RedJessie

─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆

PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]

PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]

PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]

PART FOUR — June 1st

PART FIVE — June 4th

PART SIX — June 9th

More chapters TBD

#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

The paramedic radio had warned about a toddler with a dangerously high fever, presenting febrile seizures. When the gurney rolled into Trauma 2, the child’s father was hysterical.

The room was frantic. The little boy was burning up, his small body stiffening as another seizure began to take hold.

"I need this man to step back and let us work!" Jack commanded, his voice booming over the noise as he positioned himself at the head of the bed to manage the airway. "Secure the IV!"

The father was spiraling, blocking the access to the patient bed. "What are you doing to him?! Do something! Fix him!" he screamed.

You moved in, your tone calm but firm. "Sir, I need you to step outside to the waiting area just for a few minutes so we can stabilize your son."

"No! I'm not leaving him!" the man roared.

You placed a gentle, guiding hand on his arm to lead him toward the sliding glass doors. "Sir, please, you have to step back—"

Suddenly, with violence, he grabbed the front of your scrub top and shoved you backward with force. Your heel caught on the wheel of a supply cart, and you went crashing hard against the steel counter, a tray of medical instruments clattering loudly to the floor around you. A security guard and two male residents tackled him away from you, dragging him out of the bay kicking and screaming.

"Are you okay?" Jack wanted to abandon the bed and check on you, but his hands were currently holding a tongue depressor and an oxygen mask to a seizing child.

"I'm fine! I'm okay!" you gasped out.

You forced yourself back to the bedside, your hands shaking violently. The medication was delivered, and within seconds, the child’s seizure stopped.

But the damage to your own body had already been done.

The assault had sent a massive flood of cortisol and adrenaline rushing through your bloodstream.

That kind of stress was a death sentence for stable blood sugars.

As the hours ticked toward 5 AM, the aftershocks of the attack took a physical toll. You stubbornly refused to go to occupational health, insisting to Jack at every passing glance that you were perfectly fine. But Jack knew you too deeply to buy the act.

He watched you from the central desk. You were practically glued to the water dispenser, chugging full foam cups of ice water one after the other.

Your usual efficient energy had completely vanished, replaced by a hyper irritable fog. When a resident asked you where the extra cardiac monitors were, you snapped, "Where they always are, use your eyes."

"Hey," Jack murmured, catching your elbow in a quiet corner of the floor. His brow was furrowed with deep concern, his eyes scanning your sweaty face. "Are you sure you're okay? Did that guy hurt you worse than you're letting on?"

"I said I am fine, Jack," you hissed, tearing your arm away from his grip. "I have a million things to catch up on because security took an hour of my time. Leave it alone."

Jack blinked, his jaw tightening. He knew the emotional fallout of an attack could make someone defensive, but this level of volatile moodiness was specific.

It was a pattern he recognized.

Before he could press further, a frantic call echoed across the PA. Trauma 1, code red.

The doors burst open, and a swarm of medics wheeled in a young man bleeding heavily from a chest wound. The trauma bay instantly erupted into a high stress symphony of shouting, monitor alarms, and rapid orders.

"I need a chest tube kit, now!" Jack ordered, his hands already deep in sterile fields, applying pressure.

You rushed to the supply wall to grab the chest tube. But as you looked up at the labeled plastic bins, your heart sank. The text on the bins was a completely illegible fuzzy blur. You blinked hard, rubbing your eyes with the back of your sleeve, but your vision remained stubbornly distorted.

"Where is that tube?!" Jack barked, his eyes locked on the crashing blood pressure monitor. "I need it now!"

Frustrated by your inability to see, and completely overwhelmed by the crushing weight of the glucose hangover in your brain, you grabbed the box, your hands trembling so badly the plastic rattled. "I'm looking for it, dammit!" You shouted back, your voice cracking with a fierce sharpness that stunned the entire room.

A heavy silence fell over the trauma bay for a fraction of a second.

Jack didn't yell. He looked up from the patient, his sharp eyes locking onto yours. He saw the slight glaze over your eyes and the way you were squinting at a box that was clearly the wrong size.

The puzzle pieces clicked together.

The attack. The stress spike. The constant thirst. The irritability. And now, blurry vision.

"Shen, take over," Jack ordered, his voice dropping into a calm, commanding tone that brooked no argument. He stepped back from the bed, snapping off his bloody gloves. "You, out. Now."

"Jack, the patient—"

"I said out, Nurse," he said, using your professional title to signal that this was an absolute order.

He guided you out of the trauma bay by the arm, directing you down the quiet lit corridor away from the main floor. The moment the heavy doors swung shut, the dam broke. Tears of pure frustration and exhaustion spilled down your cheeks. "You can't just humiliate me like that! I was trying to find the tube, I just—"

"Show me your phone," Jack interrupted. "You've been chugging water for hours, and you couldn't read the labels on the supply wall. Show me the app."

With trembling fingers, you reached into your scrub pocket, pulled out your phone, and unlocked the glucose monitoring app.

The screen flashed red.

442 mg/dL ↑

"Oh..." you whispered, a sob catching in your throat as the blurry edges of your vision finally made sense. "I... I took a correction after the incident. I thought it would handle it. I didn't realize it got this bad."

"Okay," Jack murmured softly, taking your shaking hands into his. "You know that insulin is fighting your stress hormones right now. You can't chase traumas and run around an ER floor with a number like that."

He looked down the hall toward a break room that the night shift rarely used. "There are two hours left of the shift. You are going to lay down on that couch on the old break room and sleep."

"Jack, no, the floor is totally slammed, I can't just abandon my shift for two hours—"

"Yes, you can. Because I am the primary attending, and I am officially pulling you off the floor," Jack said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "You need to lower your heart rate, lower your cortisol, and let the insulin actually do its job. Go sleep, doll. That's an order."

Too physically exhausted to fight him, you nodded. You slipped into the dark, quiet break room, collapsed onto the couch, and pulled a thin hospital blanket over your shoulders.

The moment your head hit the pillow, the heavy fog of the high blood sugar dragged you into deep sleep.

The next thing you felt was a gentle stroking of your hair. The room was still dark, but the quiet of the hospital signaled a shift change.

"Hey, wake up, sleepyhead. Shift's over."

You blinked your eyes open. Thankfully, the blurry edges were completely gone; your vision was clear again. But as you tried to sit up, a sharp ache flared right behind your eyes, making you wince and press your hands to your temples.

"Ugh... my head," you croaked, your throat feeling like sandpaper. "It feels like a vice is squeezing my skull."

"I know, doll," Jack said softly. He was kneeling beside the couch, looking tired. He handed you your phone, pointing to the screen. A steady green line sat at 92 mg/dL. "Look at that. You leveled out perfectly about an hour ago while you were dead sleeping. Sleep worked."

He stood up, offering his hands to pull you up from the couch. Your legs felt a bit like jelly as you sleepy hugged him and hide your face on his neck, letting out a painful groan. Jack caught you easily, wrapping his arms securely around you, pulling you flush against him. He buried his face in your hair, holding you tight for a moment.

"Come on, baby," Jack whispered against your ear, rubbing your back. "Let's get some medicine in you, and sleep at home."

The quiet of the apartment was a blissful contrast to the noise of the ER. After the shift, the first order of business was washing away the hospital.

You adjusted the bath temperature until it was perfectly warm, you let jack in first and you position yourself in front of him. He washed your hair with gentleness, his fingers massaging your scalp. You leaned back against his chest, letting the warm clear out the last remnants of the shift’s foggy exhaustion.

Once you both dried off, Jack plugged in the hairbrush blow dryer.

The soft sound of the dryer filled the room as he lifted sections of your hair, drying it with care.

Felling the gentle way he handled the brush so he wouldn't pull on your tangled hair, made a wave of emotion swell in your chest.

You took a slow breath, the realization of what you needed to do finally solidifying in your mind.

"Jack?" you spoke up softly.

He clicked the machine to a quieter setting. "Yeah, sweetheart? Head still hurting?"

"A little, but it's getting better," you said, twisting around slightly to face him directly. You reached up, catching his wrist to stop the brush. "I wanted to talk to you about something. For when we go back on Tuesday."

Jack set the dryer down and gave you his full attention. "Go ahead. I'm listening."

"I think I'm going to ask Lena to move me out of the trauma bays," you admitted, the words coming out in a rush, a mix of relief and vulnerability. "I want to request an assignment to the regular ER beds for a while. No more trauma slots."

Jack didn't blink. He didn't look disappointed or surprised.

"It feels like tonight was a massive wake up call for me," you continued, looking down at your hands. "Chasing the adrenaline of the trauma bay while trying to keep my own body in check... it’s just too much stress somedays. This isn't the first time it happened. The rushes are messing with my insulin resistance. I can't keep putting myself in a position where a sudden code sends my blood sugar into the four hundreds-"

Before you could spiral into feeling guilty, Jack placed his hands firmly on the sides of your face, making you look at him.

"Hey," he said, his voice thick with absolute pride. "Look at me."

You raised your eyes to his.

"I think that is a smart and brave decision," Jack said, a warm smile touching his lips. "The trauma bay isn't a prize you have to win every shift. You’ve been kicking ass in there for years, and you have absolutely nothing to prove to anyone."

"You don't think the rest of the staff will think I can't handle it?" you muttered softly.

"Are you kidding?" Jack scoffed gently, cupping your cheek, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone. "Taking care of patients in the regular pods is just as vital, but it gives you a pacing you can actually control. It means you can sit down for five minutes to eat a snack, check your trend lines, and breathe without someone bleeding out in front of you. If anyone has a problem with it, they can answer to the attending. But trust me, leadership wants you healthy and on the floor."

The absolute certainty in his voice lifted a massive weight off your shoulders. The anxiety evaporated, leaving only a comforting warmth.

"Thank you, baby," you whispered, leaning forward to press your forehead against his shoulder. "I've been thinking about it for days, and somehow it feels like a failure for stepping back."

"Never," he murmured, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He kissed the side of your neck, his stubble a comforting scratch against your skin. "I'm proud of you for taking care of yourself."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

A stray guard with a shotgun turned the getaway into a bloodbath and you were the one who took the hit.

Now, you were lying across the leather backseat of Craig’s truck, your head resting heavily in Pope’s lap.

He sat rigid. His hand was pressed firmly against the jagged tear in your ribs, dark blood spilling over his knuckles.

He was staring at your face.

And he saw it.

A thin line of crimson began to pool at the corner of your lips, slipping over your chin and tracking a messy path down your neck.

It wasn't just a graze on your ribs.

Something inside was broken.

Something shifted in Pope’s eyes.

"Craig, I need you to go faster," Pope's voice vibrated with intensity.

"I'm going as fast as I can, man!" Craig yelled. "The cops are all over the highway, I gotta take the back roads—"

"Craig." This time, Pope’s voice cracked. "Please."

Baz glanced back from the front passenger seat, his eyes widening as his gaze landed on the blood smeared across your mouth. "Oh, shit, shit, Craig, man, c'mon."

Pope took the hem of his own shirt, his hands shaking, actually shaking, as he gently wiped the blood from your lips. But the moment he wiped it away, more welled up, bright and warm.

"H-Hey," Pope murmured, his voice dropping into a desperate tone. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your cold skin. "Princess. Look at me. Open your eyes. Look at Pope."

Your eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead. The pain in your chest was a crushing weight, making it impossible to draw air. You choked in a wet cough, and more blood spilled past your teeth.

"Don't do that," Pope unblinking eyes were suddenly glossy, swimming with panic. He clamped his hand over yours, squeezing until it hurt. "You breathe. You stay. You hear me?"

Beside Pope, Deran was on the phone with Smurf, telling her to have the medical kit ready. He turned and his face losing all its color as he saw you. "Is she suffocating? Baz, what do we do?!"

"Keep her head up!" Baz ordered. "Don't let her choke on it! Craig, if you don't get us to Smurf's house in two minutes, you're fucking dead! "

"I'm hitting a hundred and ten, man!" Craig screamed.

Pope slid his arm beneath your shoulders, carefully pulling your upper body up against his chest. He didn't care about the stains covering his clothes. He just gathered you into his arms, holding you like you were made of glass.

"I've got you," he muttered frantically against your hair, as he felt your body grow heavier. His grip so tight it was almost suffocating. "I've got you, princess. Don't leave me here."

You couldn't form words, but you managed to squeeze his fingers. Pope let out a ragged, shaking breath as the truck finally violently whipped into Smurf’s driveway.

Pope didn’t wait. He kicked the door open, his arms securely wrapped around your shaking form. He carried you inside.

Smurf was already coming down the hall, her sharp eyes taking in the scene instantly. Her gaze drifted from the blood on your ribs to the terrifying crimson smear coating your mouth and chin.

Her maternal composure didn't break, but her jaw tightened.

"Pu-Put her on the island," Smurf commanded, her voice cutting through the panic like ice. "Deran, lock the gates. Craig, get the oxygen tank from the garage... now."

Pope laid you down on the cold kitchen island, but he refused to step back. His hands stayed glued to your shoulders, keeping you elevated just enough so you wouldn't choke.

"She's bleeding from the inside, Smurf," Baz said. "The shot may fractured a rib. It might have punctured a lung."

"I know," Smurf said calmly, though her fingers moved with frantic speed as she hooked up the portable oxygen mask Craig had just slammed onto the counter.

She pressed the plastic mask over your nose and mouth. "Breathe, sweetheart. Deep breaths for Smurf."

The oxygen helped, but the pain was agonizing. You let out a choked gasp, coughing violently. The mask immediately fogged with a fresh spray of blood.

Deran looked like he was going to vomit.

"Get the chest tube," Baz muttered to Smurf, his hands shaking slightly as he prepped an alcohol swab. "If her lung is collapsing, we have to relieve the pressure or she’s gone."

"No," Craig choked out, backing away a step, his eyes wide as he looked at the surgical instruments. "No, we need a doctor. We need to take her to a real hospital, Smurf! Look at her, she’s drowning!"

"We take her to a hospital, the cops pick us up before she’s even out of triage!" Baz snapped, his adrenaline turning into pure aggression. "Think, Craig!"

"I don't give a shit about the cops!" Craig screamed, slamming his fist into the refrigerator. "She's dying!"

"Shut up!" Pope’s scream vibrated through the entire kitchen.

The room went dead silent. Craig froze. Pope was leaning over you. He was entirely focused on your fading gaze.

"Hold her down," Pope whispered.

Baz moved instantly, pinning your arms. Deran stepped forward and heavily secured your legs.

Smurf didn't hesitate. She located the space between your ribs, wiped it with iodine, and looked up at Pope. "Keep her still, baby."

Pope leaned his weight over your upper body, his face inches from yours. "It’s going to hurt," he whispered. "It’s going to hurt so bad, princess. But we have you, okay?"

When Smurf made the incision to insert the tube, an agonizing scream was choked out of your throat.

Your body violently arched, fighting against the restraint, but the Cody brothers became a human vice.

Deran was using his strength to keep your lower body pinned.

Baz leaned his weight into your side, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked furiously in his cheek.

Pope kept his forehead pressed against yours, taking the brunt of your agony, letting you squeeze his hand until the bones clicked. "Breathe," he chanted like a prayer, his voice breaking over and over. "Come on. Breathe."

A sharp hiss of escaping air and a rush of dark blood into the drainage tube signaled the release of the pressure.

Your chest suddenly expanded, a clean draft of oxygen finally rushing into your lungs. And the violent trembling in your limbs slowly began to subside.

_

An hour later, the kitchen was a bloody battlefield. Smurf had cleaned you up, stitched the outer wound, and helped the boys move you to the massive couch in the living room, the oxygen tank humming quietly beside you.

The house was on complete lockdown.

Baz was out, staring into the dark pool, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the night. Craig and Deran were sitting on the floor right beside the couch, exhausted and pale, refusing to leave your side.

And Andrew hadn't moved an inch.

He sat on the floor, his hand resting gently on top of your hair. Every time your breathing hitched, his entire body went rigid, relaxing only when your chest rose and fell in a steady, healing rhythm.

You weakly opened your eyes, the haze of the painkillers making everything soft.

You looked at him.

Andrew’s face was still stained with your blood, his eyes shadowed and tired. He carefully took his thumb and wiped away a dried speck of crimson from the corner of your lip.

"You're safe," he whispered. "A doctor is coming, you're going to be okay."

​You managed a weak smile, your hand moving slowly across the blanket to find his.

Andrew didn't hesitate. He took your hand in his, wrapping his fingers between yours. He pressed your knuckles firmly against his cheek, leaning into your skin, his eyes closing for a moment as if he were finally letting out the breath he’d been holding since the backseat of the truck.

​He stayed like that, just feeling your pulse against his face.

Then, he rested his forearm right next to your pillow. He leaned his head down on his arm, his face just inches from yours, his eyes fixed on your face with protective devotion.

He didn't have the words to tell you how close he came to breaking, or how much it meant that you were still breathing.