. He walked up beside you.
“Everything okay?”
You looked up at him.
“You tell me.”
He huffed a laugh.
“Everything’s fine.”
“You have your chief face on.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
He sighed.
“Fine.”
“What happened?”
“We had a conversation.”
“Robby.”
He looked at you.
“Professional boundaries were discussed.”
You tried not to smile.
“You terrified her, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t terrify anyone.”
“Sure.”
He leaned closer.
“I may have strongly encouraged her to keep everyone’s personal relationships out of workplace conversations.”
You bit your lip. He looked at you carefully.
“Are you okay?”
Your expression softened.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
You nodded.
“I’m okay.”
His face relaxed.
“Good.”
You smiled. Then his pager went off. You both sighed. He looked at the screen.
“I have to go.”
“Go save lives, Dr. Robinavich.”
His mouth twitched. He leaned down and kissed you gently.
“You’re never going to stop calling me that, are you?”
SUMMARY: Jack is that stage in life where a day off can never really be a day off. He always finds something that needs fixing, and as his wife, you’ve grown accustomed to that. You don’t expect him to be so clumsy at it, and you don’t expect to get hurt helping him when the doctor becomes the patient.
NOTES: Injuries (laceration on the arm, fractured ankle), household accidents, mentions of blood, medical setting, established marriage, very sweet and selfless Jack, hurt/comfort vibes.
REQUESTED BY: @dillydallyy
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
The rhythmic, heavy thud of the mallet against wood had been echoing through the house for the better part of an hour. Jack was upstairs on the landing, finally tackling the squeaky floorboard that had been driving you mad for weeks. You were down in the kitchen, enjoying the quiet weekend and waiting for the kettle to boil so you could bring him a cup of tea.
The comforting routine shattered in an instant. A sudden, metallic crunch echoed down the stairs, followed by a heavy thud and a sharp, choked gasp of pure agony. The silence that immediately followed was heavy and terrifying.
"Jack?" you called out, your heart leaping into your throat. There was no answer, just the sound of low, ragged breathing. Dropping the mug onto the counter, you bolted up the stairs, your socks slipping slightly on the carpet as you rounded the corner to the landing.
Jack had collapsed against the wall, his face entirely drained of colour and slick with a sudden, cold sweat. His eyes were clamped shut, and his right hand was wrapped desperately around his left forearm. Dark, thick blood was already spilling through his fingers, pooling rapidly on the pale timber he had just been prying up.
"Fuck, Jack," you breathed, dropping to your knees beside him. The sheer volume of blood made your stomach drop, your hands hovering over him, trembling violently. You had seen him in his hospital scrubs a thousand times, completely unshakable in the face of trauma, but seeing him as the patient completely paralysed you.
Jack opened his eyes, the pupils blown wide with shock and pain. Even as his breathing hitched, the seasoned emergency doctor in him fought through the agony. He looked at your shaking hands and forced his voice to remain steady, though it came out as a strained, gravelly rasp.
"Hey, hey, look at me, sweetheart," Jack whispered, squeezing his eyes shut for a second as a fresh wave of pain hit him. "Don't look at the floor. Look at me. I need you to be my hands right now, okay? I slipped with the chisel. It’s deep."
"What do I do? Tell me what to do," you pleaded, your voice cracking as you tried to anchor yourself to his gaze.
"Go to the bathroom. Grab the first aid kit from the cabinet, and grab a clean towel," he instructed, his breath hitching as he shifted his weight. "Move fast, honey. Go on."
You scrambled to your feet, your socks skidding on the hallway runner as you burst into the bathroom. You grabbed the heavy medical kit and yanked a towel off the shelf, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Within seconds, you were back on the floor beside him, unfolding the towel with trembling fingers.
"Okay, I'm here. I have it," you said, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"Good girl," Jack murmured, his head leaning back against the wallpaper. "I need you to open the kit and get the thickest trauma dressing in there. If not, the towel will do. You need to apply direct pressure right over my hand. Don't be gentle, sweetheart. You have to push down hard."
You nodded, swallowing down the rising panic. You folded the towel into a thick pad and placed it directly over his bleeding arm. As Jack slowly pulled his own crimson-stained hand away, the sight of the jagged, deep laceration made your vision swim, but you didn't hesitate. You placed both hands on the towel and leaned your entire body weight into his arm.
Jack let out a sharp, agonised groan, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans as his body went rigid.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," you sobbed, tears finally blurring your vision.
"Don't be sorry," he panted, his forehead resting against your shoulder now, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "You're doing perfectly. Keep holding it like that. We need to stem the flow before I can try to stand up."
For a few minutes, the landing was silent save for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. You kept every ounce of your weight pressed onto his arm, feeling the warm pulse of his blood beneath the heavy fabric. Slowly, the bright red seeping through the white towel seemed to slow down, the direct pressure doing its job.
"Is it stopping?" you whispered, looking down at his pale face.
"It's slowing," Jack managed, offering a weak, strained version of his usual reassuring smile. "You're amazing, you know that? My brilliant girl. Now, we need to tie it off tight. Use the roller bandage from the kit. Wrap it over the towel, as tight as you can manage."
Working with one hand while keeping pressure with the other, you managed to fish out the heavy bandage. Under his quiet, patient whispers, you wrapped the fabric securely around his arm, pulling it taut until Jack gave a tight nod of approval.
"That’s it. That’s got it for now," Jack breathed, leaning back against the wall with a sigh of sheer exhaustion. His face was still ghostly pale, but the immediate, terrifying torrent of blood had been contained. "Now, can you grab your phone? We need to get the crew out here."
"It's on the top step," you said, turning your head to look at the mobile device resting just a few feet away near the banister.
You started to shift your weight to stand up, your muscles stiff from the tension. But as you moved, your foot found the slick, wet patch of blood that had splattered onto the edge of the exposed, loose floorboards. Before you could even register the lack of friction, your foot shot out from under you.
"Whoa—!" you cried out, your hands flailing for a grip that wasn't there.
Your momentum carried you sideways, right over the lip of the top step. With a sharp gasp of terror, you tumbled awkwardly down the first half-flight of stairs, your body bouncing painfully against the carpeted steps before you landed with a dull, heavy thud against the wall of the half-landing.
A searing, white-hot pain immediately exploded in your left ankle, so intense that it stole the air right out of your lungs. You lay there on your side, pinned to the floor by the sudden, throbbing agony, clutching your leg as tears stung your eyes.
"Honey? Sweetheart, talk to me!" Jack’s voice echoed down the stairwell, completely stripped of its professional calm. It was pure, unadulterated panic. "Are you alright? Answer me!"
"My ankle," you gasped out, your voice small and choked with pain. "Jack, I can't move it. It hurts so bad."
From the top of the stairs, you heard a heavy drag and a grunt of pain as Jack, completely disregarding his own severe injury, began crawling toward the edge of the landing. He looked down at you, his eyes wide with horror as he saw you curled into a ball on the landing below.
"Don't move, honey. Just stay completely still," Jack commanded, his voice thick with emotion as he held his bandaged arm tightly against his chest. "I'm coming down to you."
"Stay there, Jack, don't move!" you cried out, looking up at him through a blur of tears. The sight of him dragging himself toward the edge of the stairs, his face entirely grey and his newly wrapped bandage already showing a fresh blossom of crimson, was almost worse than the white-hot agony radiating from your ankle.
"I'm not leaving you down there, sweetheart," Jack panted, his voice strained as he carefully manoeuvred his weight onto his good arm, slowly lowering himself down the first step. Every movement was a battle against shock, his breath catching sharply in his throat with each hitch of his body. "Just keep breathing. Nice, deep breaths for me."
It took him what felt like an eternity, but Jack finally managed to slide down the half-flight of stairs, collapsing heavily onto the landing beside you. He let out a ragged groan, leaning his back against the wall and immediately reaching out with his uninjured right hand to cup your face. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, his touch warm and desperate.
"Look at me, honey. Let me see you," he murmured, his eyes scanning your face, looking for any signs of a head injury before his gaze drifted down to your left leg. "Where does it hurt the most? Is it just the ankle?"
"Yeah," you choked out, squeezing his hand tightly. "I just slipped on the... on the blood, Jack. I tried to grab the phone and my foot just went. It snapped so loud."
"Okay, okay, let me have a look. I'm going to be very gentle, I promise," he whispered, leaning forward slightly. With practiced, tender precision, his steady fingers gently hovered over your ankle, barely brushing the skin. Even that tiny movement made you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulder.
"I know, I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said softly, his brow furrowed in deep concern as he assessed the rapidly swelling, distorted joint. "It’s a nasty sprain, possibly a fracture. We need to get that elevated and iced, but first, we need to actually call the ambulance. Where's the phone?"
You pointed a shaking finger up toward the top step where your mobile was still resting, completely out of reach for both of you.
Jack let out a dry, breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Right. Plan B. My phone is in my back pocket. Do you think you can reach it? My left arm is completely useless right now."
Carefully shifting your weight while trying not to jar your leg, you slid your hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his phone. Your fingers were still trembling so hard you almost dropped it, but you managed to unlock the screen and hand it over to him.
Jack didn't dial the standard emergency number; instead, he tapped in a direct line straight to the local ambulance dispatch handling the Pitt’s intake area. He pressed the speaker button, setting the phone down on the carpet between you. Within two rings, a familiar, crisp voice boomed through the speaker.
"Ambulance dispatch, what is the nature of the emergency?"
"Hey, it's Jack Abbot," Jack said, leaning his head back against the wall, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative tone he used when directing a chaotic trauma bay. "Listen, I need a crew at my house. We've got a bit of a situation here."
There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by the sound of furious typing. "Jack? Dude, what’s gone on? You’re supposed to be off until Monday."
"Yeah, well, the world had other plans," Jack grunted, wincing as he shifted his bandaged arm. "I've managed to put a chisel through my left forearm. Deep laceration, heavy bleeding, but we've got a pressure dressing on it now. My wife just slipped on the landing trying to help me and has taken a tumble down the stairs. Suspected fractured left ankle, severe pain, non-weight bearing."
"Jesus, Jack, you don't do things by halves, do you?" he replied, his voice a mix of professional urgency and fond disbelief. "Alright, I’ve got a unit just three minutes away from your street. It’s Mac and Sally. They're en route now. Keep that pressure on your arm, and keep your wife still."
"Thanks. Tell them the front door is unlocked," Jack said before hanging up. He turned his attention back to you, his expression softening instantly as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Hear that? Three minutes, honey. You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you."
"I was trying to help you, and I just made it worse," you whispered, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes. "Now you're stuck on the floor because of me."
"Don't you dare worry about that," Jack chided gently, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled you as close to his side as he could manage without hurting either of your injuries. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "You stopped the bleeding, sweetheart. You saved me from a massive haemorrhage. If anyone is to blame, it’s me and my DIY projects."
A few minutes later, the heavy thud of the front door swinging open echoed from downstairs, followed by the hurried footsteps of two paramedics moving into the hallway.
"Jack? Where are you, buddy?" a loud, cheerful voice called out from the bottom of the stairs.
"Up on the half-landing, Mac!" Jack shouted back, his voice cracking slightly with the effort. "Mind your step as you come up, it’s a bit of a disaster."
Two paramedics, loaded down with trauma bags and an extraction chair, rounded the corner and stopped dead in their tracks. Mac, a burly man with a thick beard, stared at the two of you huddled together on the small landing. Jack pale and blood-stained, and you clutching a ballooning ankle.
Sally, his partner, let out a loud, astonished bark of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh, you have got to be joking. Jack, what on earth have you done to your poor wife?"
"I didn't do anything to her, she was trying to rescue me!" Jack protested, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way he winced as Mac knelt down beside him.
"Hm, likely story, doc," Mac teased, his hands already moving efficiently to check the pulse in Jack’s wrist below the bloody bandage. "Honestly, Jack, we leave you unsupervised for one weekend."
While Mac focused on Jack, Sally slid gracefully onto the floor next to you, opening her kit with a reassuring smile. "Alright, let's have a look at this leg. Jack’s a terrible patient, so you're my priority right now."
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of efficient, careful movement. Sally administered a dose of medication for your pain, which finally took the sharp, agonizing edge off your ankle, while Mac reinforced Jack’s dressing and got him a dose of something strong.
Despite their teasing, the paramedics were incredibly gentle, carefully loading you both onto separate carrying chairs to navigate the rest of the stairs. Jack refused to be loaded into the ambulance first, stubbornly waiting until you were securely inside so he could have his stretcher positioned right next to yours. The entire drive to the hospital, his hand never left yours, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your knuckles as he murmured sweet, groggy assurances that everything was going to be fine.
The moment the ambulance doors burst open at the Pitt, the familiar, sterile smell of antiseptic and the hum of bleeping monitors washed over you. But the usual professional quiet of the admissions bay was shattered the instant Mac and Sally wheeled your matching gurneys through the automatic sliding doors.
"Heads up, team, we've got a double intake!" Mac called out at the top of his lungs, a massive, mischievous grin on his face. "Your best doctor has managed to incapacitate the entire Abbot household."
The reaction was instantaneous. Langdon, who had been charting at the central desk, dropped his pen entirely, his jaw hitting the floor. "What the... Dr Abbot?"
Dana emerged from Bay 4, a clipboard tucked under her arm, but stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes darting from Jack’s heavily bandaged, blood-stained arm to your elevated, ballooning ankle. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. The hell did you do to this lovely lady, Jack?"
Within seconds, a small crowd of familiar faces converged on the two stretchers. Mel hurried over from the staff room, a half-eaten sandwich still in her hand, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and absolute amusement. "Oh my… are you okay? Well clearly not but… what happened?”
"I slipped on his blood!" you called out, the pain medication making you laugh weakly as the stretchers were wheeled side-by-side into the major trauma bays.
Robby walked out of the resuscitation unit, snapping off a pair of surgical gloves, his expression instantly melting into a look of profound, theatrical despair. He walked over to the foot of Jack’s bed, crossing his arms. "Abbot. I leave you in charge of your own home for twenty-four hours, and you bring your lovely wife into my ER on a stretcher? Explain yourself."
"It was a loose floorboard, Robby," Jack groaned, the morphine making his voice deep and slightly slurred, though he still managed to shoot a mean glare. "The chisel slipped. She was brilliant, actually. Total natural."
"And then she fell down the stairs because you're a terrible husband," Trinity chimed in, leaning against the doorframe of the bay with a massive smirk on her face. She looked over at you, giving you a sympathetic wink. "Don't worry, beautiful, we'll make sure his stitches hurt extra bad for making you go through this."
Samira pushed through the crowd, carrying a fresh bag of IV fluids and a splinting kit. She looked at the two of you, shaking her head in fond disbelief as she began setting up near your bed. "Right, let's get a look at this ankle, shall we?"
Despite the relentless teasing and the chorus of laughter echoing through the department, the underlying warmth and care from the staff were palpable. The curtains between your bays were pulled completely back, creating one large room so Jack could keep his eyes on you. Even as Samira gently examined your leg and Langdon began prepping Jack’s arm for a neat row of sutures, Jack kept his right hand stretched across the gap between the gurneys, his fingers hooked securely around yours.
"You're in good hands, sweetheart," Jack whispered, completely ignoring Trinity and Robby, who were currently debating which one of them got to write ‘DIY FAIL’ on his medical chart. He squeezed your hand tightly, his eyes soft with devotion. "They're going to fix us both up, and I promise you, I am never touching a tool again."
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Abbot," Langdon chuckled, pouring sterile saline over Jack’s forearm to clear away the dried blood. He winced on Jack's behalf as the true depth of the laceration was revealed. "Though looking at this, you won't be holding a chisel or a scalpel for at least a few weeks. You've sliced right down. You're lucky you missed the important stuff."
"I told you, she stopped the bleeding," Jack said, his voice thick with pride despite the sharp intake of breath he let out as Langdon administered the local anaesthetic around the edges of the wound. He kept his eyes locked onto yours, his grip on your fingers tightening as the needle did its work. "She was incredible, Langdon. Didn't even faint."
Over on your side of the bay, Samira was carefully wrapping a temporary fiberglass splint around your rapidly bruising ankle, having just come back from reviewing the digital X-rays that Robby had rushed through the scanner. "Well, your brilliant wife has a nasty grade-three sprain and a tiny fracture. No surgery needed, thank goodness, but you're going to be on crutches and a boot for a while."
"Hear that, honey?" Jack murmured, a look of profound relief washing over his pale features as the morphine and the local numbing agent finally took the edge off his pain. "No surgery. You're going to be just fine."
"I'm more worried about you," you admitted, your voice still a little breathless from the lingering adrenaline and the effects of the medication. "You look like you've been through hell."
Dana walked back into the bay, holding a selection of takeaway menus, placing them on the bedside table between your gurneys. "Right, since you two managed to completely ruin your Saturday, the department is buying dinner. Santos wants pizza, Mel wants Thai, so you two get the deciding vote. Consider it a consolation prize for having the most embarrassing admissions of the year."
"Pizza," Jack grunted without hesitation, earning a loud cheer from Santos, who was still lingering near the desk. Jack looked back at you, his thumb smoothing over your knuckles. "We'll get the one you like, sweetheart."
As Langdon methodically began placing neat sutures into Jack’s arm, the initial chaotic energy of the department began to settle back into its usual professional rhythm. Robby and Dana headed back to the central desk to handle a new influx of patients from the waiting room, leaving the curtains open just enough for the staff to keep an eye on their favorite patient duo.
By the time Jack’s arm was neatly bandaged and your leg was securely immobilized in a heavy boot, the evening sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, warm shadows across the trauma bay. A delivery driver had dropped off three massive boxes of pizza, and Samira had kindly brought over two cups of tea, served in the mismatched mugs from the staff room.
Jack managed to shift his gurney a fraction closer to yours, his right arm slung comfortably over the metal guardrail so he could remain completely connected to you. The exhaustion of the day was finally catching up to both of you, the quiet hum of the hospital a strangely comforting background noise compared to the terror on the stairs just hours earlier.
"I really am sorry, honey," Jack whispered, his voice soft and entirely devoid of the bravado he had shown in front of his colleagues. He leaned his head against the side of his pillow, looking at you with an expression of pure, unfiltered devotion. "I wanted to fix that stupid floorboard so you wouldn't trip on it, and I ended up putting you in a cast instead."
"We're a matching set now," you teased gently, reaching over to squeeze his uninjured hand, gesturing to his heavily wrapped arm and your massive black boot. "Besides, you heard the crew. We really don't do things by halves."
Jack let out a low, rumbling laugh, the sound warm and familiar as he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your skin. "No, I suppose we don't. But from now on, we are hiring a professional for absolutely everything. Next weekend, you and I are staying on the couch."
