He bends to tell the clerk something, but you can’t quite make it out through the screens and the noise happening in the rest of the room. Even when it's nearly midnight, the waiting room is jammed.

You meet him by the doors, and he holds out a hand to guide you through, wrapping it loosely around your arm, just above your elbow, to guide you to a room.

“I think I broke my wrist,” you tell him, holding up the hand in question.

Jack leads you to one of the empty rooms, shutting the door and then the curtains as you sit down on the bed. It’s been a little bit since you’ve been on nights with him, but he still seems to know you. To remember that you don’t like to make a fuss, to be the centre of attention.

He grabs the rolling stool and sits down, placing himself just in front of you at the foot of the bed. Your knees knock against his. Yours bouncing with worry, his warm and still.

“What happened?”

You wince at the thought of telling him. It’s embarrassing and stupid, but you know that having the full picture helps—you’ve pulled it out of patients enough times yourself—that you say it anyways.

“I was in the shower and slipped. I tried to catch myself and landed on it funny.” Before he can respond, you continue, “I know we’re not supposed to, and we tell people that, but it happened so fast and I-”

“Hey,” he stops you with a warm hand on your knee. You hadn’t even been aware it was still bouncing until then. “It’s alright, it’s our instinct. Can I take a look?”

Jack’s hands are held palm-up, and you reach out and set your wrist in them. His fingertips are calloused, a little scratchy against your skin where he touches you, but they’re just as gentle.

He prods at your skin, explaining each step and smirking a little when you finish his sentences. You know the drill, after all. And it helps to occupy your mind, helps you hold in your pained noises.

When he presses one spot, though, a hiss slips out, and Jack immediately retreats. “‘M sorry, honey.”

The pet name is a painkiller in itself.

“It’s okay,” you practically whisper.

He tests your range of motion next, apologizing softly each time he can tell you’re uncomfortable or hurting, even when you don’t say anything. He can tell how you’re feeling by the catch in your breath, by the way you hold it or scrunch your nose.

Jack doesn’t let go of your hand even when he’s finished. “I don’t think it’s broken, but we’ll get you an X-ray to be sure. And some painkillers in the meantime.”

“I’m okay.”

“Advil, at least,” he encourages.

He only lets you go when you nod, leaving the room and coming back only a couple minutes later with a bottle of Advil and a cup of water. He sits down in front of you again, and you take them from him one at a time as he hands them to you.

Once you’ve taken both, you say, “You don’t have to stay with me. I’m sure you’ve got other patients. Better things to do.”

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” he tells you. He says it so simply that there isn’t really any room for you to argue.

“Well, thanks, Dr. Abbot. For taking care of me.”

“Just Jack. Please.”

“Okay. Thank you, Jack.”

It comes out quiet, unsure, but his knees are brushing yours again and his head is bent close to yours so he can keep his eyes on yours. You don’t miss the way they seem to soften when you say his name, like he’s never heard it spoken like that before.

While Abbot gives his typical obnoxious pep talk about nightcrawlers and the wild west, you stand to the side while shifting on your feet and studying the electronic board ahead—its colorful fields filled to the brim, as always, with cases that never seem to cease in volume.

When the speech finally concludes, you jump slightly, then turn to walk away... Until Abbot calls for you.

You swing back around to him with a forced cheery smile that doesn't quite meet your eyes.

"You alright?" he asks while resting a calloused hand against your upper arm in concern.

You nod while glancing past him. "Yeah. Fine."

"Didn't join in tonight. Getting tired of your old man already?"

Your eyes flit back to his and you shake your head. "Just thinking about getting to waiting patients." Swerving around Jack—not wishing to give him an opportunity to dig any deeper than surface-level—you head in the direction of an occupied trauma bay.

In the middle of a debridement, a patient's local anesthetic wore off—something you were meant to be keeping in mind, as they were going to require further dosages as you worked to ensure that the site was kept good and numbed while you cleaned—and were made more than aware of that fact when they started howling in pain due to your negligence.

Gently pushed aside when Abbot came sprinting into the room, you stood idly by and sniffled quietly while your eyes filled with tears and apologies poured forth from your lips. "I'm so sorry," you'd whimpered while wiping at your cheeks and mentally berating yourself to get it together!

Once the patient was given a dosage of anesthesia and another resident was summoned to take over, Jack pulled you into an empty room to check in with you.

"Sweetheart, what has been going on with you?" he asks gently with crossed arms.

Wrapping your own around yourself, you shake your head in denial. "I just forgot by getting lost in what I was doing. I'm so—" you clamp a hand over your mouth. "I'm so sorry."

Jack sighs, then takes a step forward and does something unexpected: he wraps his arms around you before tucking you beneath his chin and safely against his chest. "You look exhausted. Are you not sleeping well?"

You yawn and decide to give in. You screwed up, so he deserves explanation. Plus, you're too beat to try and worm your way out of this. "I think I have SAD."

You can't help but feel the least bit pitiable for it. You're surrounded by people with broken bones, burns, lacerations, and unidentified chest pain. Meanwhile, you're in a depressive mood because it's gotten cold outside.

He hums. "You taking anything for it?"

You shake your head. "I had a script for vitamin D once, but I don't feel like it made me any happier. Or any less stressed, for that matter."

Jack runs a hand up your back. "I thought you seemed off lately. I didn't know if it was something outside of here, or work itself."

Your eyes water. "All of it."

"Startin' to worry me. You're not taking breaks, you're taking on more cases than you can handle—"

You pull away while wiping your tear-stricken cheeks with the sleeve of your undershirt. "I'll be fine."

Truth is, you had hoped that by overwhelming yourself here, your bouts of sadness would subside because you were more than occupied and didn't have time to think about anything else.

Jack makes to reach out to you, but you turn and head for the door. "I have patients to get to. I'll be more mindful from now on. I'm sorry, Dr. Abbot."

He watches with disappointment as the door clicks shut behind you.

You're standing idly by and observing Dr. Garcia perform an emergency thoracotomy on a patient with penetrating trauma when you end up having to squeeze your thighs together due to a suddenly straining bladder. Continually shifting your weight from one foot to the other in hope of relief does you little good, though.

Just another way you've been neglecting your own wellbeing lately: by not even bothering to use the restroom regularly.

Hopefully it doesn't result in a UTI. It'd just be another issue to add onto the already growing pile.

Abbot glances to you curiously and watches as you rotate your neck and squeeze your eyes shut before popping open again. Trailing his own lower, he notes the familiar little dance you seem to be doing and sighs.

This damn girl.

Discreetly, Jack silently crosses the room to reach you, then turns and leans in close. "Go to the restroom and relieve yourself."

You glance up to him and blink.

"Go potty, sweetheart," he mumbles before stepping away.

You turn and exit without anyone noticing.

The next time Jack takes note of your obvious self-neglect is when he's passing by the computer station just as you're making to stand, and you sway on your feet before thankfully catching yourself on a nearby counter.

Circling back around, he settles a hand on your hip and guides you in the direction of the employee lounge.

"What're you—"

He stops just outside the door and slides his hands into his pockets while nodding toward the room's interior. "Go get a snack. I'm not going to have you passing out from hypoglycemia."

You roll your eyes, then open your mouth to insist that you're fine and will eat a Snickers later, until he crosses his arms and steps forward with an unwavering expression painted across his features. "Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

You stare blankly at him. "I'll be okay. I had a protein shake before I left the house. I'll have a granola bar later."

Jack grips your shoulders and spins you around while ushering you into the break room. "You're going to have a cup of Ramen, which you will finish every bite of, as well as a juice box, and only once both are on your stomach will I deem you fit to return to work."

A juice box? What, are you five?

"I really am fine," you insist.

He blocks the doorway. "Since you seem incapable of looking after yourself, I'm taking up the obligation instead."

You glance away in humiliation. "I'm not an invalid."

Jack sighs with remorse. "Honey, I didn't mean it like that. But you're worrying me sick. How can you expect to properly look after your patients if you're continually putting your own needs aside?"

Walking further into the room, you yank a container of Ramen off the counter. "I just have to get through to Spring. I'll be fine."

"That is months away," he counters. "So until then?"

You peel the lid off the thin cardboard bowl and toss it into the trash. "I eat my Ramen and drink my stupid juice box," you mumble while filling the container up to the designated line at the sink.

You're slurping up a mouthful of seasoned noodles when Robby waltzes into the lounge for a bottle of water before he clocks out.

Grabbing a cold one from the fridge, he looks at you with a sportive expression. "I'm sorry," he begins with a chuckle. "Are you having a snack in the middle of your shift?"

You narrow your eyes while chomping down on your noodles—sending them sliding back into the bowl. "Jack made me."

He leans back against the fridge. "Jack made you?" Robby asks incredulously before nodding toward the table. "He make you drink the juice box, too?"

You sip at it, then mumble your response. "Yes."

He softens then, with only a slight, playful grin now upon his lips. "Are you alright?"

You shrug while stirring your noodles. "Just not myself lately."

Robby's tennis shoes squeak quietly against polished tile as he heads for the table you're seated at. Pulling out a chair, he seats himself across from you before leaning back. "Something happen?"

"SAD."

He sighs. "Are you taking any—"

You hang your head. "I swear you're both two halves of a whole."

"Guessing he asked the same thing?" he inquires while unscrewing the lid on his bottle.

You return to your noodles. "Yes."

"And?" he asks while leaning forward.

"No."

Robby shakes his head while sliding his clasped hands atop the table. "Do one of us need to write you a prescription?"

Now finished with your noodles, you go in for the juice box so you can finally get back to work. "I'll be fine."

"And how many times have you fed that line to my supposed 'other half'?"

You glance to him and sip the remaining dregs with a frown. Releasing the plastic straw, you reply quietly. "Couple times."

Robby leans back with a sigh and a hand planted atop his thigh. "Well, I suggest you take Dr. Abbot's advice and do a better job of looking after yourself going forward."

He rises, then comes to your side and rests a hand between your shoulder blades while looking down at you. "Otherwise, one of us will. And speaking for myself, I already have enough patients to worry about as it is. So do you."

You crumple the juice box before standing. "I will," you supply—desperate for them both to crawl off your back. "You don't need to worry, Robby," you finish while tossing the item into the trash.

Sliding a tender hand down the side of your neck, he purses his lips. "I hope not." He heads for the door. "Need to be able to look forward to seeing my favorite girl every night before I go home."

Robby turns the handle to finally head out. "Don't know what I'd do if she wasn't here for me to set eyes on."

You watch as he leaves, completely taken aback by his comment. But it nevertheless causes you to warm all the more toward him, now knowing he's so fond of you.

When you wake the next evening, it's with a renewed vow to yourself, your patients, and coworkers: you'll be making every effort going forward to do considerably better. More bathroom breaks—including stops for water afterward—and you have a shopping bag full of nonperishable snacks you plan to lock away in a drawer at the computer station to munch on when you're charting.

Small efforts, but all good steps in the right direction.

Standing in your bathroom, cast in only the soft yellow glow of a nightlight—too early...or, rather, late for the glare of an overhead bulb—you brush your teeth while doing your best to keep your eyes open.

And then a firm, heavy knock resounds from your front door. Your plastic toothbrush clattering from your hand and landing in the sink, you quickly swipe your phone from the porcelain countertop and when you check your outside camera, your jaw falls open.

"Is—Is everything okay? Did something happen at the hospital, or with Robby, or—"

Abbot raises a brow while easing his way inside and over the threshold of your home while brushing past. "Robby always the first thing on your mind in the morning?"

You cross your arms while turning around—curious as to the bag he holds. "No. You two just seem attached at the hip."

He blows a raspberry, then hands you the bag—which seems to have some heft to it—before bending at the waist with a groan to untie his shoes.

"What is this?" you ask while gently lifting the item.

"Breakfast," he replies. Tossing his shoes to the side, Jack stands upright while settling his hands against his back and lightly stretching.

"W-Why?"

He takes the bag again, then plants a palm against the small of your back. "Kitchen?"

You pad in that direction.

Once you've reached it, Jack reaches up and switches on the hood light atop the stove—you're thankful that he didn't go for the ugly hanging chandelier overhead instead, which you plan to replace when you finally have the funds—before opening and closing cabinets in search of a plate.

"I can just eat it with my hands," you say while peeling the brown paper bag open—not that you even have an idea as to what's inside.

You assume some sort of sandwich or biscuit.

You've only just removed plastic utensils when he slides a plate in front of you and snatches the bag away. As he's pouring the contents of a steaming breakfast bowl onto it, you look at him. "How...How did you know where I live?"

He smirks, then steps away to throw away the now empty plastic container and bag.

"Wait," you blurt. "Did you look in my employee file?"

"Took down your cell, email, and home address," he retorts before glancing toward the hallway you emerged from but a few minutes earlier. "Bathroom this way?" he asks while pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

"Yes..." you reply with furrowed brows while watching him disappear around a corner.

Talk about making one's self at home...

Jack is satisfied to see you cleaning the plate in front of you while also sipping on the bottle of orange juice he purchased.

You bristle at the sound of his heavy, ambling footfalls, and open your mouth to begin hounding him with questions until you feel a brush suddenly being run through your hair.

You jerk in your seat and a forkful of scrambled eggs plop back onto the plate in front of you. "What're you doing?"

"Your hair. What's it feel like?"

You toss down the fork before spinning around. "Why're you doing this? The—The breakfast, and you having my information, and now trying to—"

"I told you," he says while settling his hands on his hips. "I am taking up the mantle of your personal babysitter. At least until the seasons change." He shrugs. "Probably until well after, if I'm being honest." He circles his finger. "Turn back around."

"But—"

He leans in close while gripping the back of your chair. "Finish your breakfast, young lady. Now."

You gulp at his demanding tone, and ultimately do as you're told.

You raise a brow at the feel of him parting your hair before consistently running a finger through it and tightening as he goes. "Are you braiding my hair?" you ask between chews.

He hums in response.

"How do you know how?"

He snorts. "These hands can do more than just hold a scalpel." He happens to slide a finger down the back of your neck. "And braid hair, but that's a conversation for another time."

You remain silent while sipping at tangy OJ.

"There was a woman I served with. Hurlston was her name. Her daughter was only a few months old when she got deployed. Got into her mind that she needed to know how to do all these fancy hairstyles for whenever she got older. So, she ordered one of those big fuckin' Barbie doll heads and practiced on it constantly. Complicated shit.

"When there's down time in the Army, there's a few things you can do: read, write letters, watch movies, some plays games... She did hair. Sometimes, I watched when I got bored with a Tom Clancy novel. Learned how to do just a basic braid that way. French? Had her teach me that."

Your plate now being clean, you swirl your juice around to occupy your hands. "Why? Just...boredom?"

Jack shrugs while tying a band he found in your medicine cabinet around the end. "That. And...if I ever got married again, or had a daughter of my own, I figured it'd be something worth knowing how to do."

He squeezes your shoulders while taking the plate to slip into the dishwasher. "Finish your juice and then we're going once you're dressed."

Jack seems to be set on going the extra mile with this. Such as him not allowing you to so much as carry your own bag, and when you slide into the passenger seat...

"Ok, I can get my own seatbelt—" you sigh with irritation as he clasps it into place anyway.

Placing one hand on your seat's headrest and his other forearm across your lap, Jack remains close while speaking. "I am only gonna say this once, so you need to listen."

You draw your knees inward and keep your eyes on his arm before finally meeting his gaze again.

"You need someone to look after you for the next few months. Sweetheart, I refuse to turn a blind eye when someone that I care deeply, deeply for is suffering in silence. All your 'I'm fines' are bull, and you know it. So, until the change in seasons—hell, probably even past that, given where we stand, like I said earlier—you can consider me glued to your side. That means giving you designated break times at work, ensuring you're eating three square meals a day, as well as snacks, bath time here at your home or mine, bedtime—whatever I need to do to ensure that you're being looked after the way you not only need to be, but deserve."

Your chin wobbles. "I'm not a child, Jack. I can—"

"No, but if you need someone to father you—or...or just act like a surrogate husband when things get dark, then baby, that's what I'm here for. Alright? All the shit you're having trouble carrying right now? Put it on me. I can handle it. Okay? I am not losing you to depression—seasonal or otherwise. Because, sure, right now maybe it's forgetting to eat or use the restroom, but what about when you don't have the energy to bathe, or the mental fortitude to get out of bed every evening?"

You sniffle while settling a palm atop the back of his hand. "Are you sure?"

He slides his hand out from beneath your own, and cups your cheek. "My purpose at work is obvious. Outside of it?" he swipes a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Honey, you're it. And I couldn't be more thrilled."

Jack sort of moves you into his home in the middle of the fall season. Nothing drastic like furniture, but he does have you pack up the basics: clothes, toiletries, hobbyist materials like your laptop, some books, a journal, and so on. And as your newly designated caretaker, he only thinks it fair that he pay your rent and utilities while you're away, since he's the reason for your sudden absence from your domicile.

He once makes a joke while giving you a bath—yes, something which most certainly sent you reeling the first time he drew one for you—that if you give up your lease, then he won't have to worry about checking on dripping faucets once snow starts to fall.

In way of repayment, whenever you're both off, you try doing chores and general tidying up around his house while he watches TV or works on bullet reloading. Until your pacing and utterly inane babbling finally does Jack's nerves in...

After yanking you into his lap one afternoon in the living room and practically cradling you in his arms while threatening to shove his thumb in your mouth if you didn't calm the hell down, you finally got the message that you needed to sit and shut up for awhile.

Now, he gives you designated chores on a chart on the fridge for you to do a few times a week, so as to occupy you, and time set aside for you to talk your little heart out where he listens until you've run out of words. He adores talking with you, but God if you can't be a chatterbox at times when you get excited.

It honestly gets to a point that, when you're outside of the ED—which you're once again flourishing in because of Jack's consistent, precise direction—you almost wholly turn your mind off and otherwise leave it in more capable, trusted hands because you feel so safe and taken care of with him.

Jack drives you home, bathes you, puts you in clean PJs, makes you dinner, and even tucks you in right next to him every morning.

He'd initially tried out the arrangement of giving you his bed—he refused to listen to your protestations when you insisted it be the other way around—while he would sleep on the pullout couch, but it didn't last long because of his back.

Turned onto your side with Jack behind you, he runs a calloused palm beneath your camisole and up your back, trying to coax you to sleep. "Do you need a cup of warm milk?" he whispers.

You pop open a curious eye. "That actually sort of sounds disgusting."

He smirks. "I thought so, too, but figured it worth offering if you thought it'd help."

He tugs the hem of your camisole up to just below your breasts, then returns to massaging your back. "There's another tried and true method that usually helps get me to sleep."

You close your eyes again. "Hm?"

He grows quiet for a moment. "Be easier to get started on if you took your clothes off."

You sigh in irritation. "I don't think my attending is supposed to say things like that to me."

He chuckles. "I think that ship sailed when I appointed myself your caregiver, sweetheart."

Rolling onto your other side, you drag yourself closer, then burrow into the warmth his bare chest provides. "Goodnight."

Cupping the base of your skull, he tilts your head back and brushes a kiss over your lips. "Good morning."

You tangle your limbs around him before making to count up to a hundred in an attempt to finally drift off.

"Maybe we should move to Alaska," he mumbles. "Then there'd be no reason for this to ever end."

You shake your head while giggling. "Go to sleep."

Jack's eyebrows shoot up. He takes a look around, and you're struck by the realization that you're still at work, offering to have your boss smell you. You should turn and run, but then you consider the fact that just yesterday in the very same ED, Jack did give you a hundred bucks to spend on yourself. Sugar daddy shit, you think. This could get complicated, more so than it already is. But, honestly? A little mid-shift sniff might not be the worst thing in the world.

Jack seems to think so too, because he nods. His eyes scan the surrounding area. He must deem it safe, because wordlessly, he leans in. You bare your neck, the spot where you had rubbed your perfume-covered wrists. Wait, your wrists! Why aren't you offering up your wrists?

It's too late to ask that question, because Jack inhales, long and slow. You hold your breath, eyes fluttering as you attempt to ignore the pounding of your heart.

"Smells– Smells great," Jack pulls away, clearing his throat. You try not to look too disappointed when he smiles tightly at you, "What else?"

You blink, "Uh… nothing. That's it."

Jack scowls, "Seriously? I gave you a hundred bucks. Why didn't you spend it all?"

"I did."

"On two things?"

"Dr. Abbot, that's just how expensive this stuff is. Why do you think I was going to just buy the drugstore one?"

Shit, now you feel bad. You should have just lied, told Jack that you cleared out the store. It would make him so happy, but the idea of lying to Jack after you're already indebted to him makes you feel ill.

"I told you to let me know if you needed more. Why didn't you?"

"Because I don't!" Jack shakes his head in disappointment. You press, "Jack, you gave me a hundred bucks. One hundred bucks that you didn't need to!"

Jack nods, chewing the inside of his lip. He sighs, and when you think he's done with this matter, Jack says, "Why don't we go together?"

"Huh?"

"We'll go together, you just pick out what you want and I'll use my card."

The offer before you is tempting, incredibly so. A blank check. You've never had one of those before, and at Sephora? It's almost too good, but you can't let your fucking boss become your sugar daddy. No way.

"That is an incredibly kind gesture, Jack, but I… I can't say yes."

Jack shrugs, "Okay. Well, we're still going."

"Jack–"

He raises his hand, "Not up for debate, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. He has got to stop calling you that.

"No, it's not. Because I can't let you do that, Dr. Abbot."

"Look, you can't afford the things you like, and I'm offering to foot the bill," Jack puts a hand on your shoulder. He leans in. "So do you want nice make-up for free or no?"

*****

"It's not gonna break back here?" You say, shutting the trunk of Jack's car. You offered to put his wheelchair in the back. It's the least you can do, considering that for the last hour and a half, Jack followed you through Sephora, taking every product you merely tested on your hand and dropping it in the basket that sat on his lap.

When all was said and done, Jack paid five hundred and eighty-three dollars. You could have dropped dead right at the cash register.

"What is?" Jack asks, sticking his head out of the window.

"The chair?"

Jack scoffs, "No. She's fine."

"It doesn't need to be—?"

He hits the side of the car twice, "She's fine. Get in."

Jack doesn't have to tell you again. You round the car and hop into the passenger seat, where your (heart-stoppingly large) bag of makeup sits on the floor.

Jack waits until you buckle to start the car. He drives carefully, eyes glued to the road. You, however, keep yours on him.

You decide to break the silence, "So, are you like a pay pig or something?"

Jack blinks, "A what?"

So… not a pay pig. Good to know.

"Are you… are you trying to be my sugar daddy?"

Jack pulls a hand from the steering wheel, swiping it down his face, "No, Jesus, sweetheart. No. I… I like to help. I have a lot of money, and you don't."

"Lots of people don't have money."

Jack puts the hand back on the wheel, "Listen, do you want it or not? Because I can drive back and return it all."

Your eyes widen, "No, no! I'm not saying not to do this, just…" You bite your lip, debating whether or not you actually want to do this. Fuck it. "Usually when a man spends a shit ton of money on a woman, they expect…" Sex. Okay, maybe you don't want to bring that up with your boss, even if this situation is weird as anything. "They expect something in return."

"No, sweetheart, no. Shit, I'm sorry. I– I don't expect anything from you."

You ignore the way your heart sinks. Jack is your boss, you tell yourself. Your boss. Your boss. Your boss.

"Nothing? Jack, you just spent six hundred dollars on me. On top of the hundred dollars from yesterday."

Jack grows quiet. He pouts before nodding, "I did. And I'd do it again and still not expect anything from you. Got it?"

You bite your lip, "Got it."

From then on, it's nothing but silence in the car. He keeps the windows down. It doesn't do much. You wonder what it would be like to drive with him outside of the city, where Jack can really drive. Windows down, high speed, the wind in your hair.

You bite the inside of your cheek, heat rising to your face. Just because Jack decided that you're his charity case of the month doesn't mean that you should be fantasizing about road tripping with him.

You try your best to wipe that image from your mind until, finally, Jack is pulling over in front of the familiar exterior of your apartment building.

"This is me," you try to joke. "Uh, thank you, Dr. Abbot."

You get out of the car, your bag of splendors in your hands. You close the car door, but the car doesn't move.

Jack wrings his hands together in his lap, "Could we talk more?"

"Oh," your heart begins to pound. You step closer to the car. "Yeah, of course."

"Great, um, over dinner maybe? I think there's some things we should talk about."

"Dinner?" You echo.

Jack's neck flushes, "Or now, if—"

"No, no! Dinner's fine, Dr. Abbot." Trying to remain casual, you tack on, "Maybe I can finally pay."

Jack's lips curl, "Eh, maybe. I'll text you?"

You nod. "Sounds good." With one last smile, you turn, making your way to your place.

“No— yes. I had a wife, of course I know what—“ Jack shuts his eye, pinching the bridge of the nose. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again, “I’m asking about the drugstore part.”

“You don’t know what a drugstore is.”

“No— Jesus, you’re killing me here. Drugstore mascara. What is drugstore mascara?”

“Oh,” you cock your head, crossing your arms in front of you. “Uh, it’s just cheaper. You can find it at like, you know, the drugstore.”

“Cheaper?” Jack echoes. “Is it good?”

You shrug, “Not as good as the real deal, but I’m not about to drop thirty bucks for, like, a better formula.” You look to Jack, whose face indicates absolutely zero understanding of what you’re talking about.

“Just buy the better one.”

You blink, “Did you forget the thirty dollars part or…?” Maybe you ask that question with a little more attitude than is appropriate, but it’s not like talking to your boss at work about mascara is the most professional conversation. “I’m a resident, Dr. Abbot. I’m not making the kind of cheese where I can just splurge on makeup.”

Jack nods as though he understands, but his eyes are distant. You smile at him awkwardly. Just as the sense to return to charting hits you, Jack asks, “What’s your venmo?”

“Huh?”

Jack reaches into the back pocket of his camo cargo pants. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through it casually, “Give me your venmo account.”

“Why?” You ask, not because you actually don’t know, but to beg for an out. You don’t think your heart can handle the thought of your hot attending giving you money for makeup. Just the thought makes your skin feel tight.

“Thirty bucks is nothing for me, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Your knees buckle.

“I can’t let you do that.”

Jack turns back to your phone, still in his grip. He searches for the venmo app, an act that should feel invasive, but you’re too flustered to think like that. He finds your account, then returns to tap at his own device.

“It was your birthday last month, right?” Jack asks. He does one final

“Uh… four months ago.” You look down at your phone, where a notification comes through, lighting up your screen.

Jack Abbot paid you $100.00 - Make-up - Your Venmo balance is now $100.00.

“Happy birthday.”

“Oh my— Dr. Abbot, this is—“

“Nope,” Jack puts his hand up, shaking his head. “Don’t want to hear it. Let me know if you need more, okay? I mean it.”

“Uh, okay, thank you,” your words come out like a question.

“Don’t mention it.”

With that, Jack is gone. You stare at the phone screen, only one thought swirling in your head.

Is Jack Abbot auditioning to be your fucking sugar daddy?

*****

Distantly, somewhere in the back of your frazzled and half-mush brain, you wonder if his jaw is sore – if he's really enjoying it as much as his humping and moaning seem to be giving away. Does he really get this much pleasure out of something as simple as eating you out?

But it's not that simple, no– not to Spencer.

For Spencer, it's the concept of your pleasure, the show you unawaredly put on: the hitches in your breath each time he puts his tongue on your clit again, the low moan when he sucks, the breathy please as you beg him to go faster. The way your hips circle and stutter beneath the hold his arms have on them, it's the way you sigh his name – low and dreamy as your back arches of the sheets when he makes you cum.

Spencer enjoys it all – craves it all, always. He's barely even lucid at this point. Your slick a most sweet elixir, throwing him deeper and deeper into a lust-filled haze till he's mindlessly rutting into the mattress and moaning into your core.

He wants to taste you again, taste your sweet liquor as you cum for him, again.

How can he not when your so pretty like this? taste as addictive as you do? make him feel half-insane as you moan out his name and grind your hips down onto his tongue – greedily asking for more, always wanting more, just as he so desperately does. You're the same as him, you want more, more, more – and he'll always so oh, so eagerly provide.

Your thighs are wet and sticky and Spencer seems to revel gleefully in the fact – he's made them like this, he's why your cunt is wet with slick, why your face is covered in tears and few smudges of mascara.

Spencer's mouth is hot on your pussy as he continues his work. He plunges two long and slender fingers inside of your, hooking them up as he moves them in-and-out, all the while sucking on your swollen clit.

"fuck," your back bows off the mattress. You're already so close – was close the moment he put his tongue on you again not even a second after your last orgasm.

"Spencer, please–" you don't know what you plea for – don't know if it's for mercy or for damnation. You're not sure if you should pull his head closer by the hand in his hair, or move away to stave off your orgasm. You're not sure you can handle more, even if you want it, you can't guarantee that another orgasm won't break you. But it doesn't matter, Spencer's movements are relentless, and either way he'll get you there – he needs to make you cum. Your hand in his hair remains neutral.

The coil in your stomach tightens, and you can already feel the familiar sweet, honeyed sensation fill you up. Warmth moving through your nerves and seeping deep into your bones. Your eyes are already closed, eyes sightlessly moving around beneath your lids as if caught in a restless dream — and you almost feel like you are in one: some feverish, psychosomatic sex dream.

Spencer efforts double, almost like he can notice the proximity of your orgasm, telepathically able to predict when the sensation is about to flood you even before you've been made aware yourself. His hips grind down harder against the mattress as he, seemingly unaware, tries to make himself cum to the sweet sounds of your pleasure.

His fingers move deeper, motions precise. The pads of his fingers nudge that soft spot deep in your cervix, and your legs are clamping closed, only held open by his bobbing head.

"Spencer!" you moan, "too much, fuck– please, honey, please," soft words bubble from your lips, your brain too pleasure-frazzled to form any other, more coherent requests.

Spencer's fingers continue their movements, his tongue moves up and down your cunt, before he rips out his fingers to stuff his face right in the centre of you to get a good taste, his nose brushing against your clit as he does so. You reward him with a cry, and he gifts you back his own moans. His sounds pressed deep into your cunt, making vibrations reverberate from your core to your chest, wrecking your body tremors as they flow through you.

He sucks and sucks, drinking your juices like a man depraved and dying of thirst. Spencer's always been an eager lover.

The coil begs to snap, stretched far too taught. His tongue plunges deep inside you, tasting along the spongy walls of your cunt.

All it takes is one simple movement from Spencer. His thumb circles your clit once, twice, his nose nudges your clit closer to his thumb – and you're screaming.

"Spencer!" you cry out as your back arches off the mattress completely. Your hips still held down by Spencer's strong arms intertwined around them, holding you hostage to his pleasure.

Moan after moan releases from your throat, mindlessly spoken words mixing in the middle: some please, some Spencers, a few cuss words in the bundle.

Despite the intensity you feel, the electricity that increases second by second, your hips act on a mind of their own. As every alarm in your friend brain goes off, telling you to stop the stimulation before you go insane, your hips yet continue to move, jerky circles following Spencer's still ongoing torment.

And Spencer's doesn't deprive you of any pleasure – his tongue still rapidly laps at your juices. The movements of his thumb on your clit are gentle, however. Slow, deliberate and soft circles.

Spencer doesn't fully slow down though, and before you can consider pulling him away with your weakened grip on his hair, Spencer's movements stutter. His body wracks with tremors, the movements of his mouth on you spasmodic. His hips thrash against the sheets. Spencer's movements are sporadic and shaky as his own cum erupts through his aching, hard cock.

Spencer's eyes roll far back into his skull, and you lean your head down to watch as his back bows while he whimpers and mewls against your pussy as he ruins the fabric of his boxers.

His hips continue to jerk, and he lays some soft, open-mouthed kisses on you as he rides out the high of a most divine feeling.

When his hips still, and sounds come back into focus, Spencer's hands loosen on you as he begins his ascent up your body, too eager to share the sweet taste of you on your tongue.

"mhmm," he hums against your pubic mound, laying a wet kiss as his handa move up to caress your body.

"you made me cum, pretty girl," he whispers against your stomach, you feel the curve of his lips around every word. "fuck, your sweet cunt and pretty sounds made me cum," another kiss laid higher up, "made me feel so good,"

You hum back in reply, unable to fully form a sentence yet.

"Didn't even need to try," he murmurs, and it's true. Spencer can cum from just looking at you, from your soft sounds and breathy whimpers. It's happened before, and it almost happened tonight when you moaned out his name all dreamy and dainty as he made you cum that first time.

"You sounded so pretty, too," his words carry on as his kisses move higher. He lays a wet kiss on your sternum, quickly darting out his tongue to lick a drop of sweat of your skin.

His big hands move all over you, from your hip to around your waist, then up to caress your chest, thumbs running over your nipples, before Spencer decides to taste them instead.

His hands wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as he settles himself between your legs.

His takes one breast into his mouth, sucking at the plump skin, head bobbing as he kisses and licks at your chest. His tongue swipes over your nipple, once, twice, three, five times till your hoarse voice whimpers out your pleasure – much to his satisfaction. He moves to repeat the same movements on the other breast.

Once he's satisfied, he releases you with a pop, the sound obscene and loud, contrasting your soft pants.

"Did you feel good, baby?" he speaks the words now against the side of your neck. You nod in response, your jaw softly meeting the side of his face as you do. Spencer chuckles at the contact, and moves out of the cervix of your neck to properly look at you instead.

His brown eyes meet yours. This close, you can make each individual flick of gold in his eyes, each green strand the decorates the brown.

"Tell me," he requests, soft and gentle. He kisses you tenderly on the lips. "tell me how good it felt,"

"So good, Spence," you reply, voice rough with use, whilst you wrap your hands around his neck, one burrowing into his soft curls. His eyes flutter as your nails lightly scrape his skull, and he feels a low buzz at the contact.

"Good," he kisses you again, satiated and satisfied with your answer.

It seems to you like Spencer's gotten his fill, for now. He's only made you cum, what? 5 or 6 times?

He kisses you softly, and you hope that Spencer's settling to rest with you.

He kisses you slow and soft, humming gently against your lips. He lays one kiss on your temple, another on your forehead, and one on each of your closed eyelids as you begin to settle and relax against the pillows, your brain wandering off as you lose time between each kiss and the next; your brain dozes off for half-seconds as the atmosphere quiets.

so calm....so quiet

Your grip on Spencer loosens, the entrancing, post-euphoria haze thickens and stretches time as sounds around you mute and an exhausted smile settles across your face as you give into that weightless feeling and finally rest.

—

Spencer's hands wander downwards, yet again, his fingers settling on your clit as he aligs his once more hard cock with your entrance.

Liked reading this? >> Give this a go

A/N — some late night Spencer thoughts. Been wanting to right for dr. pretty boy for a while now.

+ experimenting with shorter fics now, hopefully I'll write more like this? also it's not properly edited if u can't tell ⊙⁠﹏⁠⊙

Feedback is always wanted & appreciated!

He was well aware of the small scar on your hip bone. Or the mole resting at the back of your thigh. Or the way you disliked caffeine, because every time you drank it, it increased your heart rate drastically. Which was why you always judged him every time he had a cup of coffee in his hand, especially with the amount of sugar he never seemed to stop adding.

"That is definitely not healthy," you would always say, to which he simply responded with a small peck on your lips. It was his way to shut you up without saying anything.

He also knew how soft you actually were underneath that hard exterior you always carried. You were an enigma the first time you joined the team, but Spencer always had a soft spot for mystery, and solving you became his mission even when he wasn't the best at maintaining conversations. He remembered making a fool of himself when he talked to you, stuttering about one of the random facts engraved in his brain.

But you still listened to him, and for once in his life, he finally found someone who didn't mind hearing him talk. It was nice to have somebody who found his knowledge interesting, and with that thought in mind, it didn't take long for him to take an interest in you.

Not that he wasn't interested at first, because honestly, you were a splendid sight when you first walked through the door. It was more so an interest that was considered surpassing a simple friendship. An interest that had him push his confidence into asking you out.

Spencer never pegged himself as someone who would be content having a significant other in his daily routine—his past relationships never seemed to work out, after all—but the more time he spent with you, the more he realized he was actually in pure bliss. It seemed as if you had cast a spell, drawing him deeper into your presence, a magnetic force of affection that went beyond the superficial. Every smile, every touch, seemed to emanate a radiant heat, and he couldn't help but be entranced by the sheer magnitude of your warmth.

Especially at this moment, staring into your eyes as they slowly fluttered open from a long night of slumber, he found himself leaning forward. You were so warm, so inviting. The soft light coming from the curtains cast a shadow over your curves and he couldn't help himself from trailing down your body.

You were fully awake now as he pressed his lips on every part of your skin. The slight movement of your arms wrapping around his neck had him grunting, and somehow he was suddenly positioned between your legs, pressing his hot length onto your wet folds, wanting nothing else but to push himself deep into your warmth.

As he watched you beneath him, eyes half closed, mouth open in anticipation, he couldn't help but mutter his next words because you looked breathtakingly beautiful. Heavenly gorgeous covered in a sheen of sweat, so damn pretty with eyes full of desire. You looked like a siren, an angel, and a lustful woman all rolled into one.

Everything about you was so divine, and the desire to consume every part of your existence became an insatiable hunger. It was a need, a yearning that made the idea of spending a lifetime without you seem unfathomable as if oxygen slowly drained from his world, leaving him breathless. 

The words bubbled up from the depths of his heart, and before he could second-guess himself, he blurted out, "Marry me." 

Your eyes snapped open as he finally sank his hips into you, and before you could even respond, before you could even register his words, his rough thrust stole the breath from your lungs. Rational thoughts shattered as he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that was slightly painful yet completely pleasurable.

He slowly pulled out, then pushed back in, your back arching, legs wrapping around his waist. "Spence," you moaned as he started a steady pace, trying to gain your focus but failing miserably. You couldn't think of anything else except the sensation between your legs. "Oh, God."

Languid and smooth, his hips continued to roll into you. "This feels good, doesn't it?"

The feel of his cock sinking in and out of you had your head falling back against the mattress. Your fingernails tightened upon his back, and he drove you gently into the bed with low grunts. His voice was rough, broken by focused breaths. "We could do this every morning."

A whine broke out of you.

"I'd wake up first," he told you. "I'd make you breakfast in bed..." He slipped out again before thrusting into you slowly, dragging his cock along your inner walls that had you mewling. "...right after I wake you with my tongue between your thighs."

You let out another moan. He drank in the sound with a smile before lowering his mouth to the base of your neck. Heated kisses trailed along your skin as his fingers trailed down the outline of your body before they stopped at the warmth between your legs.

Your mouth was wide open against his shoulder, eyes watering with the force of pleasure from having his cock smacking through your wetness, his body forcefully shoving your knees apart. You felt his fingers trailing your clit in slow circles and you arched your back, each tender brush tightened that coil of heat simmering in the pit of your stomach. The simulation drove you further into a haze of pleasure that a soft yes finally escaped your lips without you realizing it.

The barely whispered word didn't go unnoticed by him.

"Yes to this," he wondered as prompted his weight on his other hand. "Or to my proposal?"

You glanced up at him, your face a mixture of pleasure and alarm as you gave him a look. "You're crazy."

He watched you closely, mesmerized by the way your hips were bucking every time his cock hit that soft spot inside you while his fingers continued their tease. "Maybe." He leaned down and softly bit your shoulder. "But I am crazy in love with you."

When you didn't respond, he slowly pulled away and fixed his gaze on you. Your reaction, or lack thereof, spoke volumes, and as his eyes met yours, he found himself captivated by the reflective pools of emotion within. There was a hint of fear and concern, shadows that danced with the flicker of uncertainty. Yet, beneath those layers, he could see the distinct longing in your eyes. It was hard not to distinguish it as it matched the same look in his. Your stare was warm and domineering.

They were so full of love.

And that moment, Spencer realized, that was what you were to him—love. You were the greatest passion he had ever known.

You felt completely in the moment with him as you let your gaze scan over his features. His eyes appeared darker in this light of the room, but you could still see the soft lightness of them. Then, you leaned up, noses brushing gently against each other before you pressed your lips onto his. His body moved again in response, hips bucking into you and you felt him pulsing inside your core as his mouth worked harmoniously along yours.

"Marry." Thrust. "Me." Thrust.

You whimpered. Everything was too much. The intensity of the pleasure was almost intoxicating, a heady concoction that wrapped around you, rendering you momentarily breathless.

"Having you for the rest of my life is a privilege." He continued, grunting as you clenched around him. He lost himself with one final, jagged plea. "Marry me and make me the happiest man alive."

His words, touch, and the stroke of him inside you—it all blurred together. It pushed you so wildly that the coil in your stomach twisted sharply through along your body. He lunged down to kiss you again, tongue pushing deep as he stole your moan before it could break into the air. He tugged you into him at the same time that you submitted to his pull.

There were times when you would appreciate this. The contact, the intimacy, the warmth of your boyfriend connected with you. Right now though, you needed release. So you buried your hand in his curls, all messy and askew.

"Spencer," you breathed out against his lips. Each of his thrusts fed the growing flame in your body as your body turned pliant for him. “Oh god, yes,” you cried, head thrashing side to side as your eyes rolled back, overwhelmed by pleasure.

He peppered kisses over your neck, your jaw, your temple, desperate to be even closer to you, to melt into you. "Yes to what?"

Your senses were heightened, every touch and every breath seemed magnified in the intensity of the moment. Your body shuddered with every vicious thrust.

"Yes, yes, yes." A desperate, needy little whine slipped past your lips and you opened your eyes wide to give him a pleading look. "Spencer, please, please."

You were panting, your breath hot and your skin even hotter, and you could barely hear him when he spoke, "Yes to what, Angel?"

Angel. The syllables carried a warmth that resonated deep within your heart. Sometimes you were his Angel. Sometimes you were his Sweetheart. While you cherished the way he expressed his affection, a yearning for more had taken root.

Marry me.

You could be more than his angel. You could be his wife. But it wasn't just about the affectionate words anymore; it was about a promise, a shared future, and you realized as he hovered above you, all sweaty and desperate, that you wanted to feel this bliss every day. How could you not when he fits so perfectly inside you that you could swear he was made for you?

And then you felt it, his hand trailing down your arm before it stopped right along your fingers, intertwining them with his. Your hand clutched onto his as his thrust sped up a fraction—but it was still deep and lazy, enough to make you squirm. His cock was achingly hard inside you and when you clenched down on him, you adored the twitch and resounding moan it drew out of him.

You wanted this for your life. You wanted him every day. You wanted to wake up each morning in his arms, him whispering sweet nothings as he buried himself inside you.

You wanted him so much you would be a fool not to accept his proposal.

"Yes," you breathed out. "I'll marry you."

He grunted against your lips. "Say that again."

His thrusts were now fast and ruthless, his groans filling the room while the sound of skin slapping together echoed with it. Every time you could feel him deep inside you, it brought you closer to that familiar coil in your stomach. It was a heady sensation, an intoxicating blend of desire that quickened your pulse and set your senses ablaze.

"I—shit," you cried out, legs shaking at the pleasure traveling along your body you were starting to wail desperately for your release. "Fuck, baby, I'll marry you."

A sound of satisfaction erupted from him as he kissed you with every ounce of power he had. He kissed you as he had never kissed anyone before. He kissed you deeply, possessively even, and it was messy and rough and probably looked horrific from different angles, but it felt perfect.

You felt perfect. Your lips. Your curves. Your scent. It was as if you were made especially for him. He was fully consumed with you, consumed by you, and yet he couldn't get enough. Though you were beneath him, he was at your mercy, and the fact that you could still have such control over him made his stomach twist even more.

He was so in love with you. He was so sure of it, so sure of this abundance of passion, for Spencer Reid could sometimes be dense when it came to sudden bursts of emotions, but he was not stupid. He wasn't oblivious, nor was he lacking in perception. It wasn't about intelligence or lack thereof, it was simply about the purity of his emotion. 

And he was deeply, unequivocally in love.

.

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