I suppose I'll introduce myself, I’m Reya, I use she/her pronouns (loosely). I’m Jamaican born, and tragically Canadian raised. I’m a writer for all intents and purposes, and wise beyond my years (allegedly). If you have requests, ask away, my fandoms are innumerable, and I don’t bite (unless asked to). I tend to write x reader (because I love it, sue me), but can be caught in 3rd person occasionally. I happen to know how to use em dashes, and I love them very much. This does NOT mean I use AI to write, or in general, nor do I condone its use, I just love me some good punctuation. Finally, and the most important thing above the cut: I am a cunt. A veritably unhinged cunt, even. Well... I can be, if provoked. Save yourselves the tongue-lashing; if you're gonna be bigoted in any way shape, or form, do it somewhere the fuck else!
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I exist at the measure of my whims, and will always fall back upon the MCU and its actors. To clarify, I don’t write RPF, but if I’m in a Chris Evans, Pedro Pascal, or Jon Bernthal mood, all the characters they’ve played are fair game, regardless of whether or not I’ve seen the source material. I also live and breathe for Natasha Romanoff, may she walk me by a leash one day, but alas. My hyperfixation actor of choice at the moment is, in fact, Stephen Kalyn, but this is frequently subject to change, and does default to Chris Evans.
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Other little things:
I’m a November Saggitarius.
I'm neurodivergent as fuck. So the Y/N's I write tend to end up that way inadvertently, as I have no other experience to draw upon.
I read. Like a lot. Yap about books with me, I beg. (no but like seriously i average over 200 books a year so please throw recs at me or ask me for them)
Percy Jackson and I go way back.
I have immense daddy issues. This will become apparent!
Actually make that parental issues... there's a crock of shit wrong with me and it can all be traced back to those fuckers (whom i love. occasionally.)
I have a Superman problem. A real and true and genuine Superman problem. I don't shut up about Clark Kent.
I also have a VERY BIG, VERY VERY BIG Steve Rogers problem. I've had it for over a decade. Mind you I'm not old enough to have had any kind of problem for a decade, but the day I watched CA: TWS the first time changed my life.
and finally, i write like a thesaurus. My reading level has been the exact same since the 4th grade. and my vocabulary reflects that(the only thing that has changed is that i discovered smut when i was 14)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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summary: as a fourth year resident in the Obstetrics department at PTMC, and the wife of jack abbot, calls down to the ER almost always brighten your day. certified wife guy jack abbot loves to see his girl in action.
content warnings: MDNI! graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, a lil angst, husband jack abbot banter and fluff with his favorite person, you ;)
word count: 3.3k
authors note: just a little something that popped into my mind rewatching that season 2 case. pretty medical heavy but drop a comment if you enjoyed :)
“Hey, Dr. Abbot,” Medic Nguyen says, pulling out the heavily pregnant woman on the gurney from the back of the rig, “this is Judith Lastrade, 36 weeks pregnant with two days of headache, now a 10 out of 10 with blurred vision. BP 174/120, heart rate 92. No relief with fentanyl.”
“Judith, I'm Dr. Abbot,” Jack says calmly, “any weakness in your arms or legs?”
“No, no. Is this a stroke?” She says, resting her hand on her stomach.
“We need to check for everything,” Jack says, pushing her gurney into the ER with Robby and the medics.
“Where are you doing your prenatal care?” Robby asks.
“Nowhere.” Judith says, firm and defensive. “It's a wild pregnancy. I want a free birth.”
“Uh, ok,” Jack says, exchanging a charged glance with Robby as they push her into trauma two. “Mateo, Nazely, Henderson, with me. Lena, call up to OB, ask for-”
“I know who to ask for,” Lena says, smiling, phone already to her ear.
“CTG is on,” Mateo says, adjusting the strap on Judith's belly.
“CTG?” Judith says, looking up at him.
“Cardiotocography. Measures the baby's heart rate and checks for contractions.” Jack says, crouching forward, reading the stats on the machine, “fetal heart rate 128. Normal range, Nazely?”
“110 to 160,” Nazley says.
“So the baby's OK?” Judith says.
“Right now, yes.” Henderson says, “128 is reassuring,”
“Your next move, Crus?” Jack asks.
“20 of labetalol, IV push over two minutes,” Crus says, pulling the meds from the nearby drawer.
“Uh, what's happening?” Judith asks, the monitors beeping rhythmically in the background.
“You have a condition called preeclampsia,” Nazley offers gently.
“And how did it happen?” Judith says, voice laced with worry.
“Uh, nobody really knows, actually,” Jack says, looking out the glass doors towards the hub, wondering where you are, “it affects about 10% of the pregnancies. High blood pressure, headaches, protein in the urine, and swollen ankles.”
“Ok, well, it's a wild pregnancy, so that means no medical care,” Judith says,
“Then why are you here?” Robby says, no concern in his voice.
“I just need to get rid of this headache,” she says, tears starting to well in her eyes,
“Well, if we don't lower your blood pressure and treat with magnesium, there can be problems.” Abbot says gentler, trying to correct Robby’s harsh tone.
“Like what?” Judith sniffs.
“Seizures, bleeding, even death, for you and the baby,” Crus says.
“Oh, my God,” Judith cries.
“Robby,” Dana says, poking her head in the room, “need you in trauma one,”
“OK,” Robby says, following Dana out of the room, “you good?”
“Yeah, I'm good. I got it. With my eyes closed. But I won't. Maybe one eye.” Jack clicks his tongue as he winks at Judith.
“Jesus, Jack, she’s already pregnant,” you say, a cheeky smile on your face as you push through the back door of the trauma room. His whole face lights up as you walk into the room, your jade green scrubs hugging your hips just the way he likes. He shoves his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to you and squeezing your waist.
“She’s the other Dr. Abbot?” Nazley says under her breath to Crus, “she’s so much younger than him,”
“Yeah,” Crus murmurs back but you and Jack don’t hear them, the two of you in your own world for a moment, “they kinda don’t give a fuck,”
“Hey,” Jack says, his voice dropping to something much softer. He’s in awe of how beautiful you look under the harsh fluorescences of the ER.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile, shaking your head, rubbing in the purell on your hands. The little group of nurses and doctors gather around you. You nod hello to Crus and Mateo, pausing on Nazely, “I don’t think we’ve gotten to work together yet,” you hold out your hand to her introducing yourself.
“Nazley Toomarian, intern,” she says, “I- I just started tonight,”
“Jesus and they put you on the night shift?” You turn to Jack, “free her.”
“I didn’t assign her to the night shift,” Jack holds his hands up in self defense.
“Well, it’s really nice to meet you Dr. Toomarian,” you say, “you’ve got a good teacher here,” you wink at Jack.
“You’re not biased or anything,” Jack smiles.
“Not at all,” you roll your eyes playfully, “whaddya got for me?”
“This is Judith. G1, P0 with no prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension,” Nazley says, standing up a little straighter as she speaks to you, before turning back to Judith, “How's the headache?”
“Still a 10,” Judith moans.
“More fentanyl?” Crus asks.
“Yep,” Abbot says, trying to suppress the smile that wants to form on his face now that you’re in the room. He leans into you and murmurs under his breath, “missed you,”
“Jack, you saw me two hours ago,” you smile, "remember? We carpooled from our house?”
“BP's good,” Crus says, eyes on the monitor, “another fifty,”
Your eyes linger on Jack as he beams at you while you walk over to the patient's bedside.
“Hi Judith,” you say softly, “I’m Dr. Abbot from OB,”
“I thought he was Dr. Abbot,” Judith looks towards Jack.
“He is. I- uh- am too,” you smile at her, “we’re married,”
“Oh,” Judith sighs, “that’s nice. That you get to work together I mean. Do you have kids?”
“No,” you say, and you don’t have to turn your head to see that Jack has walked up next to you, to feel the tension radiating off Jack at her question. Thankfully Crus intervenes before Jack boils over.
“Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.” Crus says, handing you the wand and gel.
“No, no, no.” Judith wraps her arms around her stomach, “ultrasound can harm the baby.”
“Not true.” Jack says curtly.
“I understand that you feel scared but not doing the ultrasound can end up harming you and the baby,” you say gently, “I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Ok,” Judith huffs, dropping her arm, “just do it as fast as you can,”
“Why no prenatal care, Judith?” You say, no judgment in your voice, squirting the gel on her stomach.
“I wanted a free birth,” she says defensively, “no doctors, no hospital, no medicine.”
“Mm,” Jack says from beside you, “you have a midwife? A birth doula?”
“No, I don't need one,” Judith says, as you drag the wand over her belly, “women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”
“Yeah,” Jack says, clearly getting irritated, “with an infant mortality rate of 30% for most of those thousands of years,”
“You know Judith,” you say, cutting off your husband, speaking softly while keeping your eyes on the screen, “for a lot of those years birthing was a community event. Women relied on midwives and the other women in their lives to help them during childbirth.”
“What is this good cop bad cop?” Judith moans.
“I know this isn’t how you envisioned it,” you say, turning to her, “but there are a lot of people here who are more than happy to help you, if you’d let us.”
“Dr. Abbot is the best doctor in this hospital,” Jack says, feeling his heart swell at the patience and care you’re offering such a difficult patient, “I’d listen to her if I were you,”
“Femur length seven centimeters,” you say to Jack, “37 weeks. I’d induce.”
“What?” Judith says, panicked, “no, no, no. Absolutely not.”
“At 37 weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby,” Jack says firmly, but with a little less bite, “we need to get you upstairs so Dr. Abbot can induce labor to save you and your baby.”
“No.” Judith sits up, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”
You stand, exchanging a knowing look with Jack before walking over to the phone and calling up to the OB department for a room.
“Labs are coming back.” Nazley says, pulling the labs up on the computer, “Hemoglobin 7.5, platelets 40. LFTs are sky high.”
“HELLP syndrome,” Jack shakes his head, looking at the results.
“Hemolytic anemia, elevated liver enzymes, and low platelets,” Crus explains to Nazley.
“They're cleaning a room,” you say, hanging up the phone, “I can bring her up in ten minutes.”
“How you doing, Judith?” Jack says, walking back to her bedside.
“I- I-” Judith’s eyes roll back, her body starts to spasm.
“Oh, she's seizing,” Nazely says.
“Oh, shit,” you say, moving next to Jack, “10 of IV diazepam. Have another 10 ready,”
“With all the movement, we can't get a fetal heartbeat,” Mateo says, checking the CTG.
“Putting on 15 liters by mask. Should we intubate?” Crus asks.
“Hold intubation. Let's try to break this. We don't want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to,” you say to Nazley, explaining your rationale.
“Nazely, what's the diagnosis?” Jack asks.
“Um, with the seizure, now it's eclampsia,” Nazely says.
“Fetal heart rate is about 90,” you shake your head, “way too low,”
“Mom's sats are going down,” Mateo says, his eyes on the monitor.
“Time to tube her?” Crus asks, looking between you and Jack. The two of you stare at each other, seeming to telepathically communicate.
“Set up for it, but wait,” you speak for the pair of you, “another 10 of diazepam. Push 4 grams of Keppra.”
“Pulse ox is 88,” Mateo says, shaking his head.
“Dr. Abbot?” Crus says, looking at Jack, “Intubate?”
But Jack looks at you.
“Let’s do it,” you say.
“Nazely, what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?” Jack says.
“Etomidate and roc,” Nazely offers her best guess.
“Mm, not quite, Dr. Toomarian,” you say, snapping on a pair of gloves, “120 of propofol, 60 of succinylcholine.”
“Why is that, Crus?” Jack says, pulling on his own pair of gloves.
“Propofol for the anti-seizure effect, sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.” Crus says.
“Exactly,” Jack nods.
“Pushing the propofol,” Mateo injects the medication into Judith’s IV.
“Once she's flat for intubation we need to displace the uterus to the left,” you say across the table to Jack.
“Nazely, that's you. Big hug, both arms. Get the baby off the vena cava.” Jack mimes the movement, guiding her.
“What's she had so far?” Shen says, walking in the room.
“30 of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol,” Jack says, eyes on the monitor.
“Damn.” Ellis’ eyes follow Jack's, “What's your next step?”
“Any ideas?” Jack asks the room, “Nazely?”
“Dilantin? Valproate?” Nazely offers.
“Infusion is too long. Push 100 of ketamine. That's had results with refractory status,” you say, nodding at Nazely. She injects the ketamine into the IV and immediately the heart rate picks up, but not as much as you’d like, “little better.”
“Yeah. She should be upstairs with the rest of OB,” Shen shakes his head.
“Best of OB is down here with us,” Jack says, looking at you with adoration. You smile and shake your head at his compliment. The phone in the room rings and Ellis moves to pick it up.
“Ok, got it.” she says, “OB says send her and Dr. Abbot up. They have an OR ready.”
“This one looks like it took a turn for the worse,” Robby says walking into the room, and as if he spoke it into existence, Judith’s heart starts to fail, “fuck. V-fib”!
“Chest compressions, Dr. Toomarian, Charge to 200,” you say, commanding the room, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call the NICU. Start a timer.”
“Charged. Clear.” Mateo says. Everyone raises their hands off Judith and steps back. A shock jolts her body but her heart doesn’t pick up again on its own, “continue compressions!”
“Gown up, baby, it's you and me.” Abbot looks across the table at you and you give your head a little shake at the pet name in this dire circumstance.
“Dr. Toomarian, do you know the four-minute rule?” You ask as Mateo helps you slip on a gown.
“Uh, not sure.” Nazely says, tying Jack’s gown for him.
“Pregnant patient with a viable fetus, you have four minutes after cardiac arrest to save the baby.” You say, sliding your goggles up your nose.
“And the mom,” Jack adds, “we don't call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It's a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.”
“But she doesn't want any medical intervention.” Nazley says tepidly.
“Doesn't matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” You say. “OK, charge to 200. One more rhythm check and then Jack and I are gonna cut. Ellis, you and Crus on Mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. OK, hold compressions.”
Everyone steps back, raising their hands off Judith’s limp body.
“Still V-fib.” Crus shakes his head.
“We need to get this baby out right now,” Jack says to you, and you nod, “let’s have eyes on Dr. Abbot, this is a priceless demonstration we’re about to get,”
“Ok, ten blade,” you say, holding out your hand, grateful you’re masked up so the trauma room can’t see you blush. Mateo places the scalpel in your hand.
“First incision is from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis through the skin to the linea alba.” You say, dragging the blade down her belly.
“Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus,” you’re laser focused, making an identical incision on the deeper layer of skin.
“Ellis, gentle traction,” Jack says, pulling back his retractor and she mirrors his movements.
“Ok, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby,” you say, taking the scissors from Mateo, “using scissors to extend superiorly.”
“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.” Jack says, knowing what you need before you have to ask.
“Amniotic fluid looks good,” you say, as it spills out, “give me some fundal pressure.”
“Breech position,” Jack says, as you reach into her uterus.
“Baby's out. It's a girl!” You say, and Jack can hear the smile in your voice. He knows that this is your favorite part, usually much more joyful and with the mother conscious.
“Ok, blue and flaccid. We got mommy, you take baby,” You say to Shen. Everyone works in frantic precision. You pull out the placenta in a smooth motion, getting it all out in one go.
“Hold compressions.” Jack says.
“I got a weak carotid.” Mateo says, and you breathe out in relief.
“No seizure activity on the EEG.” Crus says, eyes on the monitor.
“Ah!” Shen calls from across the room, “Baby girl just scored the winning point! APGAR of 8 is pretty normal.”
“Holy shit,” Dr. Pettyfer, your OB colleague pushes in the room, “what did I miss?
“Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.” Jack says, resting his hands on his hips.
“I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section,” Pettyfer says, looking between you and Jack, “got your text 12 minutes ago.”
“Shit happens fast down here,” Jack shrugs.
“Dr. Abbot did a resuscitative hysterotomy in 36 seconds.” Crus says, awe in his voice.
“Impressive,” Pettyfer crosses his arm, looking down at Judith.
“You’re not gonna ask which one?” Jack says, crossing his arms.
“I don’t have to,” Pettyfer smirks.
“NICU's sending a team down,” Mateo says, hanging up the phone.
“Alright well I can take mom along with my star resident,” Pettyfer nods at you before turning to the ER crew, “you guys are rock stars,”
“We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night,” Jack says, a playful lilt in his voice.
“My god,” you roll your eyes at him, before turning back to Pettyfer, “can I meet you up there in five? I wanna wait for NICU to come get the baby,”
“Yeah, no problem,” Pettyfer says as Crus and Ellis help him roll Judith out of the room, the rest of the ER staff clearing out leaving you and Jack alone. You lock eyes and let out a long, deep breath.
“You were amazing,” Jack says, walking towards you, the tip of his boot bumping against your sneaker.
“I fucking hate anti-vaxx, make america healthy again bullshit people,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Jack teases as he moves his arms around your body, holding you against him. You pinch his side and he yells out a little yelp.
“She was scared,” you say, breathing in his smell, “idiots can be scared too, Jack,”
“So true, baby,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down your back, “you were good with her,”
“I was,” you sigh.
“I didn’t like it when she asked if we had kids,” Jack says into your hair.
“She was just scared, looking for a little connection,” you say, pulling back so you can look your husband in the eye, “it’s ok that we’re doing things our own way. We’re allowed to not want kids.”
“I love you so much,” he says, squeezing your hip.
“I love you so much,” you echo.
“Fuck kids,” Jack says.
“Fuck kids,” you say so enthusiastically Jack can’t help but laugh, “...for us though. For other people it’s super important to my livelihood.”
“Right,” Jack nods in mock seriousness. You smile at him, running your hands up his arms, locking your fingers behind his neck.
“I want you all to myself,” you whisper, leaning up, quickly biting his ear lobe. Jack grips down on your waist and lets out a small, soft groan.
“You got me,” he rasps.
“I know,” you smile, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I gotta get back upstairs my love,”
“Ok,” he says, trying not to be so disappointed, especially after getting to spend a little extra time with you.
Jack shoves his hands in his pockets as the pair of you walk towards the elevators, knowing he’d be too tempted to take your hand if he didn’t.
“If I give you constructive feedback will you still love me?” You say, as the pair of you move slowly through the pitt.
“I’ll love you no matter what,” Jack hums.
“You should try to call Nazley Dr. Toomarian,” you say, clasping your hands behind your back, “she just became a doctor. And I know you have your whole fun-attending-night-crawlers thing but… she worked hard to get here and I think it could mean a lot. Especially because the night shift down here is kind of a boys club,”
“We have Ellis!” Jack says.
“Jack…” you stop in front of the elevator giving him a somewhat incredulous look,“Ellis is the head of boys club,”
“Point taken,” he laughs, pausing, letting his eyes run over your face. “Ok. I’ll work on that. Can I give you some constructive feedback?” He pushes the elevator button for you.
“Of course,” you smile. Jack leans towards you, letting his finger brush against the back of your palm, against your wedding band.
“Your ass… looks amazing in those scrubs,” he whispers.
“Jack!” You laugh, as the elevator dings open, starting to walk through the doors.
“Hey,” Jack says in almost a whine, grasping your hand in his.
“What?” You smile.
“No kiss?” He says, his eyes wide and puppy-like.
“We are at work,” you smile, squeezing his hand and he gives you this look like he knows you want to kiss him just as badly. You sigh, “fine. A little one,”
“Just a little one,” Jack says, crinkling his nose, leaning towards you, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You giggle against his mouth, turning your head away.
“That’s all you get,” you smile, pulling away, backing into the elevator.
“I’ll see you later,” Jack says, the tips of his ears red, burying his hands in his pockets.
“Bye, Dr. Abbot,” you say, drawing out his name with a flirty twang.
“Bye Dr. Abbot,” he nods at you with that smoldering look you love so much. You blow him a little kiss before the elevator doors slide shut. He catches it and presses it against his heart. It’s gonna be a long shift.
summary: a conundrum of oddly familiar circumstances leads to you meeting someone straight out of your teenage self's wildest dreams.
contents: non-life threatining injury, concussed reader, light medical malpractice... i think that's it...
wc: 2.5k
a/n: call this my own personal 50 shades, in other words, this is so heavily inspired by twilight it's ridiculous. i don't even know if it's any good, but the idea came to me in a sleep deprived haze months ago, and it needed an outlet. no matter the outcome, though, i've never giggled harder while writing something in my life, and i hope this makes you giggle too. not proofread; sorry if my grammar sucks!
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This is some real Bella Swan shit. There’s no other way to explain it. Obviously, you’re living the modern day equivalent of Twilight, complete with the impressive ability to injure yourself, just like Little Miss Spidermonkey. How else does one justify taking a miraculous tumble down the stairs at your hotel, and crashing through the window to the ground below?
No one had been with you when you fell, but the crash alerted the front desk, and they’d called an ambulance. You thought you were mostly fine, but by the time the sirens had stopped in front of you, consciousness was more of a suggestion than a state of being.
The ambulance ride was a blip, and then you were being wheeled into somewhere that smelled like antiseptic, and looked imposingly white and sterile.
“What do we have?” Oh! A new voice, tranquil and smooth. You liked it.
“Jane Doe. Fell down a flight of stairs and out a window. In and out of consciousness, possible concussion, fibular fracture in the right leg, and glass shards in her right side.” This voice seemed familiar enough, it reminded you of flashing lights. Wait, Jane Doe’s not your name. Why would they say that?
“Okay. Ellis, I want you on the glass, we’ve gotta…” the smooth voice continued as you drifted into unconsciousness once more.
You awoke to a rhythmic beeping, opening your eyes to see the tiled ceiling and dimmed lights of what must be a hospital room. Why were you here again? Everything seemed a bit fuzzy. Taking stock, you saw bandages running down your right arm, and an IV in your left. Your head was hurting, and you felt constriction around your lower leg – a cast then, but why? That’s when it came back to you, the Twilight of it all. God, you couldn’t even remember what had possessed you to go sprinting to the ground floor at nine-thirty pm. What you did know is that your impromptu descent had dire consequences, and you were definitely not making it to the client meeting downtown. Your place had been having temperature control issues, so you’d needed to stay somewhere anyways, and you’d picked that hotel expressly for its proximity to the building you were supposed to meet that client in
It was in that moment you recalled that – due to your inability to remain awake and lack of ID – you were a Jane Doe to the people in whatever medical facility this was, and there was definitely no way they’d gotten ahold of your boss to start apologizing profusely for this unfortunate turn of events.
Figuring you could at least fix the incorrect name they had on your chart, you reached for the help button, readying to explain yourself. Just that same second, someone stepped into your room, closed the door behind himself, and turned to face you. He wore black scrubs with an ID badge pinned to the pocket and had a stethoscope around his neck. He looked to be in his late 40s and had the most impressive cinnamon and sugar curls atop his head. He was, without a doubt, the hottest man you’d ever seen.
Yeah you were 100% in some fucked up version of Twilight. There was no other justification as to why your own personal Carlisle Cullen was in your hospital room, looking shocked to see you awake.
You started to laugh, a small giggle turning into full blown cackles. They made your head pound, but you didn’t even care. A smile cracked across the hot doctor’s face, not sure what had you so jocund, but finding the scene amusing nonetheless.
After what felt like an eternity, you managed to inhale a few deep breaths, and finally made eye contact with him.
“Looks like I made quite the first impression. I’m glad to see you awake.” His voice was vaguely familiar, maybe the one you’d heard when you first got there. Your memories didn’t do him justice, though, his voice smooth with an edge you couldn’t quite place. The one thing you’d gotten right in your delirium was that you did, in fact, really like his voice.
You giggled, “You just reminded me of someone, is all.”
“A good someone, I hope.”
You fought the urge to laugh again. “Definitely good.”
He introduced himself as Dr. Jack Abbot, and approached your bedside. You gave him your name and age in return.
“Well I’m glad to see you awake, and just as happy that we can stop calling you Jane Doe out there.” You both smiled at each other for a moment before he continued. “You were brought in a couple of hours ago with a concussion, a broken leg, and some glass shards embedded in your side. Do you remember what happened?”
“I fell down the stairs and out a window, something that had previously only ever been done in fiction, and even then, it was a setup.”
He blinked at you, before saying with the slightest tinge of apprehension, “I’m not super sure what that means, but yeah, according to EMTs you went for quite the swan dive.”
That sends you giggling again. By now, he must think you're more out of it than you let on, but only his blissful ignorance could father such a perfectly timed reference.
“You’re gonna have to tell me what’s so funny later,” he says offhandedly. “Do you know where you are?”
You’ve reached the tail end of this laughing fit just in time to respond: “Pittsburgh, but no clue which hospital.”
“Welcome to the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, then. You’re still in the ER because we wanted to monitor you with that concussion. How are you feeling?”
You thank him, and he leaves. Your head is still a little muddled — perks of being on pain meds while concussed — and with nothing better to do, you let your mind wander.
“Other than supremely embarrassed? Pretty good, all things considered.”
“Well, we’ll keep you here a bit longer for observation, see what works for you in terms of pain management and mobility aids, and then you’ll be free to go.”
Unrestrained, your thoughts return to the hot doctor. Dr. Abbot, you chide, knowing that your loosened inhibitions would lead to you calling him hot out loud if you didn’t check yourself.
Your mind lingered on the finer details, the lines around his eyes as he smiled at you in mild bewilderment, the delicate rasp of his voice, the broad set of his shoulders, and the quiet joviality that poured off him in conversation.
Aw shit. This is more than thinking he’s hot. You have a genuine crush on this doctor.
You glanced at the clock and saw 03:45 blinking back at you, surprised at how long you’d been out. With nothing to do but lay there and think, your mind returned to Dr. Abbot, and somewhere, your conscious thoughts turned into dreams.
By some miracle, your ambulance call had been the only case of any urgence, and — by PTMC standards, at least — it was a slow night for the ER staff. Everyone else reveled in the relative quiet, but somehow, Abbot found himself walking past your room far more often than was necessary. He made a show of walking around the whole ER, but he knew, and he was starting to suspect that Shen and Ellis were making note as well, that he almost lingered by your door. It was also his point of duty that every time you needed to be checked on, he was the one to step into your dark room and make sure you were tolerating medications well, maybe chat for a bit if he happened to catch you awake. If he happened to check on you at the bottom of the hour like clockwork, that was no one’s business but his own.
And Ellis’.
And Shen’s.
After what had to have been his 10th “lap”, somewhere between his second check in and third, they both cornered him at the nurses’ station.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this worried about a patient before, Abbot. Ever,” Ellis said as he approached, a gleam in her eye he’d never seen before.
“Yeah I really don’t know if she needs you standing sentry outside her door,” Shen hid the accompanying smirk behind his straw.
“You’re doing a great job of guarding her from the boogeyman, though.”
“I’m just monitoring her concussion, she took a really nasty fall, I wanna be nearby in case anything changes.” Damn, had he ever sounded less convincing in his life?
“Bullshit,” came Lena’s voice from behind the counter. “You’d have passed off any other patient in her condition to one of the students by now, or at least a resident. You like her. Do something about it.”
And on that note they dispersed, checking on patients, charts, results, and the like.
Do something about it, Jack.
So laps 11 and 12 were spent planning, and by his third check in at 6:30am, where he told you a nurse would be in with discharge papers and a set of crutches, he’d finalized his plan.
He asked Lena to handle your discharge info, and to confirm, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that your phone number was correct on those papers.
He also asked her to “forget” to give you the correct follow up instructions… or any follow up instructions at all.
There was a reason he chose Lena for this; besides, is it really malpractice if he fixes the mistake within the hour?
He watched as casually as possible, as you crutched your way out of the ER like a newborn deer right before shift change, and smiled to himself when you disappeared, absolutely sure that he’d find a way to see you again.
Jack was a very predictable guy, he got to work early, he left work late, and he had a second job just to avoid being alone, so it was perfectly normal for him to stay an hour after his shift was over, helping out where he was needed, looking a little bit more like he was lingering than usual. Once he finally decided to leave, there was a chance that he took forever to grab his things, but maybe it had just been a long night, right? And perhaps he made it almost all the way outside before miraculously realizing that no one called his patient with follow up instructions, but who’s to say.
And so he walked right back in, found your forms, found a phone, and made the call that he’d plotted and scripted down to the second.
You jolted when your phone rang. It had been a humiliating experience maneuvering yourself like Bambi to get into your cab, and then back out of it at your hotel. You still had to call your boss, and the client about the unfortunate turn of events that would result in their editor not being able to go over details with them as planned. But you’d barely made it back to your room, somehow whacking yourself in the ankle with your crutches as you sat down and laid back to rest for just a second, when your Clair de Lune pealed out from your phone, which you’d left on the nightstand. The number came up automatically as PTMC, and you picked up, not entirely sure why they’d be calling you already.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Jac- Dr. Abbot, I was looking after you at the hospital last night” a familiar voice said through the speakers, and your heart gave a flutter.
“Hi Dr. Abbot. Did I forget something or fill out the forms wrong? I’m still a little out of it-”
“No, no, nothing like that. I was talking to the nurse that discharged you, and we were both under the impression that the other had given you the necessary follow-up instructions, and I don’t believe either of us did.”
You thought for a second, and realized that, yeah, no one had told you when to come back or anything, they just gave you a pill bottle and sent you on your merry way. “Oh yeah, I guess not. It’s no big deal, though, we all had a pretty long night.”
“That we did,” he said on a laugh. “Still, I wanna keep a close eye on that concussion, so if you can, I’d like to see you back here in about a week and a half just to monitor you and make sure everything’s okay.”
“Okay, a week and a half, got it.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that was almost too soon, but he was the medical professional, and you wouldn’t be mad about getting to see him again.
“I’ve got a couple more things. I love this place to pieces, but the day shift is such a shitshow that you’ll get here and wait forever if you try to come during daylight hours. Your best bet would be around 8PM if you can, and we’ll get you in and out of here pretty quick.”
“So any time after 8?”
“Exactly, you’ve got it.”
The things his positive reinforcement were doing to your nervous system couldn’t be normal.
“Like I said, it’s impossible to get anything done here during the day, and even at night, we’ve only got one person handling the phones. She’s a force of nature, but she’s not an octopus, so I’m gonna give you my cell number. You have any questions, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call or text me, okay?”
He continued “We’re also gonna want to see you in about 6 weeks to get that cast off. Same deal, getting here before 8PM isn’t worth it.”
“6 weeks for the leg, after 8 again. Okay, Dr. Abbot, anything else?” There was a small smile on your face now, like maybe with this time you could scheme your way to getting him on a date. Or in your pants, but baby steps…
“Okay. Thank you, Dr. Abbot, you’re very kind.” Holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit he just gave you his number, and gave you free license to use it. You’re no mind reader, but that has to mean something, right?
“It’s my pleasure. And call me Jack, please.” You could hear the smile in his voice now too.
“Well, Jack, I’ll see you in a week and a half.” You liked saying his name, you also liked that you had permission to use it. Oh hell, you were down bad.
“See you then, Beautiful.”
Before you could say anything about that, the line went dead.
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
p.s. i am still in disbelief that yall trusted me enough to want to be brought back, but @savemefromanepicoftimewasted @4ria790 here it is!
p.p.s. perhaps i've already written part 2... maybe... and the streets are saying it might be long enough to warrant being turned to more of a part 2 and 3...
yk a lot of people write jack abbot as being very distant going into relationships. bordering on commitment issues depending on the fics. and i think a lot of that comes from people trying to play into him being a widow or even just age gap dynamics. which honestly is an entirely valid take.
but why are we not leaning into the fact that we KNOW jack does not like to be alone. we know he needs to keep moving and stay busy to function. that he comes in early and stays late to keep from being alone. that he has an entire second job to fill the gaps between shifts. that he fills the silence in his house with the noise of a police scanner in case he’s needed.
what about jack who’s the one to be all in first? and comes on too strong. and has a tendency to be too much. what about jack who has to teach himself to slow down to remind himself that his relationship isn’t an escape from himself?
✦summary: everyone loves golden boy Steve Rogers. Everyone but you. It's alright, though, because he hates you back. But love and hate are closer than you both think.✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, avengers era, no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, pining but they don't know they're pining, idiots in love, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to feral porn, super soldier level smut, (kind of office sex, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, super soldier stamina, dry orgasms but he's a trooper he keeps going, begging, rough sex, praise and degradation kink, mean!steve, nipple play, manhandling, hyperspermia, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, dacryphilia, dumbification, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 9.6k✦
✦Author's Note: i love enemies to lovers with sweet men it's so important to me. thank you!✦
There aren’t a lot of rules to being on the Avengers, and the ones that exist are easy to follow. Don’t feed Tony after midnight, he’s like a gremlin. Don’t laugh at Sam’s jokes when they’re not funny, it encourages him. Always listen to Fury, unless you like being stranded in Utah. Don’t touch Natasha’s food. Don’t piss off Banner.
Easy. You’re not a fool, and if you were, you wouldn’t deserve to be here.
A lot of people still don’t think you deserve to be here, but Nat always reminds you that they just don’t know what kind of enemy you’d make. She’d rather have you on their side. Everyone warmed up to Wanda eventually, too. The team already likes you, and none of you have a clean letter.
Almost none of you.
Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.
He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.
He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.
Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.
It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.
Asked.
Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.
You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.
“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.
You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.
Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.
You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-
“Sit up.”
Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.
There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.
He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.
“I told you to sit up-“
“I heard you.”
“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.
“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.
Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”
“No. I work under Nat.”
“Who works for me-“
“Does she?”
Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.
He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.
Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.
No one hates Steve Rogers.
He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.
So you must be the fucking problem.
You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-
Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.
“Yeah?”
Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.
And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.
“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.
“Hey.”
Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.
“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”
You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.
Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is.
“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.
“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”
“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”
A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.
“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”
“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.
The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.
“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”
He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.
You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.
It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.
“What the fuck is your problem.”
Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.
“This isn’t a dating app.”
“I know that-“
“Didn’t seem like it.”
You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”
Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”
“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”
“That’s rude-“
“Oh, suck my dick.”
You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.
His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.
“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”
You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”
Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.
Not this again.
“If someone got the jump on you-“
“No one gets the jump on me.”
“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“
“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.
“I didn’t say that-“
“Then what were you going to say-“’
“That you need to be careful-“
“And why do you care-“
“I don’t-“
“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You- You fucking-“
“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”
You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.
You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.
“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.
Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.
“Nothing important-“
“It looked important.”
Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”
He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.
But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.
You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.
Passion, he said.
Idiot.
It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.
“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”
You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.
“Tony, what’s going on-“
“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”
“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“
You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”
“Well, I know it’s your fault-“
“Because everything is my fault-“
“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”
“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“
“I’m not in trouble-“
“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“
“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”
You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”
Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.
“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”
“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”
A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.
“You should sit down, buddy.”
Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”
“Don’t stand there like a creep.”
His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.
“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”
Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”
You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”
Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.
“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“
He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.
From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.
“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.
Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.
Secret Love In the Avengers.
It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.
“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”
Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”
“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.
“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.
“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”
Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.
“So what, do you need us to do another release-“
“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“
“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“
“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”
“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“
“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”
Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“Yes. I do. And you do too.”
You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“
“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”
“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”
Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“
“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.
“They- What?!”
“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”
You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.
He never does.
“Did you know about this?” You hiss.
He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“
“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”
“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”
Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”
Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”
“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“
“Just- Not now-“
“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”
Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“
“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”
Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.
You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.
There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-
No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.
You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.
You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?
He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.
Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.
Oh, no.
You want to fuck him.
Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.
He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.
There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute. Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.
“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.
And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.
You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.
God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.
But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.
“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.
“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“
“We really don’t-“
“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“
You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.
Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.
“Let go-“
“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”
“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“
“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”
Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.
“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”
“Aw. I’m a woman-“
“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.
And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.
“I’m a problem?”
Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”
“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.
“You’ll live.”
For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.
“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”
“You’re impossible-“
“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.
“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“
“Yes. You do.”
“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“
“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.
“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”
You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.
Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.
“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”
You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“
“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“
“Steve-“
“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”
“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“
“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”
You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.
No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.
But Steve…
He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.
“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.
“Since the second I saw you.”
“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”
His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“
“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.
Stares for a second longer, then nods.
“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.
“Okay?”
You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.
Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-
Steve snaps.
His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.
You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.
“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.
“Shut up, I could still stop this-“
“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”
Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“
“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”
Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.
He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.
“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.
“You would’ve killed me.”
And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.
“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”
Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.
He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t been thinking small.
“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”
You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.
“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”
“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”
You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.
“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.
“You- You’re such an ass-“
“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.
A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.
“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“
You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.
“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“
Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.
And he’s still so hard.
You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.
“You’re- Uh-“
“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”
Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“
“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”
He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.
You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.
“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.
Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.
“You like that, doll?”
“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.
“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”
Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.
“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”
“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“
“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”
God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.
“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”
He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.
“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“
“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.
You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.
“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”
He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.
Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.
He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.
Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.
He’s looking at your tits.
He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.
“Steve- Ooh-“
“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“
Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.
He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.
“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”
And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.
You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.
He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.
You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“
You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.
When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.
“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.
You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.
This feels real.
You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.
“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”
You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”
“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”
You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.
“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”
You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.
“You gotta hold on.”
“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.
“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“
“I’m holding on tight.”
“Hold on tighter.”
You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.
“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.
“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“
“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“
“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”
He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.
His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.
“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”
“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”
Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”
And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.
The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-
Steve.
You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.
It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-
“Is that me?”
Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.
“Stay.”
You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“
He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.
“You like that, huh?”
“Shut up-“
“No, you liked that-“
“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.
“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“
“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.
Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”
“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“
“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”
“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“
“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”
And all your protests slip out of your head.
I love you.
He- He said-
“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.
“I love you.”
He said it again. “Wh- Why?”
“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”
“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“
“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.
“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“
“It’s not.”
“But-“
Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.
“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“
“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.
It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.
“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”
You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”
There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.
“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“
“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”
Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.
“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”
Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.
He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.
“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”
You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.
“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.
“Yes?”
You glare at him, and he raises his brows.
“You getting on, or not?”
For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.
Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.
“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”
He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.
“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.
You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.
He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.
“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”
You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.
“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”
You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.
But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.
You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.
Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”
You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.
“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”
“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“
“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”
Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.
“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”
He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.
“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”
Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.
It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.
“St- Steve-“
“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“
“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“
Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.
“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”
Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.
“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.
“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“
It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.
There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.
He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.
“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.
You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.
“You gonna talk to me?”
You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.
“I didn’t hurt you-“
You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.
“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“
He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.
“Honey, it’s everywhere.”
You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.
“Okay. Five minutes.”
He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.
Like a real couple.
You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.
A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.
But now-
You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.
“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“
You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.
Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.
“I love you,” you croak out.
His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.
And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.
And he might really be the only thing in yours.
✦End note: i will never back off my "he's mean during sex" agenda✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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you've awoken something in me. something DANGEROUS. i hereby introduce this to my steve rogers hall of fame! also thank you for unearthing/giving name to my new favourite tag... hyperspermia and I are going to go on a GENERATIONAL run holyfuckingshit
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if i said that somewhere in my drafts theres a half written abbot fic heavily inspired by twilight that i'm on the fence about finishing (after abandoning it for 3 full months), what would yall say?
"Yeah you were 100% in some fucked up version of Twilight. There was no other justification as to why your own personal Carlisle Cullen was in your hospital room, looking shocked to see you awake."
can you tell what i was reading, perchance? anyways!
would you read it?
yes, duh. abbot is very carlisle coded if you ignore everything about them both
no chance, you crazy bitch what the hell is going on inside your head?
i find myself so fucking hilarious btw i've been laughing for 4 hours so far about the fact that none of you are willing to call me out on my bullshit and pick the 2nd one.
if i said that somewhere in my drafts theres a half written abbot fic heavily inspired by twilight that i'm on the fence about finishing (after abandoning it for 3 full months), what would yall say?
"Yeah you were 100% in some fucked up version of Twilight. There was no other justification as to why your own personal Carlisle Cullen was in your hospital room, looking shocked to see you awake."
can you tell what i was reading, perchance? anyways!
would you read it?
yes, duh. abbot is very carlisle coded if you ignore everything about them both
no chance, you crazy bitch what the hell is going on inside your head?
Summary: Every cop in the LAPD hates your ass, but Paul’s finally had enough.
Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (hate sex, fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, creampie, scratching, biting, almost slapping, quick and rough sex, semi public sex), severe misogyny, cheating on both ends, bad cop tropes, SMUT!!! 18+ ONLY!!!
A/N: Thank you so much @geminixevans for giving me the kick in the ass to finish this thing! Hope it’s not super obvious that I really don’t like cops here, but whatever. Apparently, I really like making everyone in my fics absolute assholes, so sorry, there’s almost no redeeming qualities here except for very hot sex.
I am no longer doing taglists so if you want to stay up to date on all the latest filth, follow my sideblog @the-iceni-library and turn on notifications!
“Y/L/N, what the fuck was that?”
You sighed when Detective Diskant intercepted you on your way out of court, almost reaching out to grab your arm then thinking better of it at the last minute.
“That was me giving you and that idiot partner of yours a chance to actually give me a case I can fucking use.” You tapped your foot irritably while he glared at you.
“We had a fucking case, there was a witness!” He had never been so frustrated, you’d tanked cases of his before, but this was a murder.
“You mean the 16 year old escort who could barely remember her own name when I was doing prep with her, but could describe your perp in perfect detail?” You rolled your eyes at him and ignored his growl. “Make sure to tell Ludlow if he’s gonna threaten a minor with trafficking charges to get her to testify, she’d better have a spine so she doesn’t break down the first time someone challenges her.”
“Goddamn it.” He ran his hand over his face at that, he knew leaving Ludlow alone with a witness would come back to bite him in the ass one day. “The evidence…”
“All fucking circumstantial, bring me something else and I’ll nail the guy to the wall, but Judge Martin would have thrown this out with prejudice and then we would have been shit outta luck.” You pulled out your phone and broke eye contact with him, frowning at something on your screen. “I have a depo to get to, call me when you and Ludlow unfuck this.”
PRAISE JESUS HALLELUJAH I actually watched the source material today after having loved this fic for YEARS... when I die I need to be buried with a copy of this, actually. please.
Summary: The epilogue brings Jack, you, June, and Otis home in the softest way. On an ordinary morning after a long night shift, the house is warm with coffee, cinnamon rolls, baby noises, dog hair, and the kind of love that no longer has to ask permission to stay.
It is quiet. It is chaotic. It is theirs.
Warnings / Content Notes:
references to foster/adoption uncertainty and Safe Haven placement aftermath
adoption
happy emotional overwhelm
newborn/infant care
and references to past loneliness.
I don’t really know how to say goodbye to this story.
Writing Jack and Reader has been one of the most unexpected, emotional, and meaningful creative journeys I’ve ever had. What started as a story about coffee, cinnamon rolls, shift changes, and two people trying very hard not to want each other too much somehow became something so much bigger. It became a story about home, found family, healing, being seen, letting yourself be loved, and learning that sometimes life does not arrive in the right order — but it can still be yours.
To everyone who read, commented, reblogged, messaged me, screamed with me, cried with me, loved Otis, loved June Bug, loved Robby, and loved Jack and Reader through every soft, messy, impossible moment: thank you.
The support and love this story received was something I never expected. It has meant more to me than I can explain. You made this feel like a safe place for my art and my craft, and I will always be grateful for that.
This story also gave me something I didn’t fully see coming: the courage to start dreaming bigger. Writing Pulse Point has inspired me to begin working toward an original novel — something born from the same love of romance, emotional healing, found family, and the kind of ordinary life that feels sacred because of who you get to share it with.
So while this is the end of Jack and Reader’s main story, it is not the end of what this story gave me.
Thank you for staying until the porch light.
Thank you for loving this little family.
And thank you, truly, for helping me believe in my writing a little more.
Xoxo, Del
Epilogue: Where The Life Is
The adoption decree had been framed for three weeks, and Jack still looked at it as proof that was worth checking twice.
He never said that.
Of course, he didn’t.
Jack Abbot did not announce his fears unless cornered, exhausted, or emotionally ambushed by someone under twenty pounds.
But you knew him.
You knew the way his eyes moved to the bookshelf whenever he passed through the living room. Knew the pause in his step, the brief stillness of his hands, the way his gaze found the black letters printed neatly beneath the county seal.
June Michaela Abbot.
A name.
A real one.
Not Baby Jane Doe.
Not a temporary label.
Not a hope written carefully into forms no one could promise would become anything.
June Michaela Abbot.
Your daughter.
His daughter.
Yours.
The decree sat in a simple wooden frame beside a photo from your wedding day: you and Jack in the garden, his hand at your waist, June asleep in Robby’s arms, Otis sitting proudly at the front as if he had personally officiated. Next to that sat the tiny keepsake box with June’s ivory dress folded safely inside, the sash made from your wedding dress fabric tucked over the top.
Jack had arranged the shelf himself.
Then rearranged it.
Then pretended he had not.
You let him.
Some things were better left unteased until they could bear the weight of it.
This morning, though, Jack was not standing in front of the bookshelf. For once, he was asleep. Really asleep. Upstairs, behind a half-closed bedroom door, after an extra-long night shift that had turned into fourteen hours, three traumas, one septic workup that refused to behave, and a nine-thirty a.m. phone call where he had said, voice scraped raw with exhaustion, I’m leaving now. Don’t start the coffee until I get there.
You had started the coffee anyway. It was your day off, you could do as you pleased. Now the kitchen smelled like brown sugar, oat milk, cinnamon, and the kind of morning you used to think only existed in other people’s houses. The cinnamon rolls were in the oven, rising into golden spirals beneath a sheet of foil. Jack’s good mug waited beside the coffee maker. The baby monitor glowed softly near the sink, even though June was in the kitchen with you, sitting on the changing pad you had spread over the kitchen floor because sometimes parenting meant surrendering to the nearest flat surface. Otis lay at your feet with his chin on his paws, pretending not to monitor the baby’s every breath.
June stared up at you with her usual severe expression. Dark hair, thicker and longer now, stuck up slightly at the crown no matter what you did. Blue-gray eyes watched everything. Long lashes. Rosy cheeks. A solemn little mouth that made her look like she was three complaints away from filing with hospital administration. Seven months old, legally yours, and still somehow the most judgmental person in the house.
You held up the tiny black biker jacket.
June blinked.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you whispered. “Your uncle Robby is going to cry.”
June kicked one foot. A foot currently wearing a tiny sock covered in motorcycles.
Also from Robby.
“You’re right,” you said. “He did this to himself.”
The jacket had been ridiculous when Robby bought it. June had still been impossibly small then, tucked into soft sleepers and swaddles, her whole body fitting against Jack’s chest like a question none of you were allowed to answer yet. The sleeves had swallowed her arms. The tiny zipper had looked absurdly bold against her newborn softness.
Robby had said, “I saw it and thought…someday.”
Jack had said, “Over my dead body will my daughter ever get on a motorcycle.”
Now the jacket fits.
That was what got you.
Not perfectly. The sleeves still bunched a little. The collar sat crooked because June had no interest in helping. But it fit well enough that when you zipped it over her little white onesie and smoothed one hand down the front, your throat tightened. She had grown into it. Into the jacket. Into the house. Into her name. Into the places all of you had been afraid to make for her too early.
You reached for the tiny jeans next. June kicked again.
“Excuse me,” you said. “This is fashion.”
She opened her mouth and made a low, serious babble.
“Exactly. Strong point.” You nod at her.
Otis thumped his tail once without lifting his head. You pulled the tiny stretchy jeans over June’s legs and adjusted her motorcycle socks. One was already starting to slide down. Naturally, you fixed it. Then you reached for the two tiny black bows waiting beside the changing pad. June stared at them.
“Don’t judge me,” you whispered. “This is a milestone.”
Her hair was finally long enough for two tiny pigtails. Barely. It was still fine and soft around the edges, thicker at the crown, dark and stubborn in a way that made every attempt at symmetry feel like a negotiation. You parted it with the focus of a surgeon and the emotional stability of someone who had waited months to put bows in her daughter’s hair. The first pigtail leaned slightly left. The second one had opinions. You secured the tiny black bows anyway. “There,” you said, smoothing a wisp back from her forehead. “Perfect.”
June blinked at you with grave disapproval.
“I know,” you said. “Beauty is a burden.”
From upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Otis’s head came up instantly. June went still. You looked toward the ceiling. Another slow creak. Then the faint sound of Jack moving around the bedroom.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. “I think your dad is awake June,” you murmured.
Otis stood and trotted toward the doorway, then stopped halfway, torn between greeting Jack and maintaining his official post by the baby.
June slapped one palm against the changing pad.
“Agreed,” you told her. “He’s taking forever.”
Jack appeared in the kitchen twenty minutes later, looking like a man who had slept hard and not nearly long enough. His hair was crushed on one side. His T-shirt was wrinkled. His sweatpants hung low on his hips. Sleep still pulled at the edges of his face, softening the creases around his eyes and mouth. He had not shaved. He had one hand braced briefly on the doorframe, the other rubbing over his jaw like he was trying to convince his body to fully join the day.
But his eyes found June immediately. Of course they did. Before the coffee. Before you. Before anything.
They found her.
You lifted June carefully from the changing pad and settled her on your hip, tiny jacket creaking softly as she moved.
Then you turned her toward him. “Say hi to Daddy.”
Jack stopped in the kitchen doorway. The word still did that to him.
Daddy.
Even now. Even with the adoption decree framed on the bookshelf, and her last name finally matching yours and Jack’s.
His face changed in a way that was small enough that someone else might have missed it. You didn’t. June stared at him with grave suspicion, dark hair sticking up between the two little bows, one motorcycle-socked foot kicking lightly against your hip.
Then she opened her mouth and said, very clearly, “Da.”
The kitchen went still. Jack did not move.
You gasped. “June.”
Jack looked at you.
You turned her slightly toward yourself, scandalized. “No, ma’am. Say ma.”
June blinked at you. Jack’s mouth started to curve.
“Don’t,” you warned him.
June looked back at Jack. “Da,” she said again.
Jack’s smile went fully smug. “Interesting,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “It is a normal developmental sound.”
“Twice,” Jack replies.
“Randomly.” You argue.
Jack grins at June, “Directed.”
“You are insufferable.” You reply, rolling your eyes.
Jack crossed the kitchen, still looking far too pleased with himself, and bent to kiss June’s soft dark hair. “Morning, Bug,” he murmured. His voice was rough from sleep.
June grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt like she had been expecting him. Which, legally and emotionally, she had every right to do. Jack’s smugness softened immediately into something much more dangerous. Something quiet. Something overwhelmed.
Then he looked at you. “She said it twice.”
“I heard her.” You grumble.
Jack smirks, “Just making sure.”
“I can still divorce you.” You shoot back.
His eyes warmed. “You won’t.”
He was right.
He kissed you then, sleep-warm and smiling, one hand at your waist and the other still carefully supporting June’s back where she leaned between you. Not a wedding kiss. Not a hallway kiss. Not a kiss that asked for anything. A kitchen kiss.
A husband kiss.
A father standing barefoot in the morning with his daughter between you and his whole life written all over his face.
When he pulled back, June babbled again.
Jack looked down at her. “Exactly.”
“You don’t even know what she said.” You say with a laugh.
Jack nods at June, “She agreed with me.”
“She is seven months old.” You point out.
“And discerning.”
June blinked up at him, serious and unimpressed.
“See?” he said. “Discerning.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too hard for it to land.
Jack’s gaze moved over her then. Slowly. The tiny jeans. The motorcycle socks. The black jacket. The two tiny bows perched in her dark hair like punctuation marks on an already bad idea.
His expression shifted. “What did you do to her hair?”
You straightened immediately. “Her hair is finally long enough for me to do it. Let me have this.”
Jack looked from June’s tiny pigtails to your face. Whatever he had been about to say changed shape before it left him.
His mouth softened. “I didn’t say it was bad.”
You glare at him, “You said it with your face.”
“My face has been misinterpreted,” Jack replies.
You shake your head, “Your face is very clear.”
June babbled once, solemn and sharp. You pointed gently toward her. “She agrees with me.”
Jack looked down at June. One pigtail leaned left. The other stuck almost straight out.
His mouth twitched. “She looks like she knows something we don’t.”
You nod, “She always does.”
“Yeah,” he said, softer. “She does.”
Then he bent and kissed one tiny bow, then June’s hair. “Perfect,” he murmured.
He straightened and looked at the jacket. “Still no motorcycle.”
You widened your eyes. “What?”
“Why is my daughter dressed like Robby had influence?” Jack asks.
You try to look innocent. “She’s just wearing the outfit because Robby is coming over.”
“That sentence is not comforting,” Jack grumbles.
You tilt your head, “It’s his day off.”
“Still not comforting,” Jack murmurs.
You bounced June once on your hip. “You’re being dramatic.”
Jack gives you a look, “I’m being observant.”
“You’re being threatened by baby outerwear.” You correct him.
Jack points at June, “That jacket has an agenda.”
June slapped her hand against his chest.
Jack looked down. “Don’t defend it.”
She babbled at him, eyebrows lifting in a way that looked so judgmental you had to turn your face into your shoulder to laugh.
Jack saw. His eyes narrowed. “She gets that from you.”
You laugh but narrow your eyes at him, “She gets that from you.”
“She gets it from Robby,” Jack says, smiling softly.
You nod, “She does love Robby.”
“That’s a separate problem,” Jack replies, smoothing a hand down the back of June’s head. June kicked both feet at the sound of Robby’s name, one motorcycle sock immediately sliding halfway off her heel.
Jack pointed at it. “Even the socks are unstable.”
You reached down to fix it. “The socks are adorable.”
“They have motorcycles on them.” Jack deadpans.
“Yes.” You agree.
He shakes his head once. “No.”
You looked up at him. “You keep saying no like it will change something.”
Jack looked at June. Then at you. Then at the tiny jacket again.
His mouth twitched as he sighed, “I’m tired.”
“I know.” You reply.
“My defenses are compromised.” He continued.
You smile, “I know.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed, “You planned this.”
“Yes.”
His eyes warmed despite himself. “You’re trouble.”
You smiled. “Still?”
His hand shifted at your waist, thumb brushing over your shirt. “Always.”
The cinnamon rolls saved you from answering. The oven timer chirped. June startled, then frowned toward the noise like appliances had personally offended her.
Otis barked once.
Jack said, “Report received.”
You handed June to him so you could grab oven mitts. He took her automatically, settling her against his chest with one arm while reaching for his coffee with the other.
“Careful,” you said.
Jack stopped mid-reach. His brows lifted. “With coffee?”
“With June. She’s been flinging her arms all morning.”
“I perform life-saving procedures,” he said. “I think I can handle drinking coffee and holding a baby at the same time.”
June chose that exact moment to throw one arm out with the dramatic force of a tiny conductor. Her fist bumped his wrist. The coffee mug shifted half an inch.
Jack froze.
You pointed at them. “See?”
He looked down at June. June stared back at him, deeply unimpressed.
“Hey bug,” Jack said to her. “Remember, you’re on Team Dad.”
You scoffed. “No. Team Mom.”
June looked from Jack to you. Then turned her head toward Otis. Otis thumped his tail once.
Jack’s mouth flattened. “She chose the dog.”
You smiled. “Smart girl.”
Jack looked offended. “Betrayal before coffee.”
June babbled. You reached for his mug and moved it out of range. “Team Mom handles risk management.”
“Team Dad performs life-saving procedures,” Jack replies.
You click your tongue, “Team Otis has her full attention.”
Otis wagged again, proud of himself for reasons he did not understand. You laughed as you pulled the cinnamon rolls from the oven. The kitchen filled instantly with warmth. Cinnamon. Brown sugar. Butter. The smell of every ridiculous, tender, impossible thing that had somehow become a foundation.
Jack went quiet.
You noticed as you set the pan on the stove. He stood near the island with June tucked against him, coffee still untouched, eyes on the cinnamon rolls like they had carried him across the past 2 years. Maybe they had.
June pulled at the collar of his shirt. Otis sat at his feet. The baby monitor glowed on the counter even though the nursery was empty. The adoption decree waited on the bookshelf. Your rings caught the morning light as you set the oven mitts down. Jack looked around the kitchen. Really looked. And you saw the old shadow pass near him. Not through him. Not this time. Just near.
The memory of all the years he had believed ordinary happiness belonged to other people. That it was something he visited briefly between disasters. Something borrowed. Temporary. For other houses. Other men. Other lives.
Then June babbled against his chest. “Da.”
Jack blinked. The shadow went. You did not say anything. You only reached for his coffee and slid it toward him. “Here.”
He looked at it. Then at you. “You started it before I got home.”
“You told me not to.” You reply.
“I did.” He says.
You smirk, “I ignored you.”
His mouth softened. “Good.”
You cut into the cinnamon rolls, spreading icing over the tops while they were still warm enough for it to melt into every spiral. June watched with the fixed intensity of a baby who could not have sugar and knew injustice when she saw it.
“You are not getting cinnamon rolls,” Jack told her.
June stared.
“You can judge me all you want.” She reached for his chin. He let her. Of course he did.
“Robby will be here soon,” you said.
Jack closed his eyes briefly. “Do we have to let him in?”
“He’s your best friend.” You reply.
Jack sighs, “He’s June’s legal namesake. He’s gotten enough.”
You turned, spatula in hand. “You agreed to Michaela.”
“I was emotionally compromised,” Jack grumbles.
You raise a brow, “You cried.”
“I did not,” Jack responds immediately.
“Jack.” Your tone indicated that you were not playing this game.
“I had a reaction,” Jack grumbles, taking a sip of his coffee.
“You cried.” You repeat.
June babbled.
You smiled sweetly. “She remembers.”
Jack looks down at her, “She was at the hearing for twelve minutes before falling asleep.”
“She is very intuitive.” You shrug.
Jack looks at you, “She is seven months old.”
You look over at June, then back at Jack. “She said da.”
Jack’s face rearranged itself into unbearable smugness again. “Twice,” he said.
You pointed the spatula at him. “Do not weaponize the baby.”
Jack looks at June, “She started it.”
Before you could respond, the low rumble of a motorcycle rolled up the street.
Jack’s head turned toward the front window. His entire expression changed. “No.”
You glanced toward the driveway, then back at him. “It’s Robby.”
“That is the problem,” Jack responds.
June kicked both feet. Otis trotted to the front door, tail wagging, because unlike Jack, he had accepted Robby as a necessary part of household ecology. The motorcycle cut off. A second later, footsteps came up the porch. Then a knock. Not the doorbell. Robby had learned that the doorbell woke June once and never recovered from the shame. You went to answer it before Jack could decide not to. Robby stood on the porch in jeans, boots, and his leather jacket, helmet tucked under one arm, hair flattened from the ride, and a grin already halfway to unbearable.
“Good morning to my favorite family,” he said.
Jack called from the kitchen, “No.”
Robby’s grin widened. “He sounds rested.”
“He worked fourteen hours and slept four,” you said, stepping aside.
“So emotionally delicate,” Robby says, shaking his head.
You huff a laugh, “Correct.”
Robby walked in, then stopped dead in the entryway. His eyes found June. Tiny black jacket. Tiny jeans. Motorcycle socks. Two tiny black bows. Serious face. For once, no immediate joke came.
His hand went to his chest. “She’s dressed for me.”
Jack appeared behind you with June now on his hip, looking deeply unimpressed. “Unfortunately.”
Robby looked at June like she had personally rewritten the morning. “June Michaela Abbot,” he said, solemn as a proclamation. “Named after excellence.”
Jack looked at him. “Named despite you.”
“Revisionist history,” Robby replied.
June reached for the zipper on Robby’s jacket. Robby looked triumphant. “She knows.”
Jack deadpans, “She wants the zipper.”
“She wants family.” Robby corrected.
Jack shoots back, “She wants the shiny thing.”
“Both can be true,” Robby says with a shrug.
You laughed and took June from Jack before the two of them could turn this into a deposition.
Robby stepped closer, his eyes still soft on June. “Hi, Bug.”
June stared at him. Then made a sharp little babble that sounded like an accusation.
Robby nodded gravely. “Completely fair.”
You passed June to him, and Robby received her with the same careful awe he had never really lost, even now that she was bigger and sturdier and fully capable of grabbing his collar with alarming force. He held her against his chest and looked down at the jacket. “She grew into it.”
The words were soft. For a second, no one teased him. Not even Jack.
Robby blinked once, fast. Then he cleared his throat. “Terrible for my composure.”
Jack muttered, “You never had any.”
Robby turned towards him, “I heard that.”
“I intended that,” Jack replies, taking a long gulp of coffee.
Robby ignored him and looked back at June. “Your father is threatened by style.”
June slapped Robby’s zipper.
You leaned against the counter, watching them. Jack moved behind you, one hand finding your waist out of habit, his coffee in the other now that June was safely out of range.
“You did plan this,” he murmured.
You looked up at him. “Maybe.”
His eyes narrowed, but the warmth in them ruined the effect. “What else did you plan?”
You smiled. Then turned back toward Robby and June.
“Okay,” you said brightly. “Ready for your first motorcycle ride, June Bug?”
Jack turned so fast his coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim. “No.”
Robby’s face lit with immediate, catastrophic delight.
You turned towards your husband.
Jack stared at you. Flat. Unamused. Entirely awake now.
You lasted three seconds. Then you laughed. “Seriously, Jack, what kind of mother do you think I am? I’m kidding. It’s just a picture. The bike is off. Robby will hold her.”
Jack looks from you to Robby. “Robby is the part I’m concerned about.”
Robby pressed one hand to June’s back, offended. “I have excellent baby reviews.”
“From who?” Jack asks.
Robby lifts June slightly, “The baby.”
June babbled. Robby lifted his brows. “See?”
Jack pointed at both of them. “That was not a review.”
Robby shrugs, “It sounded positive.”
“It sounded like drool,” Jack grumbles.
Robby glared, “You hate joy.”
“I hate motorcycles near infants.” Jack corrects him.
“Parked motorcycles,” you corrected.
“Near infants,” Jack says. “Our infant.” He added quietly.
Robby shifted June carefully to one arm and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket.
Jack pointed at him immediately. “Whatever that is, no.”
Robby paused, deeply wounded. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“I know you,” Jack says.
Robby pulled out tiny baby aviator sunglasses.
You gasped with delight.
Jack said, “Absolutely not.”
June stared at the sunglasses with the grave suspicion of a tiny federal judge.
“They’re UV-protective,” Robby said.
Jack looked at June, “She is not going on the road.”
“They’re for the photo,” Robby replies.
Jack narrows his eyes, “She does not need aviators for a photo.”
“You don’t know that,” Robby says, offended.
Jack gives him a look, “I very much do.”
You took the tiny sunglasses from Robby’s hand and turned them over. They were absurd. Tiny. Black. Completely unnecessary.
Perfect.
You looked at June. She stared back. “Just for the picture?” you asked.
June blinked.
Jack said, “She cannot consent to eyewear.”
You slipped the aviators gently onto June’s face. She went completely still. For one full second, everyone waited. Then June turned her head slowly toward Jack from behind the tiny dark lenses. Robby made a wounded sound. You covered your mouth. Jack stared at her.
His mouth twitched once. Then flattened immediately. “No.”
You burst out laughing.
Robby pointed at her, voice reverent. “Look at her.”
“I am looking,” Jack replies.
Robby touches June’s pigtails, “She’s perfect.”
“She looks like she’s about to reject a plea bargain,” Jack says, fighting a smile and failing.
Robby grins, “Exactly. Perfect.”
Otis barked once from the door. Robby nodded. “Even Otis agrees.”
Otis did not know what he agreed to, but he wagged anyway. The cinnamon rolls cooled on the counter while the four of you migrated outside. The morning was bright and mild, the porch light off now because daylight had finally taken over. The driveway still held the faint warmth of Robby’s motorcycle engine, but the bike was off, kickstand down, stable and silent.
Jack checked all three of those things. Twice. You noticed. Robby noticed too, but for once, he did not say anything.
Smart man.
Robby sat on the motorcycle first, both boots planted firmly on the ground, helmet set safely aside. Then he held out his arms.
Jack looked at you.
You smiled sweetly. “It’s a picture.”
“It becomes evidence,” Jack replies.
“Of what?” You ask.
Jack gives the motorcycle a disapproving look. “Poor judgment.”
You kissed his cheek before taking June from your hip and passing her to Robby. Jack hovered within immediate catching distance. Robby settled June securely against his chest, one arm around her body, one hand supporting her carefully, the way Eileen had taught everyone and Jack had corrected until the entire household developed a complex. June sat solemnly in her tiny jeans, black jacket, motorcycle socks, black bows, and baby aviators, staring into the middle distance like she had seen the open road and found it lacking.
Otis stationed himself beside the front tire.
Jack pointed at him. “Good.”
Otis wagged.
Robby looked down at June. “You hear that, June Michaela? Your father is a hater.”
Jack said, “Your father is standing close enough to stop this nonsense at any second.”
Robby groans, “You are ruining the vibe.”
“I am protecting the baby.” Jack corrects.
Robby shakes his head. “The bike is off.”
“You keep saying that like it addresses the jacket,” Jack replies.
You lifted your phone, laughing too hard to hold it completely steady. “Okay,” you said. “Smile.”
Robby grinned immediately. June remained deeply serious behind the aviators. Otis looked directly at the camera. Jack stood in the edge of the frame, arms crossed, coffee in one hand, face set in the expression of a man who had lost control of his household and was pretending it was new information.
“Jack,” you said.
Jack replies instantly, “No.”
“You’re in the picture.” You say.
“I am supervising.” He responds.
“You are sulking.” You correct him.
Jack looks over at you. “I am supervising with concerns.”
Robby leaned slightly toward June. “He gets like this.”
“Robby,” Jack warns.
June babbled. It sounded suspiciously like agreement. You took the photo right as Jack looked personally betrayed by his own daughter.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
The picture caught all of it.
Robby is smug and soft-eyed. June solemn in her tiny aviators. Otis is on guard by the tire. Jack half in frame, exhausted and offended, and already moving closer because even when he protested, he could not keep himself away from the life.
You looked at the screen and immediately started laughing again.
Jack stepped beside you. “Let me see.”
You tilted the phone toward him. He looked. For one second, his expression stayed flat. Then it softened. Slowly. Helplessly. The way it always did when June was involved. The way it did when he thought no one was watching, the life got under his skin. In the photo, June’s tiny hand was curled around Robby’s jacket. Otis’s ears were perked. Robby looked like he had never been prouder of anything in his life. And Jack, half-caught at the edge of the frame, was looking at them like he was two seconds away from saying no and one second away from smiling.
You looked up at him. He was still staring at the picture. The morning held around you. Cinnamon rolls are cooling inside. Coffee was going cold in his hand. The adoption decree was framed on the bookshelf. The baby monitor is glowing on the kitchen counter. Robby was in the driveway, making himself at home in the middle of the family he had helped hold together.
Otis was guarding the motorcycle as if it were now part of his jurisdiction. June Michaela Abbot, wearing a baby biker jacket, tiny bows, and aviators, unimpressed by the entire world except for the people she had decided were hers.
Jack waited. You could see it. Not because he wanted to. Because some part of him always expected the old feeling to show up. The one that told him lives like this belonged to other people. That happiness was borrowed. That home was temporary. That love stayed only until it understood what it had gotten itself into.
He waited.
And nothing came. No warning. No catch. No voice telling him he had misunderstood. Only the morning. Only his wife beside him. Only his daughter in Robby’s arms. Only their dog at their feet. Only the warm smell of cinnamon and coffee drifting through the open front door. Jack looked from the photo to the driveway. Robby was carefully trying to convince June to wave. June was not convinced. Otis sneezed at the front tire. You leaned into Jack’s side. His arm came around you automatically.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
Jack looked down at you.
Then at June.
Then at the house.
His house.
His wife.
His daughter.
His ridiculous dog.
His best friend teaching his baby how to remain emotionally unimpressed while riding a parked motorcycle.
The life crowded, warm, and loud, and impossible around him.
This time, when he answered, he did not hesitate.
“Yeah,” he said.
His mouth curved as June grabbed for Robby’s zipper again and Robby declared it “advanced mechanical interest.”
Jack’s arm tightened around you. “I am.”
You smiled and rested your head against his shoulder. Inside, the cinnamon rolls waited. By the door, the porch light slept in the morning sun, no longer needed but still there, ready for nightfall. And Jack stood in the middle of the life he had once thought belonged to other people, holding you close while his daughter babbled in the driveway. Not borrowed. Not temporary. Not almost.
Summary : How Jack married her, and their life with the kids.
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 12,2219
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3.
More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist
The Morning She Left For Japan
The room was quiet in the way hospital rooms always were — not peaceful, just suspended. The kind of quiet that existed between emergencies.
Jack was propped against the headboard, a book open in his lap, though he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. Across the room you were closing your briefcase. The suit was on. The schedule was running in your head.
He watched you check the briefcase clasp twice.
"You said I'm your priority," he said.
You looked up. Not guilty — you never looked guilty — but something close to it. "I've been here for three days. Besides, the doctor said you're fine. Also the President asked me directly to go with him."
Jack opened his mouth. Closed it.
The President.
He couldn't fight that. There was absolutely no universe in which that was a reasonable argument to counter. He looked back at his book. "Fine."
A knock at the door saved both of you from the silence that followed. It opened without waiting for an answer — Robby's particular brand of entry — and he leaned against the frame with the expression of a man who had been looking forward to this moment.
"Look at that," Robby said, taking in Jack flat in the hospital bed, book in hand, thoroughly stationary. "The most restless man I know, horizontal and staying that way." He shook his head with theatrical sadness. "Adrenaline junkies really do crash hard."
"Tell him," you said, already sliding your phone into your jacket pocket. "Oh, it feels good not being a patient this time. "By the way, Robby, do you want new medical tools? Japan has a lot."
Robby blinked, he looked at Jack. Then looked back at you. "It's your call."
"Great." You pressed a brief kiss to Jack's temple, your hand resting on his shoulder for just a second. "I'll bring more toys."
And then you were gone. The door clicked behind you. The room resumed its suspended quiet.
Robby stayed where he was, listening to the sound of heels on the corridor floor until they faded. Then he turned to Jack with a specific expression. "Did she realize Japanese medical equipment runs to millions?"
"Don't," Jack said. "That logic doesn't resonate with her."
Robby huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off the doorframe, pulling a chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the amusement settling into something more genuine. "She never left your side," he said. "Three days, Jack. I had to practically order her to sleep."
"I know," Jack said.
He did know. He had woken up twice in the night and she had been there both times — not hovering, just present. Working quietly on her laptop or simply sitting, like being nearby was something she had decided and didn't need to explain. He had watched her for a moment each time before closing his eyes again. He hadn't told her he'd noticed. He wasn't sure why.
Robby huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off the doorframe, pulling a chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the amusement settling into something more genuine. "She never left your side," he said. "Three days, Jack. I had to practically order her to sleep."
"I know," Jack said.
He did know. He had woken up twice in the night and you had been there both times — not hovering, just present. Working quietly on your laptop or simply sitting, like being nearby was something you had decided and didn't need to explain. He had watched you for a moment each time before closing his eyes again. He hadn't told you he'd noticed. He wasn't sure why.
Robby reached into his coat and pulled out a folded set of papers. "Speaking of which." He held them out. "Administrative update. Everyone's redoing emergency contacts and next of kin. Yours are blank."
Jack took the papers without comment.
Robby stood, patting the back of the chair. "Oh — and before I forget. You're not allowed to work. Not for at least three weeks."
Jack looked up from the papers. "Hmm."
"I thought you'd fight me on that."
"I promised her I wouldn't work for a while," Jack said. "And I'm going to try golf again."
Robby stared at him. "You hate golf."
"Yeah," Jack said simply. He looked back down at the papers.
Robby shook his head slowly. "She's done something to you, Abbott." He said it without any edge, just quiet observation. "Something permanent."
He left without waiting for an answer.
Jack sat with the papers in his lap for a moment. Then he uncapped his pen and started filling them out. Name, position, department — the routine information moved quickly. He turned the page.
Next of kin.
He stopped.
The line sat there, blank and official, and he looked at it for longer than made sense. He thought about the hallway outside the OR. The way Robby had said your girl is here and the words had reached him through the fog of blood loss like something physical — a rope thrown into dark water. He thought about the limits that existed because of what you weren't, technically, legally, on paper.
If something happened again — another callout, another surgery, another night where it all went wrong — you would be back in that hallway. Waiting. Powerful enough to move governments and helpless in the one moment it mattered because there was no form with your name on it.
He looked at the blank line.
Your name should be here, he thought. Your name should be the first one written.
He finished the rest of the form. Left next of kin blank for now. Folded the papers and set them on the nightstand.
Outside the window Pittsburgh was gray and ordinary and moving without him. Somewhere above it, a private jet was climbing toward Japan.
He picked up his book. Didn't read it.
He had three weeks and a golf course he hated and a next of kin line he couldn't fill in yet.
He thought about that for a long time.
The next morning Robby appeared in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
"She bought the Pitt a hinotori system," he said.
Jack looked up from his book.
"Japanese surgical robot," Robby clarified. "Medicaroid. The director got the shipping confirmation an hour ago. He's been sitting very still ever since." A pause. "And an AI endoscopy suite. For the ER specifically."
Jack said nothing.
"The endoscopy system isn't even widely available in the US yet," Robby continued, with the measured tone of a man reading from a fact sheet he was still processing. "She apparently went directly to the manufacturer. In Tokyo." He paused. "While accompanying a head of state."
Jack looked at him for a moment. Then back to his book. "She mentioned the equipment there was good."
Robby stared at him. "That's what you got from that."
"Robby."
"Yeah."
"She bought it for the ER," Jack said quietly. Not a question.
Robby was quiet for a second. "The endoscopy suite, yeah. Specifically." He watched Jack's face. "She didn't tell you."
"No."
"Hm." Robby pushed off the doorframe. "You should probably figure out that next of kin form."
Jack didn't answer. He looked back at his book.
He didn't read it.
**********
When He Helped You Make A Business Deal
Jack had been following you around for two weeks.
In those two weeks he had probably covered more ground than most people did in a year. Singapore on Monday, back by Thursday, Dubai the following week, and somewhere in between a twenty minute video call conducted from the back of a moving car that apparently closed a nine figure deal. Your schedule was insane. He worked twelve hour night shifts in a trauma bay and your schedule made his look leisurely.
But Greg had pulled him aside on day three with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose prayers had been answered. "The schedule is better since you've been here," he said. "There's time to eat now. Actual meals. And she slept eight hours last Tuesday. Eight. I almost cried."
Jack had said nothing. But he started showing up earlier.
He also learned quickly that almost none of your real business happened inside an office. The office was for paperwork and appearances. The actual work happened elsewhere. Golf courses, private clubs, invitation-only dinners where the menu was secondary to the conversation. Your world operated on proximity and leisure dressed up as relaxation.
Like today.
"I hate this," you said, looking at the building in front of you.
Jack looked at the sign above the entrance. A private shooting range. Clay shooting, from the look of the equipment visible through the glass. "Why? I thought you liked hunting."
"I don't."
Greg appeared at your other shoulder without looking up from his tablet. "She can shoot you dead with a balance sheet from three continents away. With an actual gun?" He tilted his head toward the sky with the expression of a man searching for diplomatic phrasing. "I believe the last bullet she fired is still out there somewhere. Wandering. Lost. Looking for purpose."
"Shut up, Greg," you said.
Jack looked at you. The specific look of a man filing away new information with great interest. "That's why you mentioned the hunting week with the King of Britain."
"I'm bad at sports," you said, with the dignity of someone refusing to elaborate.
"Most sports," Greg murmured.
"Greg."
"Yes, boss."
You turned to Jack and pointed through the glass at a broad, silver haired man already positioned at the range, waiting. "That man has been making fun of my aim for three years. Every single time." You looked at Jack. "Could you do it for me?"
Jack looked at the range. Then at you. "Of course." He straightened slightly, something shifting in his posture. "Let's shut him up."
The three of you walked in together.
Your business partner turned at the sound of the door, his face opening into a wide, familiar grin when he saw you. He was the kind of man who filled a room without trying, the sort that had shaken hands with presidents and still preferred to conduct business outdoors. "Ah. Trying to beat your previous record?"
"Not today," you said smoothly. "I hurt my fingers." You held up your hand as evidence, the picture of regret. It was an absolute lie and everyone in your immediate vicinity knew it. "My boyfriend will be shooting for me."
Your business partner's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. He looked at Jack with the assessing curiosity of a man who had spent years wondering what kind of person had managed to become important to you. "So. Finally I meet the famous surgeon boyfriend." He extended a hand and Jack shook it. "I heard they're good with their hands." He held out the gun with a grin. "Show me what you've got, doc."
Jack took the gun.
He checked it first. Quietly, efficiently, with the automatic habit of someone for whom this was never casual. He tested the weight, checked the sight line, settled his stance. Not performing. Just preparing.
"One at a time to start," your business partner said to the operator, nodding toward the clay trap machine at the far end of the range.
"Throw five at once," Jack said.
The range went quiet.
Your business partner looked at him. "I'm sorry?"
"Five," Jack said. "At once."
Your business partner looked at you. You looked back at him with an expression that said you had absolutely no idea what was about to happen either, which was the truth.
"You're sure," the operator said.
"Do it," Jack said.
The operator shrugged and reset the machine. Everyone took a small, instinctive step back.
Five clay discs launched into the air simultaneously, scattering across different angles and heights, the mechanical crack of the trap cutting through the quiet of the range.
Jack fired.
Five shots. So fast the sound bled together into something almost continuous. Clean, precise, no hesitation between them.
Five fragments rained down.
Nobody spoke.
Greg started clapping. Slowly at first, then with genuine enthusiasm. "New record. And that concludes our portion of the meeting."
You stared at the empty sky where five clay targets had been approximately four seconds ago. Then you started clapping, and you were not a person who clapped easily.
Your business partner let out a laugh that came from somewhere genuine. He turned to you with an expression of absolute delight. "What kind of surgeon is he?"
"He's a war veteran," you said.
The man stopped laughing. He looked at Jack with an entirely different quality of attention. Then he stepped forward and shook Jack's hand again, slower this time. "You should have told me that before." A pause. "That is genuinely impressive. I mean that."
"Thank you," Jack said simply.
Your business partner shook his head, still smiling, and turned back toward the range. "Alright. I'll admit it. I'm not following that." He glanced at you sideways. "Your fingers healed fast."
"Remarkable recovery," you agreed.
He laughed again and waved you both toward the seating area. "Come on. Let's talk business. Your boyfriend just bought you at least an hour of goodwill."
You fell into step beside Jack. Quietly, low enough that only he could hear: "Thank you."
Jack handed the gun back to the operator. "You owe me a vegetable at dinner."
You gave him a look.
"One," he said. "Your choice."
You considered this. "Fine."
Greg, two steps behind you both, looked at the sky again. This time with an expression of complete peace. Then he leaned slightly toward Jack and lowered his voice. "You just helped close a billion dollar deal."
Jack stopped walking.
You were already three steps ahead, already in conversation with your business partner, already working.
"What?" Jack said.
"One clean shot at this range means ten minutes of his time," Greg said, with the calm of someone explaining a rule everyone else already knew. "That's the tradition. He established it years ago. Nobody gets more than that unless they impress him." He paused. "You shot five in one go. Nobody has ever done that." Another pause. "Ever."
Jack looked at you across the room. You were laughing at something the man had said, easy and genuine, the meeting already moving at a pace that suggested it would run well past ten minutes.
"So that's why she wanted me to shoot," Jack said.
"She didn't know it would go like that," Greg said honestly. "She just didn't want to embarrass herself again." He straightened his jacket. "The billion dollar part was you."
Jack stood there for a moment.
He had thought it was a simple favor. A business lunch dressed up as a day at the range. The kind of thing her world did instead of conference rooms. He had picked up a gun because she asked him to and because shutting up a man who made fun of her for three years had seemed like reason enough.
He had not considered that five clay targets might be worth a billion dollars.
**************
The Time He Met Your Family (He Hates Them)
It wasn't planned.
The private jet had just landed in London, the car moving through the grey afternoon toward the hotel, when Greg looked up from his tablet with the specific expression of a man who had been waiting for the right moment and had decided this was it.
"Your cousin is getting married tomorrow," he said.
You looked up from your phone. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because if I told you earlier you wouldn't have come," Greg said simply. "And your father would have called me. For a long time. Loudly."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you exhaled the sigh of a woman who had lost this particular battle before it started and knew it. "My aunt. Is she going?"
"She said she'll attend if you do," Greg said. "I've already ordered the dress. Doctor Abbott's suit. My suit." A brief pause. "And the makeup artist is booked for eight."
You looked at him.
"I also confirmed your seats at the family table," Greg added, returning to his tablet. "Next to your aunt. Away from the three cousins you don't like."
"Which three?"
"All of them, technically, but I've narrowed it to the worst three."
You hummed and looked back at your phone. The matter apparently settled in your mind, one way or another.
Jack watched this exchange from the seat beside you. He waited until Greg had gone back to typing. Then he asked, quietly, "Is this normal?"
You glanced at him. "Greg planning my life without telling me?"
"Greg planning your life without telling you and you accepting it."
You considered this for a second. "He's been doing it for four years. I just write the cheque." You turned a page on whatever document you were reading. "He always wins."
From the front seat Greg said, without looking up, "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment," you said.
"I know," Greg said. "Thank you anyway."
Jack looked out the window at London moving past. Grey skies, familiar chaos, the kind of city that felt like it was always in the middle of something.
"Your father's side," he said.
"Yes."
"You don't like them."
"Most of them."
"But you're going."
You were quiet for a second. "My aunt will be there." Something in your voice shifted, just slightly. The professional register dropping a degree or two into something more honest. "She was close to my mother. She's the only one from that whole side who ever." You stopped. Started again. "She shows up. That's all. She just shows up."
Jack nodded. He didn't push.
The car moved through the city. Greg typed. You read. Jack watched the streets and thought about a woman who flew across the world for business without blinking but needed a reason — one specific aunt who showed up — to walk into a room full of her own family.
"What do I need to know?" he asked.
You looked at him.
"About the family," he said. "Before tomorrow."
Something crossed your face. Not quite surprise. Something softer than that. You lowered your phone.
"How long do you have?" you said.
"We're twenty minutes from the hotel."
You looked at Greg. "Greg. Brief him."
Greg straightened with the energy of a man who had been waiting for this exact assignment. He turned slightly in his seat, tablet already open.
"Right," he said. "So. The father's side. Here's what you need to know."
Jack settled back in his seat.
It was going to be a long twenty minutes.
***********
At The Wedding
The church was beautiful in the way that only old money could produce — flowers along every pew, light coming through stained glass in warm fractured colors.
You and Jack sat toward the middle. Close enough to see clearly, far enough from both sides of the family to breathe.
At the altar your cousin stood in white, holding the hands of the man beside her. You studied him briefly. Steady. Unhurried. Different from the others. You had lost count of the engagements somewhere around the fourth one. But this felt different.
Good for her, you thought. Finally.
Beside you Jack went still in a specific way. You recognized it immediately.
Then, from three rows back, just loud enough to carry:
"Three months, I'm telling you."
"I say eight. He looks committed."
"Committed or not, fifty says they don't see a second anniversary."
"I'll raise you a hundred. One year maximum."
Quiet laughter. The sound of money changing hands during a wedding ceremony.
Jack turned to you slowly. "Did they just make a bet?"
"Yes," you said.
"On how long the marriage lasts."
"Yes."
"During the ceremony."
"It's tradition," you said. "It started after my father's third wedding." You kept your eyes forward. "I hate it."
Jack looked at the group once more. Then back at the altar. His jaw had that specific set to it — not anger exactly. Just a man filing something under wrong and leaving it there.
"The Pitt makes bets," he said quietly. "Not like this." He found it disrespectful. Making bets on someone's wedding day, in the middle of the ceremony, while the couple stood at the altar believing the people behind them were there to wish them well.
He Meets Your Family
At the wedding reception, Jack met your aunt from your mother's side. Warmer than your father's family but with a different kind of intrusiveness — the kind that wraps nosiness in affection so you can't object without seeming rude.
She takes both of Jack's hands when she meets him, which visibly surprises him, and looks at him with the searching intensity of someone conducting an evaluation.
"So you're the doctor," she says. "She never brings anyone. Not once. Not in years."
"Auntie—" you start.
"I'm talking to him." She doesn't release Jack's hands. "Do you love her?"
The question lands in the middle of the conversation like a dropped glass. Around you, a few nearby relatives go slightly quiet.
Jack doesn't hesitate. Doesn't perform. Just looks at the aunt steadily and says "yes."
She studies him for another long moment. Then she releases his hands, pats them once, and says to you: "Keep him."
She walks away. You stare after her. Jack watches her go with something like genuine respect.
"I like her," he says.
"She's the only one," you looked at your aunt back. She actually doesn’t want to come here, but she’s here because of you.
********
He saw your aunt really nice, but only her. Because the rest of them are… He saw why you don’t want to come within the first ten minutes.
"Is that really him? The doctor?" A short scoff. "I thought she was smarter than that."
You had heard it. Jack could tell by the specific quality of your stillness as you stepped into the corridor. You walked toward your cousin with an unhurried pleasant expression that didn't reach your eyes.
"Cousin," you said warmly.
He turned. Smiled. "I was just—"
"I know." You stopped in front of him. "I was thinking about you recently. About the race car team."
The smile began its retreat.
"Ten million," you said, conversationally. "No conditions. No timeline. No expected return." You tilted your head. "Do you know what I recorded it as internally?"
He said nothing.
"Charity," you said. "I watched ten million dollars finish fourteenth and filed it under charity and never mentioned it again. Not because I forgot. Because I decided you weren't worth the conversation."
You stepped closer. Your voice dropped.
"I have a favorite hobby. Finding a business that deserves to be taken apart and doing it so quietly the owner doesn't realize what happened until there's nothing left to sell." You held his gaze. "I have never pointed that at family. Family is a courtesy I extend by choice." Another step. "So the next time you want an opinion about who I bring into my world, ask yourself whether your current ventures could survive my full attention."
The corridor was very quiet.
Your cousin looked at Jack. Really looked this time. Not the dismissive scan but the look of a man recalculating everything. Jack sat with his coffee, watching with the calm of someone who knew exactly how this ended.
"I'll watch my words," your cousin said. Smaller than he intended.
You patted his shoulder once. Light. Final.
"Good. Very good."
But, it seems like your warning to stop looking down at Jack is still not clear enough. Your uncle found you during the cocktail hour, glass in hand, with the particular energy of a man who had been waiting to say something and had decided now was the moment.
"So," he said, looking Jack over with an undisguised assessment. "He's the one who made you cancel the meeting with the Prime Minister."
"Because he's my top priority," you said simply.
Jack heard it land before he had time to prepare for it. Something moved through his chest, quiet and immediate. You had said it the way you said everything that was simply true — without ceremony, without softening, without looking to see how it was received. Just a fact you had already decided on.
He kept his expression neutral. But he felt it.
Your other cousin found Jack near the drinks table forty minutes later.
He was the kind of man who wore his ambition loudly, the sort who treated every social event as a pitch opportunity and every new face as a potential investor. He had a startup. He always had a startup.
"I'm developing an AI system," he said, sliding into the space beside Jack with rehearsed casualness. "Hospital efficiency. Faster processing, smarter scheduling, reduced overhead." He smiled the smile of someone who had given this speech many times. "The kind of thing that could transform how a place like the Pitt operates."
Jack went still in a specific way.
Your cousin read the stillness as interest. He leaned in slightly, already calculating. If Jack was interested then perhaps you would be interested. The investment practically walked itself in.
"The ROI projections are significant," your cousin continued. "We're talking about real transformation. Smarter systems, better data, faster throughput—"
"Throughput," Jack said quietly.
"Exactly, faster patient—"
"You're not saving time," Jack said. His voice was level and unhurried, the voice he used when he had already assessed a situation completely. "You're clearing the schedule so the board can push five more patients into every shift. That's not efficiency. That's how you burn out a doctor."
He tilted his head slightly. "And the patients? They're already being squeezed by insurance on every side. Now you add licensing fees on top of that. Then the hospital spends a fortune on cybersecurity to protect the database your system runs on." He paused. "You get richer. The hospital looks efficient on paper. And the patient gets a bill they can't afford at the end of it." A beat. "Don't call it care. It's just better math."
The space around them had gone quiet.
Your cousin stood very still with the expression of a man whose rehearsed speech had been taken apart with surgical precision and handed back to him in pieces.
Jack picked up his drink and took a calm sip.
You had caught the last half of it from three feet away. You looked at Jack with an expression you rarely wore in public. Genuine, unguarded surprise.
"How do you know all of that?" you said.
Jack glanced at you. "Being with you twenty four hours a day teaches you things."
From your left your aunt appeared, materializing the way she always did, at exactly the right moment. She looked at Jack. Then at your cousin's retreating back. Then she leaned close to your ear.
"He's a doctor," she whispered. "He understands business. And he just made that smug boy very quiet." A pause. "I like him."
************
The Kids
You didn't see them coming.
Suddenly there were small hands grabbing your dress and a chorus of voices saying your name with the shameless urgency that only children under ten could produce.
Three of them. Your cousin's kids. Dressed in miniature formal wear that was already coming undone — a loosened tie, a flower crown slightly sideways, a jacket abandoned somewhere entirely.
"Auntie!" The oldest grabbed your hand with both of hers. "We didn't know you were coming!"
"Auntie, Star cleared the oxer last week!" she continued, squeezing your hand. "Papa said she might be ready for junior circuit next year."
"She better be," you said. "I didn't pick that bloodline for leisure riding."
The middle one tugged your sleeve. "Can we get another one? For competitions?"
"Let's see if you can stay on the first one before we discuss a second."
All three erupted in protests simultaneously.
Jack leaned toward you. "Star?"
"I bought them a horse," you said simply, patting the oldest one's head. "He joined equestrian. Wants to be in the Olympics."
"Yes!" The youngest grabbed your arm and started pulling toward the dessert table. "They have the little cakes. Come on, come on!"
You looked back at Jack over your shoulder. The expression on your face was something he had never seen in a boardroom or a hospital. Pure and unguarded and completely unaware of itself.
Jack held up a hand. Go.
You disappeared into a wave of small formal wear.
He watched you go. The woman who had once calmly asked if hackers should be neutralized was currently being dragged toward a dessert table by a five year old and letting it happen. Willingly. With something that looked unmistakably like joy.
He stood there with his drink and thought quietly that there were entire rooms inside you that most people never got to see. The world knew the shark, the CEO, the woman who made boardrooms go quiet. Almost nobody knew this.
He wanted to be the person who always knew this.
"The doctor."
Jack turned. Your father had materialized beside him with the unhurried ease of a man who moved through rooms on his own schedule.
"The father," Jack said.
They stood side by side. A silence settled between them, not hostile, just two people deciding how much to say.
"I heard you were shot," your father said.
"I survived."
Your father looked at him properly, with the measuring gaze of a man who rarely updated his conclusions. Something in it seemed to satisfy him. "You have more balls than any man in this room." A short genuine laugh. "No wonder my daughter likes you."
Jack said nothing. He took a quiet sip of his drink.
Across the room you reappeared from the dessert table, the three kids still orbiting you like small overdressed satellites. The youngest held a miniature cake. The oldest was telling you something with elaborate hand gestures. You were listening with the same full attention you gave boardrooms and crises.
Your father watched this. "Where is their nanny," he said, less a question than an observation.
You rolled your eyes without looking at him. The gesture was clearly decades old.
Your father glanced at Jack and tilted his head toward you. "This is why the children have no respect for her."
The kids shuffled immediately behind your back, using you as a shield. The youngest peered around your hip at your father with enormous eyes.
"And this," you said pleasantly, "is why they're afraid of you."
"They need structure," your father said. "A proper nanny. Boarding school when they're old enough."
"That's how you did it," you said. "And look how well that turned out."
"I will hire help when I need it," you continued. "But I am not sending my children to boarding school."
"Your children."
"Hypothetically."
"You're already decided."
"That's why I turned out more human than the others," you said quietly. "Because my mom was there for me."
The words landed with the weight of something long overdue.
Your father went still. Not the boardroom stillness. Something older. He looked at his glass for a moment, then at you. The sharp edges of his expression shifted into something that looked briefly like a man confronting an accounting he had been avoiding for years.
"She was," he said finally. Just that.
It wasn't an apology. You both knew that. But from him, in this room, it was the closest thing to one you had ever received.
"Regardless," he said, voice returning to its usual register. "You cannot run a company and raise children without proper structure."
"I didn't say it without help," you said. "I said without shipping them off so I don't have to look at them."
"That is not what boarding school is."
"It's exactly what it is for people like us and you know it."
"It builds character."
"It builds distance. I've seen enough of the results to know the difference."
"You are so."
"Like you," you finished. "I know."
He pointed at you. "That is not the compliment you think it is."
"It wasn't meant to be one."
Greg appeared quietly behind Jack, materializing from nowhere the way he always did.
Jack looked at him. "How long are they going to argue like this?"
Greg considered this with apparent sincerity. "Oh, this is actually them getting along."
Jack stared at him.
Then he looked back at you, still holding the youngest child's hand, still squaring up to your father with complete calm, the other two kids peering around your back like you were a personal fortification.
Jack thought about the blank line on the next of kin form. He thought about it for the rest of the evening.
**************
After The Wedding
The car was quiet on the way back.
Jack was looking out the window, and you recognized the particular quality of his silence. He was processing. Filing things away in the careful methodical way he processed everything that mattered to him.
"I realized something tonight," he said finally.
You looked at him.
"It's not just your father who talks down to you," he said. "It's most of them."
You were quiet for a moment. Outside the city moved past in the dark. "They have loose mouths," you said. "Always have."
"How did you live through that?"
You considered the question honestly. "Spite," you said. "My spite toward them fueled me to be better. Every time one of them wrote me off or talked over me or bet against me, I went back to work." You shrugged one shoulder. "It was useful."
Jack crossed his arms slowly. "It'll destroy you."
"It already destroyed my appendix," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back at him with the calm of someone stating a simple fact.
He shook his head. Then he reached over and pulled you into him, his arm coming around your shoulders, steady and certain. You let yourself lean in without making a thing of it.
"I don't like it here," you said against his shoulder. "But with you here it's bearable. A bit."
Jack rested his chin lightly against your hair. "Next time just send Greg."
********
The Proposal
After months of traveling, Jack finally came back to the Pitt.
He found Robby between cases, the way he always found Robby, leaning against the nurse's station with a coffee and the expression of a man with five minutes before the next thing arrived.
Jack told him everything.
The wedding. The betting. The cousin and the ten million dollars and the way you had dismantled him in a corridor without raising your voice. Your father and the conversation that was somehow both a confrontation and a consolidation. The kids grabbing your hand at the cocktail hour, dragging you toward the dessert table, and the look on your face when you let them. The way you stood at the back of the reception watching the couple on the dancefloor with something quiet and unguarded in your expression.
The way you had said, almost to yourself, "somewhere like that."
Robby listens to all of it. Then sets down his coffee.
"Marry her."
Jack is quiet.
"You already know," Robby says. "You've known for a while. So stop thinking about it and do it."
That's it. That's the whole conversation. Jack doesn't argue because there's nothing to argue. Robby is right and they both know it.
He goes home that night and calls Greg.
******
The Night He Asked
It was quiet on the drive home.
That was the first sign something was off. Greg was never quiet. Greg filled silence the way other people filled paperwork — efficiently, continuously, without being asked. But tonight he drove without commentary, his eyes on the road, his tablet conspicuously closed on the seat beside him.
You looked out the window. The road wasn't the way home. "Where are we going?"
"There's a firework event," Greg said. "At the park."
You checked your watch. At least half an hour to spare. You didn't want to keep Jack waiting too long at home. "There's time."
Greg had been driving you here for years when the pressure built past a certain point. You didn't always ask him to. He just knew. The walking helped. The trees helped. The fact that it was a place with no conference rooms and no agendas helped most of all.
He pulled up to the entrance and you got out without waiting, already feeling the tension in your shoulders beginning to ease just from the smell of the air. Grass and evening and something cooling after a long day.
You walked.
The park was quieter than you expected for a firework event. The path was lit softly, small lights threaded through the trees on either side, and you followed it without thinking, letting your mind go through its usual process of unwinding. A problem here, set it down. A meeting tomorrow, noted and released. The accumulated weight of the week, item by item, left on the path behind you.
Then you stopped.
Ahead of you, where the path curved toward the open space near the water, there was a flower arch. Your favorite — white and soft and full, lit from within by small warm lights that made the whole thing glow against the darkening sky. More lights were strung between the nearby trees, catching the last of the evening and turning it into something else entirely. A small table. A musician sitting quietly to one side, an instrument in his lap, not yet playing.
You stood there for a moment just looking at it.
You had wondered why the firework event felt romantic. You understood now that it was not a firework event.
And then you saw Jack.
He was standing at the center of it, under the arch, in a suit you recognized because you had watched Greg pack it three weeks ago and hadn't thought anything of it at the time. He was watching you with the expression he used when he had made a decision and was completely at peace with it.
Your feet carried you toward him before you consciously decided to move.
"You did all this," you said. It came out quieter than you intended.
"Greg helped," Jack said.
You looked around at the arch, the lights, the musician, the table set for two. Then back at him. "Greg helped," you repeated.
"Significantly," Jack said. "He cried twice during the planning process."
"He cries at everything."
"He cried at the flower selection," Jack said. "Specifically."
A breath of a laugh escaped you. Unexpected and unguarded, the kind that came out when your armor was already gone without you noticing. You looked at him and felt the full weight of the moment settling around you like something physical.
"Jack," you said softly.
"I know you don't need anything I can give you," he said. His voice was steady but there was something underneath it that you had never quite heard before. Something he was choosing to let out. "I know that. I've always known that. You have everything. You've built everything. You don't need someone to take care of you financially or professionally or in any of the ways people usually talk about when they talk about partnership."
He paused. Not because he lost the words. Because he was choosing the next ones carefully.
"But I've watched you carry things that nobody else sees," he continued. "The weight of your name and your father and a company you've been fighting for your entire life. I've watched you sit in hospitals and boardrooms and cars and planes and I've watched you hold all of it together without ever once asking anyone to help you hold it."
His voice dropped slightly.
"You came back from Japan when I was in surgery," he said. "You left a head of state. You sat in a hallway where they wouldn't tell you anything because you weren't family and you stayed anyway." He looked at her steadily. "I don't want you to ever be in a hallway again where you're not family."
You were very still.
"I can't give you what you can give yourself," Jack said. "I know that. I'm not going to pretend otherwise." He took a breath. "But I can give you somewhere to put it down. All of it. I can be the place where you don't have to hold anything. Where you don't have to be the CEO or the shark or your father's daughter or anyone's successor." He held your gaze. "I can be your person. Permanently. Legally. Completely."
He reached into his jacket pocket. The ring caught the light from the arch as he held it out — and you recognized it immediately. Your mother's ring. Your grandmother's before that. The one that had never belonged to your father's story.
Your hand came up to cover your mouth before you could stop it.
"I went to your aunt," he said simply.
"She cried," you managed.
"Twenty minutes," he said. "Before she said yes."
You let out a sound that was almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. Your eyes were doing things you would never normally allow in front of anyone. Jack had seen them before. He was the only one who had.
He went down on one knee.
"You're the most capable person I have ever met," he said, looking up at you. "And you deserve someone who sees every part of you. Not just the part that runs rooms." A pause. "I see all of it. I want all of it."
A beat.
"Marry me."
Not a question. A statement of intent from a man who had already decided and was simply informing you of the facts, the way he always did, the way that had somehow always worked on you more than anything else ever had.
You looked at the ring. At him. At the ring again.
Your aunt had kept it all these years. Jack had found it. He had gone quietly and carefully and found the one thing that connected you to the version of love that hadn't been ruined yet, the version that existed before your father made a mess of everything, and he had brought it here and gotten on one knee in your favorite park under your favorite flowers and said the truest thing anyone had ever said to you.
You took the ring from him. Slid it onto your own finger, which made him exhale something that was almost a laugh.
"Yes," you said. Your voice was steady. Mostly. "Obviously yes."
Jack stood. He took your face in both hands, careful and certain, and kissed you once. Quiet and complete.
Behind you, at a distance he had calculated to be respectful but not so far he couldn't see, Greg lowered his phone from recording position. His other hand was pressed flat against his mouth. His shoulders were shaking.
The musician began to play.
Somewhere above the park the first firework went up — a real one, as it turned out, because Greg had arranged that too — and the light broke open across the sky in a wash of gold.
You didn't look up at it.
You were already looking at Jack.
*******
The Preparation
It started with a question, the way most things between you did.
Jack had been leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, watching you work through your morning emails with the focused efficiency of someone who had already mentally scheduled the next six months. He waited until you looked up.
"Where should we have the wedding?"
You went quiet. Not the thinking quiet, not the calculating quiet. Just still for a moment, like the answer had been sitting there already and only needed to be collected.
"Pittsburgh," you said.
Jack raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
"We could do it abroad," you said. "But it would take a lot of work. And I want the Pitt crew there." You looked at him. "I want people who will actually wish us well. Not people who will bet on how long we last."
Jack was quiet for a second. Something moved across his face that he didn't try to hide. You had said it simply, practically, the way you said most things. But the fact that his people, his second family in their scrubs and their chaos, were the ones you wanted around you on that day, that you had chosen Pittsburgh not for convenience but for them. It settled in his chest like something permanent.
"There's a hotel we own," you continued, already reaching for your phone. "I'll have Greg reserve it for three days. Full building."
"We?" Jack said.
You looked up. "You own my business, Jack Abbott." A small, certain smile. "You married into this. No turning back. Welcome to the board."
He stared at you. "I didn't sign anything."
"Greg will send the papers."
"Of course he will."
You were already typing. "Have you told your family?"
"Yup. Have you told yours?"
You didn't look up. "I only want my father and my aunt. That's it."
"Perfect," Jack said. He picked up his coffee. "I was this close to preparing sleeping pills for the rest of your relatives anyway."
You looked at him.
"Medically appropriate dosage," he said pleasantly. "Nothing they wouldn't wake up from."
"Jack."
"They'd miss the wedding. Feels terrible about it. Send very expensive gifts out of guilt." He took a sip. "Everyone wins."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then you looked back at your phone. "I'm pretending I didn't hear that."
"That's probably wise," he agreed.
The Wedding
The guests arrived through the afternoon.
There were not many of them. That was the first thing people noticed. No sprawling guest list, no industry names, no faces borrowed from a networking spreadsheet. Just people who actually knew them. The room felt like breathing space rather than performance, and everyone in it seemed to understand, without being told, that this was intentional.
The Pitt crew arrived together.
This was not a surprise. They had carpooled from the hospital with the coordinated chaos of people who spent twelve hour shifts in close proximity and had stopped pretending they needed personal space. They came through the hotel entrance in a cluster, still mid-conversation, and then stopped collectively as the lobby registered.
Mateo turned a slow circle, taking in the ceiling, the floors, the fresh flowers arranged at every surface. "She rented the whole hotel," he said. "For three days."
"Yeah," Shen said.
"The whole hotel."
"That's what three days means, Mateo."
Ellis was already moving toward the front desk with the focused energy of a woman who had been promised a spa and intended to locate it immediately. "We have free rooms," she said, mostly to herself. "Free spa. I cannot wait to see my room." She paused at the desk and looked back at the group. "Do you think the robes are the good kind?"
"They're her hotel," Dana said. "They're the good kind."
Mateo found the coffee machine in his room twelve minutes later and sent a photo to the group without comment. The photo was of the machine. Just the machine. Centered. Well lit. It required no caption.
Shen sent back a single word. Same.
*******
Down the corridor, in the room set aside for the groom, it was considerably quieter.
Jack was standing at the window in his shirt and trousers, jacket hanging on the back of the chair, tie not yet on. He was looking out at Pittsburgh with the stillness of a man who was not anxious exactly but was feeling the full weight of a moment.
Robby came in without knocking, which was his way, and closed the door behind him. He looked at Jack. Jack looked at the city.
"You good?" Robby asked.
"Yeah," Jack said.
Robby crossed the room and stood beside him. They were quiet together for a moment, the way they were quiet in the Pitt between cases, comfortable and unhurried.
"She reserved the whole hotel," Robby said. "For the crew."
"I know."
"She didn't tell anyone. It was just ready when we got here."
"That's how she does things," Jack said.
Robby nodded slowly. He looked at Jack's profile for a moment. "You nervous?"
"No," Jack said. Then, after a beat. "Maybe a little."
"Good," Robby said.
*************
Upstairs, in the suite at the end of the east corridor, the morning had been considerably more emotional.
Your aunt had cried three times before the makeup artist finished the first eye. She had been escorted out gently but firmly after the second round of damage, still dabbing at her face with a handkerchief, still trying to say something coherent through the tears, and told that she could come back when she had collected herself.
She had not yet collected herself.
The room was quiet now. You stood in front of the mirror in your dress and looked at yourself for a long moment. Not checking. Just looking. The person looking back at you was the same one who had walked into a trauma bay years ago clutching her stomach, refusing surgery, convinced that stopping for even a day would mean losing everything.
She had been wrong about that. It had taken a night shift doctor and a plastic chair and a prescription slip to show her how wrong.
A knock at the door.
"Come in," you said.
Your father stepped into the room. He was dressed impeccably, as always, not a detail out of place. But he stopped when he saw you and something happened to his face that you had seen perhaps twice in your entire life. The careful architecture of his expression simply came apart for a moment, undone by something he hadn't expected to feel this strongly.
"What?" you said.
"You look beautiful," he said. Quietly. Like the words surprised him on the way out.
"Thank you," you said. The two words came out softer than you intended.
He moved further into the room. He looked at you the way people looked at things they knew they were about to let go of, taking inventory, trying to hold the image.
"Is he the right one?" he asked. "There's still time. If you have any doubt at all."
You turned to face him fully. "You should have asked yourself that question. Approximately three marriages ago."
He had the grace to absorb that without deflecting. "I went through it," he said. "Those were my mistakes. I know what they cost." He paused. "You're my only daughter. I don't want you to go through any version of what I put your mother through."
You had not expected that. Not the words and not the look that came with them, something tired and honest and stripped of the usual performance. He was not making a point. He was not positioning. He was just a father standing in a hotel room looking at his daughter on her wedding day and meaning what he said.
"He's the one," you said.
Your father was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded once, the nod of a man who has updated a position and will not revisit it. "Good," he said. "I believe your judgement. I always have. Even when I made it harder than it needed to be."
He offered his arm.
You looked at it for a second. This man who had turned your inheritance into a competition, who had made you fight for every room you walked into, who had driven you to a hospital bed and a stranger's plastic chair and accidentally, unknowingly, to the best thing that had ever happened to you.
You took his arm.
It had never once crossed your mind that you would walk down the aisle with your father. Too much history, too many rooms where you had stood on opposite sides of everything. But here you were, his hand over yours, moving together toward the doors at the end of the corridor.
"You're not going to cry, are you," you said.
"Absolutely not," he said.
A pause.
"Your aunt has cried enough for both families," he added.
"She has," you agreed.
The doors opened.
The hall was warm and full of light, flowers arranged along every surface, candles burning in rows that turned the whole room golden. And the faces. You saw them before anything else. The Pitt crew, cleaned up and dressed in their best, looking like a completely different set of people from the ones you usually found in scrubs over a trauma bay. Mateo in a suit that actually fit. Ellis with her hair done, sitting straight and bright-eyed. Shen looking quietly emotional already and trying not to show it. Dana watching the door with an expression she would later describe as composed and which was not composed at all.
Your aunt in the front row, handkerchief already raised.
Greg, three rows back, recording everything on his phone with the focus of a man documenting history.
Lilly, standing at the front, who had been holding herself together all morning and was now very clearly not holding herself together.
And Jack.
He was standing at the altar in his suit, hands clasped in front of him, and he was watching you walk toward him with an expression that had nothing held back in it. No clinical neutrality, no careful composure. Just him, fully present, completely undone in the quietest possible way. His jaw was tight. His eyes were bright.
Robby, standing beside him as best man, noticed. He leaned slightly toward Jack and pressed a folded tissue into his hand without a word, with the efficiency of a man who had come prepared.
Jack took it without looking at him.
You kept walking. Your father's arm steady under your hand, the room warm around you, every face you passed a person who had genuinely wished for this.
When you reached the altar your father stopped. He looked at Jack for a moment. The two men regarded each other with the particular understanding of people who had already said the hard things and arrived somewhere on the other side of them.
"Take care of her," your father said. Not a command. Not a warning. Something quieter than either.
"I know," Jack said.
Your father took your hand and placed it in Jack's. Then he pulled you into a brief, firm hug, the kind that said more than he would ever find words for, and stepped back to take his seat.
You turned to Jack.
He was looking at you the way he had looked at you in the ER the very first time, like you were the clearest thing in the room. Like everything else was background.
"Hi," you said softly.
"Hi," he said.
His thumb moved once across the back of your hand. Steady and certain and very him.
The priest began to speak.
The room settled into a hush, warm and full and held by everyone in it. Outside Pittsburgh moved through its ordinary afternoon, entirely unaware that in a hotel ballroom two people who had found each other in an emergency room were making it permanent.
Inside, it was everything you had said you wanted.
Small. Real. People who knew you.
The rest of it, the rings and the words and the moment the priest said what he said and Jack looked at you and you looked back at him, that part belonged only to the two of you.
Some things don't need an audience to be true.
They just need to happen.
And this one did.
*************
The Reception and The Morning After
The reception was everything a wedding should be and nothing it didn't need to be.
The food came out in waves, each one better than the last, the kind of meal that made people stop mid-conversation just to acknowledge what was happening on their plate. The DJ read the room perfectly, pulling the energy up and letting it breathe at exactly the right moments. A singer came on after midnight and the dancefloor, which had started cautiously, became something genuinely joyful.
It was loud and warm and real in the way that only happens when every person in a room actually wants to be there.
But the moment that made the hotel truly erupt was later.
When the guests finally made their way upstairs, full and happy and slightly overwhelmed by the evening, they found their rooms waiting. The coffee machine they already knew about. The massage gun they had discovered earlier. But on the desk beside them was something else. An envelope. Inside, a cheque.
Each one different, each one specific. Some covered rent. Some cleared medical school debt that had been sitting quietly for years. Some handled bills that people had stopped mentioning out loud because mentioning them had stopped feeling useful.
The calls started within minutes. Room to room, corridor to corridor, voices spilling under doors and through walls. Mateo's laugh was audible from two floors down. Someone, nobody admitted who, started crying in the stairwell. The hotel, which had been built for quiet luxury, handled the noise with grace.
Greg, sitting in the small office he had commandeered near the lobby, listened to the sounds traveling down through the building and allowed himself exactly one minute of satisfaction before going back to his tablet.
******
The next morning the hotel restaurant was warm and unhurried, sunlight coming through the tall windows, the kind of breakfast that had no agenda attached to it.
You and Jack came down together.
The crew was already there, spread across two tables that had been pushed together at some point without asking permission. They looked up when you walked in and the table got louder immediately.
Dana stood first. She crossed the room and hugged you before you could say anything, properly, with both arms, the way Dana did everything when she decided to do it. "Thank you," she said quietly, close to your ear. "For all of it. The room, the cheque, everything." She stopped. Started again. "Just. Thank you."
Ellis was next, which surprised you because Ellis expressed warmth in precise, careful doses. She took your hand in both of hers and looked at you with the direct, steady gaze she used when she meant something completely. "You deserve every good thing," she said simply. "Both of you."
Mateo bypassed formality entirely and hugged Jack first, which Jack endured with the expression of a man who had accepted that this was happening. "Best wedding I've ever been to," Mateo said, pulling back. "And I've been to eleven. This was the best one. It wasn't close."
Shen raised his coffee cup from across the table without getting up, which was entirely Shen. "Congratulations," he said. "Long marriage. Many years. And please keep the coffee machine coming."
Then Robby stood up.
The table went quiet on its own, the way it always did when Robby had something to say. He was holding an envelope in one hand, different from the others, thicker. He had not opened it at the table. You knew he had opened it last night, alone in his room, because Greg had told you so in a single text message. Just the words: he sat with it for a while.
He looked at Jack first. "You're the best doctor I've ever worked with," he said. "And I've worked with a lot of doctors. Most of them insufferable." A beat. "You're only occasionally insufferable. That counts for something."
Jack said nothing. But something in his face shifted quietly.
Then Robby looked at you. He held up the envelope slightly. "Round the world tickets," he said. His voice was steady but carrying something underneath it. "For two." He paused. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," you said.
"She mentioned she wanted to see more of the world," Robby continued, and you knew without asking that he meant his girlfriend, the cardiologist who had borrowed your jet and changed everything. "I don't know how you knew that."
"She mentioned it to me," you said simply.
Robby let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He looked down at the envelope for a second, then back at you both. "I've watched a lot of people come through the Pitt," he said. "Patients, staff, families. You learn pretty quickly who people actually are when things get hard." He looked at Jack. Then at you. "You two are the real thing. Anyone who's been paying attention knows that." He raised his coffee cup. "Long marriage. Many years. And maybe some kids who inherit her bank account and his patience."
"Hear hear," said Mateo immediately.
"Strongly seconded," Ellis added.
You looked at Jack. He looked back at you. "I told you," you said. "I told you they would wish us well." You felt it settle in your chest, warm and certain. "Not a single bet. Not like my family."
Jack pressed his lips together. Something in his expression shifted in a way you recognized.
"Jack," you said slowly.
"Hm."
"They're not making bets."
A pause. Brief. Telling.
"Jack Abbott."
He leaned toward you and lowered his voice so it landed only at your ear. "The bet," he said carefully, "is on how many kids we're going to have."
The heat reached your ears before your brain finished processing the sentence. You turned to look at the table. Mateo was studying the ceiling. Shen had become very interested in his orange juice. Dana had her coffee cup raised high enough to cover most of her face. Ellis was the only one who met your eyes, completely unashamed, with the expression of a woman who had put money on a specific number and felt good about it.
The laugh came out before you could stop it. Sudden and real and completely unguarded, the kind that turned heads at the neighboring tables.
Jack watched you laugh with the quiet, settled expression of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.
"How much?" you managed finally.
"The pot is considerable," Jack said.
"Who started it?"
Everyone at the table found something else to look at simultaneously.
"Greg," Jack said.
*********
The Abbott Kids
Just like the Pitt crew had wished, you and Jack had two kids. Robby, Dana, and Ellis won the bet. Their names were Nora Abbott and Leo Abbott.
By the time Nora turned six and Leo turned five, the Pitt staff had collectively accepted that the Abbott children were simply part of the hospital's ecosystem now.
Nora was yours in every way that mattered. She had your energy, your confidence, and your absolute refusal to accept any situation she hadn't personally approved of. She walked into rooms like she already owned them or was actively considering the purchase. She could negotiate her way out of anything and expressed her opinions with a directness that made grown adults briefly reconsider their positions. She was six years old and she already had a preferred table at two restaurants in Pittsburgh.
Leo was a different story.
He had Jack's eyes. Jack's quiet. Jack's way of standing slightly apart from a situation and watching it fully before deciding to enter it. He followed Jack to the Pitt on weekends with the focused dedication of someone who had already picked a direction and was simply gathering information. He was five and had already correctly identified two ear infections and one case of strep throat among the neighborhood kids. Jack confirmed all three without comment, but something in his expression each time suggested he was filing it away carefully.
They were nothing alike. Except that both of them were completely certain of themselves.
Jack said this was good. You said it was inevitable. You were both right.
************
Leo had been following Jack around the Pitt since he could walk fast enough to keep up.
He was quiet about it the way Jack was quiet about everything. He watched the nurses with careful attention, sat at the station with a juice box and said very little, but his eyes moved constantly. The staff had adopted him completely. Mateo taught him card tricks. Ellis let him listen through her stethoscope. Shen had made the mistake of explaining blood pressure readings and now Leo checked his own wrist with two fingers every morning at breakfast.
He was five and the Pitt already felt like home.
Which meant he had opinions about it.
"Dad," Leo said, falling into step beside Jack between bays, small legs working double time. "You could be the director."
"No thanks," Jack said.
"Mom doesn't officially own the hospital. But you're her husband. You have authority."
"I've seen your mother run things," Jack said. "I know what it costs. No thanks."
Leo considered this for two seconds. "Then why stay if you could have more power?"
Jack stopped. He looked down at his son and gave him the real answer, because Leo always knew the difference.
"Because the director gets nervous when I'm around," he said. "And I find that extremely entertaining."
Leo stared at him. Then came the slow quiet smile — Jack's exact smile.
Robby appeared from around the corner. He looked at Leo. Then at Jack. "What kind of vocabulary are you teaching him?"
"His kindergarten is already teaching him to buy gold," Jack said.
Robby looked at Leo. "Is that true?"
"Next week we learn about stocks," Leo said seriously.
Robby patted his head slowly. "Good job."
Leo accepted this with a small dignified nod and kept following Jack down the corridor.
Robby watched them go and shook his head.
"He's going to take over this place someday," he said to nobody.
From the nurse's station Ellis didn't look up. "He already knows which attending to avoid and where the good coffee is." A pause. "He's halfway there."
*************
Nora had been following you to work since she was four.
It started because you had a breakfast meeting, the nanny called in sick, and Greg said with complete confidence that it would be fine. It was fine. Nora sat at the corner of the conference table with a juice box and a coloring book and didn't make a single sound for two hours. Three board members commented afterward that she had better meeting presence than most of their junior executives.
She was six now and Greg had stopped pretending she needed supervision.
She walked beside you through the office with the proprietary ease of someone who had decided this was also her domain. Occasionally her small hand would reach up for yours in a crowded corridor, but otherwise she moved with complete independence.
"Greg," she said, passing his desk without stopping. "The eleven o'clock ran over yesterday. It shouldn't run over."
Greg looked up from his tablet. Then at you. Then back at Nora. "You're right," he said seriously. "I'll adjust the buffer."
"Thank you," Nora said, and kept walking.
You looked at Greg over your shoulder. He was already typing, completely unbothered.
You caught up to Nora. "You're six," you said.
"The meeting ran over," she said simply.
You had nothing to argue with that.
The harder moments came at family events.
Your father's side had not entirely adjusted to the fact that you were no longer available to be pressured into financial decisions. Most had learned this the hard way. But there were always one or two who tried again at gatherings, convinced that the presence of children would soften you.
They had not accounted for Nora.
At a family lunch one of your cousins cornered you near the drinks table, already three sentences into a pitch, when Nora appeared at your side.
She looked up at him. He looked down at her with the instinctive softening people had around small children. First mistake.
"My mom is busy," Nora said.
"I'm just having a conversation—"
"She's busy," Nora said again. Final.
He looked at you. You looked back with the neutral expression of a woman genuinely curious how this would resolve.
He tried again. "I just wanted to discuss a small opportunity—"
Nora's face crumpled. Carefully. Gradually. The lip wobble, the glassy eyes, one single tear tracking down her cheek with impeccable timing.
"I just wanted to spend time with my mom," she said, at exactly the frequency that activated guilt in every adult within ten feet. "But someone always takes her away."
Your cousin looked like he had committed a crime. He muttered something about catching up another time and retreated quickly.
Nora watched him go. The tears stopped with the efficiency of someone turning off a tap.
You looked down at her. "Where did you learn that."
"Learn what?" she said.
You studied her face. It gave you nothing.
Later you stood in Greg's doorway. "Did you teach my daughter to fake cry."
Greg maintained eye contact with the composure of a man who had prepared for this. "I taught her that emotional intelligence is a valuable tool in high pressure social situations."
"Greg."
"She asked," he said simply. "She was very specific. I provided educational support."
You stared at him. Then left without responding because you didn't entirely disagree.
That night at dinner Jack watched Nora and Leo eat their vegetables unprompted. Unlike you, they like to eat veggies.
"What did she do?" he said quietly.
"Made a grown man feel guilty for existing," you said. "Using tears."
Jack looked at Nora. Nora looked at her plate. The picture of innocence.
Jack looked at Nora. Nora looked at her plate. The picture of innocence.
"She took it seriously," Jack said.
"It was you?.”
"I told her to guard you when I'm not there," he said simply. He picked up his fork.
You turned to Nora. She looked up and caught you both watching her. She smiled. Your smile, arriving with complete confidence, knowing exactly what it was doing.
"She's yours," Jack said.
"She really is," you agreed.
*********
It started at the dinner table, the way most things in the Abbott household started — without warning and with complete commitment from both parties.
"Doctors don't make as much money as CEOs," Nora said, with the casual authority of someone stating a fact she had verified personally.
Leo looked up from his rice. "Doctors save lives."
"CEOs create jobs," Nora said. "Which also saves lives. Indirectly."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's related."
Leo put his chopsticks down, which in Abbott family body language meant he was taking this seriously. "Dad pulled someone back from a flatline last week."
"Mom pulled three companies back from bankruptcy last month," Nora said. "That's three sets of employees who still have income. Which means they can afford healthcare." She tilted her head slightly. "Which means they can afford doctors."
Leo stared at her. "You can't put a price on saving someone's life."
"You can't run a hospital without funding," Nora said. "Who do you think pays for dad's equipment?"
A brief silence.
"Mom," Leo said.
"Exactly," Nora said.
You and Jack had stopped eating approximately thirty seconds into this exchange. You were both sitting very still in the way of people who had recognized something extraordinary was happening and did not want to interrupt it.
Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack.
Leo picked his chopsticks back up, regrouped, and tried a different angle. "Dad works nights. He misses sleep. He misses dinners. He does it because people need him." He paused. "That's noble."
Nora considered this genuinely, which you recognized as a dangerous sign. It meant she was about to say something that would end the argument.
"Dad is noble," she agreed. "Mom is powerful." She picked up her glass. "Noble people make the world better. Powerful people make it possible for noble people to do that." She took a sip. "They need each other."
Leo was quiet for a moment.
Then he looked at Jack. "Dad."
"Yeah," Jack said.
"She's right."
Jack picked up his chopsticks. "I know."
"That's annoying," Leo said.
"Yeah," Jack said again. "Get used to it."
Nora said nothing. She returned to her dinner with the composure of a woman who had made her point and saw no need to elaborate.
You pressed your lips together very hard.
Jack nudged your foot under the table without looking at you.
You nudged back.
Above the table your two children ate their dinner in the temporary peace of people who had reached a conclusion and were already, quietly, preparing for the next disagreement.
After a moment Jack leaned slightly toward you. Low enough that it stayed between the two of you. "Noble and powerful," he said.
"She's six," you said.
"She quoted supply chain logic at dinner."
"She learned it from me."
"She applied it correctly," Jack said. "That part was her."
You looked at Nora, currently eating with perfect posture and the satisfied energy of someone who had filed the evening under completed business. Then at Leo, who was asking Jack something about blood pressure with the focused intensity he brought to everything that interested him.
"We made interesting kids," you said quietly.
Jack considered this for a second. "Terrifying kids."
"Same thing," you said.
Jack picked up his glass. "Yeah," he said. "Same thing."
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summary: You go for a rare bar night with your friends when one of them points to the hot older guy who's been eyeing you at bar all night. Lo and behold, it's your completely unrealistic workplace crush, and Jack Abbot really looks like he wants you.
contents: jack abbot x fem!reader, R3!reader, mentions of alcohol consumption, reader has half a drink(but is still in her right mind, not super sure how to categorize it tbh), ass shaking, allusions to smut, is there fluff? you tell me. honestly im not sure if there's that much to be concerned with just yet
wc: 2.3k
a/n: did i write another song lyric fic? yes. is it a niche and not super mainstream song? yes. in summary this is loosely based on show me by bruno mars because i liked the lyrics. but the vibes for the song and the fic are very much not the same. not proofread at all - im far too lazy for that! clock my Yes, Chef! reference if you dare. i giggled big time when i wrote it.
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Lady Luck was walking hand in hand with you today. No big traumas in the ER for your whole shift, a text in your inbox from your old undergrad friends to make plans, and, la piece de resistance, your favourite dress, recovered from where you lost it in the back of the closet.
You absolutely adored the damn dress, it fit like a glove, hugging and flaring in all the right places, and making all your assets shine. It had been a devastating loss, and its recovery struck you as a good omen for the night to come.
Your little group from undergrad tried to get together every month or so, but you were usually on call, already working, or too exhausted to make it, so this time around being right before your day off, and after an easier shift, all in all, felt like Tyche really was on your side. With that in mind, you proceeded to get ready, absolutely thrilled for the night to come. You were young, hot, and single, after all, there was no chance you were ending the night alone.
You were all meeting each other at the Anchor, a place not quite downtown, that was usually less busy than everywhere else, but still played music worth shaking ass to. Once everyone had congregated out by the front, and hugs were given and received, the five of you made it inside and snagged a table in a corner close to the bar. Soon enough, the drinks were flowing, a healthy buzz was achieved, and the dancing began. You found yourself not really in the mood to drink, just soaking in the atmosphere, being out with old friends and having a good time. You nursed the same singular cocktail, abandoning it on the table half full when Jen, one of your friends dragged you onto the floor to dance.
After an eternity of dancing – with a healthy dose of ass shaking, obviously – and your friends replacing each other to keep you company on the floor while the rest of them racked up a steady tab, your current partner, Lia, yanked you down by your arm to slur in your ear.
“There’s this guy at the bar that’s been staring right at you.”
“Creepy stare or sexy stare?” you asked her, a strange mix of a whisper and a shout, trying to be heard over the music while still craving discretion. You’d turn naturally once she stopped looking, not daring to look now, for fear of him noticing.
“Sexy. Definitely sexy. He’s got this, like,” she hiccupped “sorry, silver fox thing going on. He hasn’t looked anywhere else all night.” She nodded once, and continued dancing as though she hadn’t said anything.
“Thanks,” you said. As naturally as humanly possible, you maneuvered with the music. That was until you saw who Lia was referring to, at which point, you froze. Not only did you freeze, your heart stopped.
In your professional opinion, hearts shouldn’t do that.
Because the staring silver fox that Lia was referring to was none other than your massive work crush, the night shift attending himself, Dr. Jack Abbot.
You completed a swift half turn to face Lia, grabbed her hand, and dragged her back to the table to join the rest of your party. Upon your return, Summer and Andie both also pointed out that Dr. Abbot had been looking at you, and you got to break the news to them that, not only was he tragically off limits, but also depressingly out of your league.
See that was where you went wrong.
What possessed you to tell a table full of drunk twenty-somethings that a man was out of your league? Your proclamation was met with four insistent voices telling you that he very clearly wants in your pants, and that there is no such thing as a man out of your league.
“Look at that fucking dress! Who wouldn’t want a piece of you in that damn thing?”
“And those heels make your legs look a thousand miles long. Hell if he doesn’t end up walking out of here with you, I call dibs on making out with you to make him jealous. Or just because. I’m not picky.”
Somehow, despite your rampant protestation, you wound up shoved, pumped full of false bravado, in his direction.
Mercifully, you didn’t have to force the interaction, the place was filling up, and the only free spot by the bar happened to genuinely be by his seat. You sidled up to the counter, hoping to catch the eye of a bartender, very much in the mood to drink after all. After ordering, you stood there, elbows perched on the bar, waiting. Waiting for the bartender to come back with your shot of shitty tequila, waiting to figure out if what you’re gonna say to Dr. Sexy Abbot will finally appear in your mind’s eye, waiting to see-
“Dr L/N?” His voice cut through your overthinking. You were still leaning over the counter, watching the bartender pour your shot, but now Dr. Abbot was on his feet next to you, eyes boring into your skull.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot. Fancy seeing you here,” you responded, reaching into your purse for your bills as the bartender placed the shot glass in front of you. “I thought you’d be working”
“It’s my night off,” he said, passing a bill to the bartender before you got the chance, who then walked away before you could protest, “and just Jack, please”. Just then, what seemed like the whole building came rushing to the bar, and you stumbled into him, your hands rising to his pecs to prevent your face from meeting the same fate, and his hands coming to steady your waist.
“Well thank you, just Jack. And doesn't calling me by my first name seem pretty fair then? Least I can do after you just paid for my drink,” a drink that still sat there on the bar, while neither of you made a move to disentangle from the other.
You remembered the promise you made yourself before leaving home, to not end the night alone, and gazing into his eyes, let yourself imagine, ever so briefly, what going home with him would be like.
He could see it in your eyes, the second you started to consider it. Consider letting him take you home and do the things with you he’d been wanting to do since the first day he laid eyes on you in the ambulance bay at PTMC.
He’d been sitting at the bar, drinking a beer and people watching, as he indulged in from time to time when he had a night off. It had to have been his lucky night, because his eyes had found you after less than fifteen minutes of sitting there. His gaze had trailed a blazing path up those long, luscious legs when you walked into the Anchor, and he studied you. This was the first time he could properly look at you, uninterrupted, and outside the context of the hospital. He wasn’t about to waste it. He watched, saw the moment you stopped drinking your first and only drink of the night so far, saw the way you smiled and let the music take you, saw when your petite and very inebriated friend whispered in your ear after what had to have been an hour on the dance floor. He even saw when you saw him.
He saw when you froze.
It wasn’t quite eye contact, but for that brief second, he froze too.
Regardless, he saw when you returned to your table, and when your four friends threw you off the deep end in his direction. Which led to now, the two of you in a position that should feel far more awkward than it does, and an invitation to call you by your first name.
You realized belatedly that your imagination had run rampant. So rampant, in fact, that there was a damp spot in your panties, the atmosphere of the bar around you had faded away, and you were still pressed up against him. Couple that with the fact that he hadn’t released you, and you felt your cheeks heat. Thank god for mood lighting.
You moved to step back and pick up your shot. That was what spurred him to finally make up his mind. He knew by virtue of his own observations that you weren’t drunk yet, but he didn’t know your tolerance, and, if all went according to plan, he needed you sober.
“No,” he breathed, pulling you even closer to him, “I want you in your right mind for this next part.”
Your breath caught. Surely the alcohol from your half a drink an hour and a half ago was catching up to you. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that Jack Abbot was gonna ask you anything in the realm of what you were hoping, praying, he’d ask you.
“Can I kiss you?” Lucifer was having a very fucking frigid night, wasn’t he?
“Please.”
He leaned down, touching his lips to yours in a chaste kiss, and you melted the last bit into him. It was nowhere near as indecent as you’d hoped, but once he pulled back, he rested his forehead on yours and breathed “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that for.”
You giggle in response, heady because holyfuckingshit Dr. Abbot just kissed you. On the mouth. Your pathetic little unrequited work crush transforming before your very eyes.
“I’ve always loved it when you laugh. Now come on, I’m sure someone at your table would appreciate that shot you’re not gonna drink, and then we’re gonna go for a little walk, okay?”
“Okay.”
Using his hands on your waist, he spun you, and sent you off, shot in hand, dazed, in the direction of your squealing friends. The shot quickly snatched up, claimed as a consolation prize since “I don’t get to kiss you after all.” You promised to text with updates, and were once again pushed in Jack’s direction.
You were starting to feel a bit like a pinball.
Regardless, you ambled back to him, still a bit in disbelief. “Where are we walking to?”
“If you’re up for it, I live about ten minutes away,” he said, hand coming up to his neck. Wait a minute, was he nervous? You brushed the thought aside as he guided you, one hand at the small of your back, through the crowd.
“Are you inviting me back to your place with nefarious intent, Jack?” you were teasing, now, trying to diffuse the sudden onset tension.
“I’ve got nothing nefarious planned, scout’s honor,” he held up the requisite fingers in earnest, “I’m just not sure where else to take you, and I can’t be bothered to keep yelling over this music.”
“Good. I’d hate for you to think I’m easy.” even if that’s exactly what I am. God, when had you become this wanton?
“I’d never think that.” That last part had been a whisper, directly into your ear, as you both finally burst through the bar doors. Finally safe to do so, he pulled your hand in his, and you both began walking off in the direction of his apartment.
You discussed everything and nothing in those 10 minutes. How your year as an R3 was going, how his SWAT side hustle managed to almost kill him again this time, and all the basic “get to know you” questions. His favourite colour was navy blue, and his favourite animal was a closely guarded secret (“What grown adult has a favourite animal? Fine. Mine’s a penguin. No, I will not elaborate.”)
When your feet started to hurt, at the fault of your accursed – although stunning – heels, you slipped them off your feet and continued to walk barefootted. Without breaking his stride, nor pausing his sentence about this amazing calabrian chili oil that his chef friend from the military sent from Boston, he gently slipped your shoes from your hands, carrying them in his own instead. Using the hand closest to you, he grasped your newly free palm in his as you walked, and continued to converse.
You’re still in disbelief. Jack Abbot is holding your hand, walking you back to his place, after having kissed you in a bar. This can’t be real. Just the same, he slows as you approach the apartment building on the corner, turning you to face him and searching your face for anything amiss before he speaks.
“It’s up to you where we go from here. We can get my truck from the parking garage, and I can drive you home, or we can head up to my place and keep talking. I’ve gotta be honest, though, and tell you that having you in my home, looking like that… well my intentions may be nefarious after all.”
Hearing the rasping tension in his voice, and seeing the heat in his gaze as his eyes trail down your body emboldens you. You knew what your goals for the night were, and you’d just gotten your golden ticket.
“Let’s go upstairs, I’m not ready to go home just yet.”
“Are you sure?” he questions, mild disbelief in his voice. He almost swears you want him as badly as he wants you.
“I know what I want, Jack.” your voice is barely a whisper, and he has to lean in to make sure he hears.
“Oh, yeah? You’re gonna have to show me, Sweetheart.”
You try not to grin as he turns and drags you upstairs.
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p.s. this was originally gonna be just smut(if you look at the lyrics of the song you'd see why), but then i grew a conscience and decided to put the stone-cold fuckin in part 2, which only exists in my head for now.
feeling lost in life had you stumbling into a church on a rainy day. father abbot is here to listen.
genre: priest! jack, fated love, sad as hell yall im so sorry, bittersweet
word count: 1800
(a/n: yeah i'm deep in the luteal phase AND i just finished my yearly rewatch of fleabag so this one was bound to happen. and I apologize deeply for it.)
You are not having a crisis.
That's the thing you want to be clear about, if anyone ever asks.
There was no inciting incident. No dramatic breaking point. No moment where the ground shifted and you found yourself standing in the doorway of the church on a grey Tuesday afternoon.
You just ended up there.
It's quiet and you sit in a pew near the back and you look at the light coming through the windows and you think, I don't know why I'm here.
A woman lights a candle near the front and an old man shuffles past. Somewhere behind a door, a phone rings twice and stops.
You stay for twenty minutes. Then you get up, and on your way out you see the confessional booth, and you think why not. Which is not a spiritual impulse, exactly, but it's the most direction you've felt all week, so you go with it.
The booth smells like cedar and it’s a rich brown. You sit down and look at the lattice. "Hi," you say.
"Hello." His voice is low and unhurried. A perfect calm. You cannot see him properly through the screen. Just the outline of a person and a collar.
"I'm not Catholic." you say.
"That's alright." he laughed a bit, but covered it up with a cough. "Do you want to confess something?"
"Honestly?" you say. "I'm not totally sure."
To his credit, he doesn't say anything. He just waits. You get the sense that he has sat in this booth through silences much longer than this one and has never once tried to fill them prematurely.
"I've been feeling like I want to float away," you say. "I want to be clear, that's not a cry for help. Nothing's wrong. That's sort of the problem. Nothing is wrong and I still feel like I'm made of something slightly less solid than I used to be."
"How long have you felt that way?" he asks.
"A while." You think about it. "I keep waiting to feel more like myself and I can't remember what that felt like, which is.." you laugh, small and a little tired. "Pretty on brand for a crisis, except I'm honestly not having one."
"You don't have to be having a crisis to need somewhere to put your feelings." he says
You look at the lattice. "Is that what this is?" you say. "Somewhere to put it?"
"If you want."
…
You didn’t plan on going back. But when you did, you made sure to do it properly.
You look it up beforehand, which feels both very you and faintly embarrassing. Sitting in your apartment the night before googling how does Catholic confession work at eleven PM. But you figure if you're going to do a thing you should do it right, or at least not make a complete fool of yourself.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," you say. "It's been.." you pause. "Well. It's been my whole life, technically, but specifically about a week since I was last here."
"What's on your mind?"
You think about the truly small and unimpressive catalog of your recent transgressions. "I've been smoking a little weed," you say.
"Well," he says, laughing. "That's alright. Not too bad."
You blink. "That's it?"
"Were you hoping for more?"
"I don't know, I thought there'd be Hail Marys or something."
"We can do Hail Marys if you'd like."
"I don't know any."
"Then we'll skip it," he says, pleasantly.
You sit there for a moment, oddly charmed. Through the lattice, the outline of him shifts slightly.
"I don't know your name," you say. "Is that something we do? Or is this anonymous."
"It can be either," he says. "I'm Father Abbot or you can call me Jack."
"Jack," you repeat. It suits him. "I'm Y/N."
…
You run into him on a Thursday morning at the coffee shop two blocks from the church.
He's out of the collar, dark jeans, a grey shirt, waiting for his order at the end of the counter, and he sees you before you see him.
You end up at a small table by the window because the place is full and it would be weirder not to sit together than to sit together.
He drinks his coffee black, which tracks. You learn that he grew up in Pittsburgh. A city boy, he says, which surprises you somehow, you'd pictured somewhere quieter. He has a younger brother who calls too infrequently and a mother who calls too often, and he describes this imbalance with the affection of someone who has made peace with it.
You find yourself laughing and he looks at you with something that might be satisfaction, like making you laugh was a small thing he wanted and got.
You tell him about your job, which is fine. It’s boring, but you feel like you’re waiting on your life to start.
"Do you know what you're waiting for?" he asks.
"I used to," you say. "I think I forgot while I was busy with other things."
He nods slowly. "It comes back," he says. "Usually when you stop waiting for it."
"Is that scripture?"
"No, it's just true." he says.
…
The park is ten minutes from the church. And in the far corner, running along the low iron fence, is a wildflower patch. Purples and yellows and an orange that seems to exist only in the last hour of afternoon light.
You find it by accident, on a walk that goes longer than you meant. You stand there for a while in the dying light and you feel, briefly, like something solid.
You mention it to Jack the following Thursday. You're not sure why, it just comes out and he says, I know that patch, like he’s visited it before and alone, and something about that lands softly in your chest.
"Sunset's the best time," he says.
"I know," you say. "That's when I found it."
"I usually walk that way on Friday evenings," he says, carefully, looking at his coffee cup. "Around five."
You look at him. He doesn't look up. "Good to know."
…
So it becomes a thing.
Not an arranged thing. Not a scheduled thing.
You're just both there, on Fridays, around five, and you sit on the stone bench nearby and you talk until the sky goes dark.
He's funny, which you knew, but the full extent of it reveals itself slowly. He does an impression of a particularly difficult parish council member that is so precise and so uncharitable that you nearly fall off the bench. He tells stories about seminary with the fond exasperation of someone who survived something genuinely absurd and has decided to find it funny.
You tell him about growing up, the things that shaped you, the things you're still working out. He listens like it matters.
The wildflowers are always best on the Fridays when the week has been hard. You don't know if that's real or if you just need it to be.
"Do you ever miss it?" you ask one evening. "The life you didn't choose?"
He thinks about it properly. "Sometimes I miss the idea of it," he says. "A house. Someone to come home to." He looks out at the long stretch of grass in front of you. "But I think I'd miss this more. The being available to people. Showing up for the hard parts of strangers' lives." He glances at you. "I'm not sure I'm built for small."
"That's either very holy or very human," you say.
He smiles. "I've always thought they're closer together than people assume."
…
It happens like the weather, gradually and then all at once.
It's a Friday in early autumn and the light is doing that thick golden thing it does when the year starts turning, and he's laughing at something you've said, head slightly back, and you look at him and think,
Oh, that's what this is.
And the terrible thing is that it doesn't feel like a problem arriving. It feels like something you've known for a while, finally letting itself be named.
You don't say anything. You just go home and lie on your kitchen floor for a while. Thinking of the inevitable heartbreak you have set yourself up for.
…
You go to confession the following Thursday.
"Hi," you say.
"Hi," he says. And then, after a moment, "You're quiet."
"I know." You look at your hands. "I'm not going to be coming back," you say. "After today. I just wanted to tell you. I didn’t want to just stop."
He doesn't ask why. He just sits with it the way he sits with everything, and you love him for it, and that's exactly the problem.
"Okay," he says, gently.
You sit for one more minute in the dark and then you leave.
…
You don't go to the wildflower patch for three weeks.
You think about it constantly, which is the thing about not going somewhere, it takes up more space than going did.
The last time you go, the sun is low. The wildflowers are doing their best and he's there.
Of course he's there.
He's sitting on the stone bench with his hands loose in his lap, looking at the flowers, and he doesn't look surprised to see you.
You sit down beside him and neither of you says anything for a while.
"I've been thinking," you say, finally.
You look at the sun, dropping now behind the treeline, the sky going amber and soft. "I love you," you say. Quiet. Not dramatic, just true.
"I know," he says, and his voice is different now.
"I'm not saying it so you'll do anything," you say. "I know what you are. I know the life you have chosen for yourself. I just needed to say it out loud to you. Once."
He's quiet for a long moment and the sun slips further.
"You are going to be okay," he says. "More than okay." He says it like he’s so certain. "You're going to wake up one day and there is going to be someone..” he looks at you and then turns away. “..someone who gets to keep you and they are going to be so lucky. And you're going to have a long, beautiful life."
Your eyes are burning. "Yeah?"
"Without a doubt." he says.
You feel it before you see it. His hand, coming up slowly, giving you every chance to move away. His thumb brushes your cheek, once, gentle and careful and final, and he wipes away what's there.
You close your eyes and when you open them the sun is almost gone. You turn, just slightly, and lay your head on his shoulder and he lets you. And you both watch the sun slowly get swallowed by the night.
You look at him once and you stand up. “Goodbye, Jack.”
And all he can do is look at you. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with his comforting words or wisdom.
You walk away down the gravel path without turning around, because you know that if you turn around you won’t go.
idk why I didnt trust you when you said it was sad. I suppose I did this to myself (im bawling, that was horrendous – as an emotional experience – I loved it so much)
summary: You've been with Jack for almost a year, and haven't yet told him about just how bad your mental health can get. After the worst possible work day, he finds and comforts you in a moment of vulnerability. Without any other choice, you come clean about everything you're going through.
contents: jack abbot x gn!reader, pediatric oncologist!reader, angst, patient (child) death, reader has a panic attack, depression, anxiety, mentions of self-harm, passing mention of suicide, established relationship, no use of y/n. (I'm almost sure I missed something please tell me)
wc: 1.8k
a/n: i was feeling angsty while listening to beyoncé, and as such i've decided to make it everyone's problem. plus when i suffer, you get to suffer with me. not even a little proofread so if there's something wrong tell me but also i might get butthurt and ignore you!
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
You were starting to doubt that you’d chosen the right profession.
You’re far too emotional for this shit. Sure you’d wanted to be a doctor for about as long as you’d been alive, but going into pediatric oncology was setting yourself up for fucking failure.
Getting to watch your patients ring that bell, and then – with luck – never have to see you again was undoubtedly the best feeling in the world. Witnessing the light in the little one’s eyes when you got to tell them and their parents they were cancer free made for the best days. Devising methods of treatment that didn’t suck the life out of them, and kept their routine as normal as possible? That was what you lived for.
But the bad days? The ones where you had to break the news to parents that their kid wasn’t improving? The days where you spent half your time on shift bawling in the bathroom because you couldn’t help feeling like you weren’t worth the scrubs on your body? That shit sucked. Veritably.
And then there were the days where you had to deal with the impossible; the ones where patients didn’t make it, and you had to hold it together to tell someone that they’d have to bury their baby. You barely spoke those days.
You barely survived those days.
Losing a patient is hard on any doctor, losing a kid even worse. For someone like you, who was on a first name basis with every single kid you saw, though, it was different. You were the kind of doctor who devoted so much time and effort to your work that you counted your patients among some of your closest friends. Your days became highlighted by the seconds you could sneak away to colour with them as they underwent whatever round of chemotherapy this was. Your patient satisfaction scores were off the charts, not that it mattered to you in the slightest.
Still, the worst of days for you looked different than they did for everyone else. You were someone whose hard days took on a suicidal edge in high school that you could never quite shake. Compound that with losing a patient, and you were almost catatonic every time you got home afterwards.
Today was a terrible motherfucking day.
Your head was heavy, your heart was racing, and you’d run out of tears. You closed your apartment door behind you and collapsed to the floor, already losing all concept of where you were, the sound of your sobs deafening and overwhelming. You hadn’t noticed the extra pair of shoes by the door, why would you?
You’re hyperventilating now. Where’s your bag? Fuck. This jacket is too tight. You need to call someone. Who the hell would you call? You don’t get to call anyone. A kid died today. It’s your damn fault. Couldn’t you be better? Breathe quieter! The fucking neighbors will hear you. You don’t deserve company. You get to fucking suffer. This is all your fault. A kid is dead.
A kid is dead.
A kid is dead.
You did this.
“Baby?”
Fuck.
Jack is here. Jack isn’t supposed to see this. Why the hell is he here? God you really have to breathe quieter. This is so embarrassing. Shut up!
“Baby, I need you to breathe for me.”
He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He simply gets down to your level and keeps talking.
“Breathe for me, Sweetheart. Deep breath in,” he inhales, long and slow, modelling it for you as your thoughts continue to whirl. “And out,” he exhales, his breath falling over you. He keeps breathing, narrating, and your shaky breaths slow to match his.
Your pulse calms, and you become cognizant of your body, still in a heap on the floor. You feel the heat of him approach, and hear him ask, ever so delicately “Can I touch you?”
You nod, and become aware of his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back. You still feel like shit, the emotional toll of the day no lighter, but at least you’re no longer fighting the impending doom of a panic attack.
He’s still rubbing your back, not advancing any further, sensing that you aren’t quite ready for it, when you come to the alarming realization that fuck, you just had a panic attack in front of Jack.
You’d been together almost a year, but had managed, mostly, to keep the reality of your mental health struggles to yourself. Not because you’d wanted to keep it secret, but rather because it felt like a herculean feat for you to explain to your trauma ER doctor boyfriend, who was much better versed in patient death than you were, due to the nature of his job, that when you lost a patient, it sent you into a depressive spiral.
You’d met Jack at a conference for Pittsburgh hospital employees, both of you having drawn the short stick for your respective departments, him for the PTMC ER, and you for Peds overall at UMPC Presbyterian. You’d hit it off immediately, managing to make it work somehow, regardless of the chaos of both your schedules, and your shared workaholic tendencies. Over the course of ten months, some time between his night shifts and your long days at Presby, you fell into a comfortable routine. Tonight was his night off, and he almost always spent them at your place, not that you’d remembered it in your mental state, just rushing to get home and break down in peace.
You lift your gaze to meet his, coming to terms with the fact that the darkest of your secrets had finally come to light. You aren’t sure how he’ll handle it, and though he’s seen it in action, you still have some explaining to do. When you meet his eyes, though, you’re not met with anything other than his loving stare, concern marring his features, but none of the negativity you’d already prepared in your head to face.
Seeing it for certain in his eyes, that his feelings for you haven’t changed, you make your way up to your knees, and bury your face in his chest. His arms come up around you, holding you to him in a comforting embrace, and you feel him say into the top of your head “I love you, and I’ve got you. It’s you and me, always.”
“I guess we’ve got some stuff to talk about, huh?” your voice is muffled as you speak into the cushion of his body.
“Only when you’re ready, I’m not going anywhere.”
You disentangle from him then, making to get up. He stands alongside you, never leaving your side as he watches you take your shoes off and gather your things from where they’re scattered on the floor. Jack leads you past the living room, where he had set up the TV on your favourite movie, walking you all the way to your bedroom.
His presence is a balm, reminding you that you aren’t alone, and that, if all else fails and you really hate yourself right now, he wants to be here with you because he loves you. Neither of you speak, content to work in companionable silence, and somehow in every action, you can hear him say it. I love you, his warm hands say as they help you into your comfiest set of pajamas. I love you, as he hands you your favourite water bottle, already perfectly set on the nightstand. I love you when he crawls into bed, leaned so that your head has a perfect spot on his chest.
Only once you finally settle into bed for the night, sprawled on top of him like a mentally unstable throw blanket, his arm curled around you protectively, do you finally begin to speak. You tell him about little Darcy, the sweet girl you lost today, how she loved all things gold and had the most magnificent green thumb, her room decorated with as many potted plants as you and her parents could smuggle in.
You tell him of your battles with depression and anxiety, how badly your self-worth suffers some days, and you feel like the worst doctor in the world. Jack feels your tears as they fall, but your voice stays steady.
That is, until it doesn’t.
Jack hears the hitch in your voice when you tell him how bad it gets on days like today, how you fight with yourself to make it through the night. You show him your scars, old and new, from clawing at your own skin, and his heart breaks. His own tears hit his cheeks when you explain how empty your heart feels, the space for self-love leaky and impossible to patch. And you tell him how alone you feel, not when you’re with him, never then, but how crushing it is to go at your most difficult days all by yourself.
“I know I'm loved, in my head I know that, but sometimes my heart just can’t be convinced.”
You inhale a deep, albeit reedy breath, and snuggle further into him.
“Can I tell you something?” Jack asks tentatively, his voice still a little choked.
You try to affirm, but your voice catches in your throat, tired from all it’s been through today.
“I am nothing without you. It has been almost a year, and I cannot remember who I was before I met you. It’s me and you, your love healed me, and that’s all I’ve got. When your days are like this, when they look so low you can’t even see the sun, call me, please. I will come to you, no matter what. I will pull you in close, and I will love you enough for the both of us. I wish I could fight right alongside you in that big, beautiful brain of yours, but the best I can do is be here for you, so please, let me. You don’t even have to let me in, but let me be here for you, for my own sake.
“You are so abundantly good at what you do, beyond your impressive professional merits. I guarantee you that you are the best part of hospital visits for every single person that gets to see you at Presby. You were made to do what you do, and even though there will be patients that you can’t save, you improve your patients' lives, day in and day out, you improve their parents lives, knowing that they are leaving their children in the kindest, most capable hands.”
If you weren’t entirely drained, you’d start bawling anew. As it stands, however, you just get to fall asleep, guard down, letting his love heal you for now, bit by little bit. You begin to drift off, and as you fall into dreams, you swear you hear Jack’s voice say “It’s me, and you. That’s all we need when the day is through.”
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
p.s. Darcy is near and dear to me, mostly because she's basically my late grandma but whatever.
p.p.s. if the end seems disjointed, it's because i was in flowstate and then kept getting interrupted. anyways lmk what you think!!
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summary: You've been with Jack for almost a year, and haven't yet told him about just how bad your mental health can get. After the worst possible work day, he finds and comforts you in a moment of vulnerability. Without any other choice, you come clean about everything you're going through.
contents: jack abbot x gn!reader, pediatric oncologist!reader, angst, patient (child) death, reader has a panic attack, depression, anxiety, mentions of self-harm, passing mention of suicide, established relationship, no use of y/n. (I'm almost sure I missed something please tell me)
wc: 1.8k
a/n: i was feeling angsty while listening to beyoncé, and as such i've decided to make it everyone's problem. plus when i suffer, you get to suffer with me. not even a little proofread so if there's something wrong tell me but also i might get butthurt and ignore you!
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
You were starting to doubt that you’d chosen the right profession.
You’re far too emotional for this shit. Sure you’d wanted to be a doctor for about as long as you’d been alive, but going into pediatric oncology was setting yourself up for fucking failure.
Getting to watch your patients ring that bell, and then – with luck – never have to see you again was undoubtedly the best feeling in the world. Witnessing the light in the little one’s eyes when you got to tell them and their parents they were cancer free made for the best days. Devising methods of treatment that didn’t suck the life out of them, and kept their routine as normal as possible? That was what you lived for.
But the bad days? The ones where you had to break the news to parents that their kid wasn’t improving? The days where you spent half your time on shift bawling in the bathroom because you couldn’t help feeling like you weren’t worth the scrubs on your body? That shit sucked. Veritably.
And then there were the days where you had to deal with the impossible; the ones where patients didn’t make it, and you had to hold it together to tell someone that they’d have to bury their baby. You barely spoke those days.
You barely survived those days.
Losing a patient is hard on any doctor, losing a kid even worse. For someone like you, who was on a first name basis with every single kid you saw, though, it was different. You were the kind of doctor who devoted so much time and effort to your work that you counted your patients among some of your closest friends. Your days became highlighted by the seconds you could sneak away to colour with them as they underwent whatever round of chemotherapy this was. Your patient satisfaction scores were off the charts, not that it mattered to you in the slightest.
Still, the worst of days for you looked different than they did for everyone else. You were someone whose hard days took on a suicidal edge in high school that you could never quite shake. Compound that with losing a patient, and you were almost catatonic every time you got home afterwards.
Today was a terrible motherfucking day.
Your head was heavy, your heart was racing, and you’d run out of tears. You closed your apartment door behind you and collapsed to the floor, already losing all concept of where you were, the sound of your sobs deafening and overwhelming. You hadn’t noticed the extra pair of shoes by the door, why would you?
You’re hyperventilating now. Where’s your bag? Fuck. This jacket is too tight. You need to call someone. Who the hell would you call? You don’t get to call anyone. A kid died today. It’s your damn fault. Couldn’t you be better? Breathe quieter! The fucking neighbors will hear you. You don’t deserve company. You get to fucking suffer. This is all your fault. A kid is dead.
A kid is dead.
A kid is dead.
You did this.
“Baby?”
Fuck.
Jack is here. Jack isn’t supposed to see this. Why the hell is he here? God you really have to breathe quieter. This is so embarrassing. Shut up!
“Baby, I need you to breathe for me.”
He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He simply gets down to your level and keeps talking.
“Breathe for me, Sweetheart. Deep breath in,” he inhales, long and slow, modelling it for you as your thoughts continue to whirl. “And out,” he exhales, his breath falling over you. He keeps breathing, narrating, and your shaky breaths slow to match his.
Your pulse calms, and you become cognizant of your body, still in a heap on the floor. You feel the heat of him approach, and hear him ask, ever so delicately “Can I touch you?”
You nod, and become aware of his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back. You still feel like shit, the emotional toll of the day no lighter, but at least you’re no longer fighting the impending doom of a panic attack.
He’s still rubbing your back, not advancing any further, sensing that you aren’t quite ready for it, when you come to the alarming realization that fuck, you just had a panic attack in front of Jack.
You’d been together almost a year, but had managed, mostly, to keep the reality of your mental health struggles to yourself. Not because you’d wanted to keep it secret, but rather because it felt like a herculean feat for you to explain to your trauma ER doctor boyfriend, who was much better versed in patient death than you were, due to the nature of his job, that when you lost a patient, it sent you into a depressive spiral.
You’d met Jack at a conference for Pittsburgh hospital employees, both of you having drawn the short stick for your respective departments, him for the PTMC ER, and you for Peds overall at UMPC Presbyterian. You’d hit it off immediately, managing to make it work somehow, regardless of the chaos of both your schedules, and your shared workaholic tendencies. Over the course of ten months, some time between his night shifts and your long days at Presby, you fell into a comfortable routine. Tonight was his night off, and he almost always spent them at your place, not that you’d remembered it in your mental state, just rushing to get home and break down in peace.
You lift your gaze to meet his, coming to terms with the fact that the darkest of your secrets had finally come to light. You aren’t sure how he’ll handle it, and though he’s seen it in action, you still have some explaining to do. When you meet his eyes, though, you’re not met with anything other than his loving stare, concern marring his features, but none of the negativity you’d already prepared in your head to face.
Seeing it for certain in his eyes, that his feelings for you haven’t changed, you make your way up to your knees, and bury your face in his chest. His arms come up around you, holding you to him in a comforting embrace, and you feel him say into the top of your head “I love you, and I’ve got you. It’s you and me, always.”
“I guess we’ve got some stuff to talk about, huh?” your voice is muffled as you speak into the cushion of his body.
“Only when you’re ready, I’m not going anywhere.”
You disentangle from him then, making to get up. He stands alongside you, never leaving your side as he watches you take your shoes off and gather your things from where they’re scattered on the floor. Jack leads you past the living room, where he had set up the TV on your favourite movie, walking you all the way to your bedroom.
His presence is a balm, reminding you that you aren’t alone, and that, if all else fails and you really hate yourself right now, he wants to be here with you because he loves you. Neither of you speak, content to work in companionable silence, and somehow in every action, you can hear him say it. I love you, his warm hands say as they help you into your comfiest set of pajamas. I love you, as he hands you your favourite water bottle, already perfectly set on the nightstand. I love you when he crawls into bed, leaned so that your head has a perfect spot on his chest.
Only once you finally settle into bed for the night, sprawled on top of him like a mentally unstable throw blanket, his arm curled around you protectively, do you finally begin to speak. You tell him about little Darcy, the sweet girl you lost today, how she loved all things gold and had the most magnificent green thumb, her room decorated with as many potted plants as you and her parents could smuggle in.
You tell him of your battles with depression and anxiety, how badly your self-worth suffers some days, and you feel like the worst doctor in the world. Jack feels your tears as they fall, but your voice stays steady.
That is, until it doesn’t.
Jack hears the hitch in your voice when you tell him how bad it gets on days like today, how you fight with yourself to make it through the night. You show him your scars, old and new, from clawing at your own skin, and his heart breaks. His own tears hit his cheeks when you explain how empty your heart feels, the space for self-love leaky and impossible to patch. And you tell him how alone you feel, not when you’re with him, never then, but how crushing it is to go at your most difficult days all by yourself.
“I know I'm loved, in my head I know that, but sometimes my heart just can’t be convinced.”
You inhale a deep, albeit reedy breath, and snuggle further into him.
“Can I tell you something?” Jack asks tentatively, his voice still a little choked.
You try to affirm, but your voice catches in your throat, tired from all it’s been through today.
“I am nothing without you. It has been almost a year, and I cannot remember who I was before I met you. It’s me and you, your love healed me, and that’s all I’ve got. When your days are like this, when they look so low you can’t even see the sun, call me, please. I will come to you, no matter what. I will pull you in close, and I will love you enough for the both of us. I wish I could fight right alongside you in that big, beautiful brain of yours, but the best I can do is be here for you, so please, let me. You don’t even have to let me in, but let me be here for you, for my own sake.
“You are so abundantly good at what you do, beyond your impressive professional merits. I guarantee you that you are the best part of hospital visits for every single person that gets to see you at Presby. You were made to do what you do, and even though there will be patients that you can’t save, you improve your patients' lives, day in and day out, you improve their parents lives, knowing that they are leaving their children in the kindest, most capable hands.”
If you weren’t entirely drained, you’d start bawling anew. As it stands, however, you just get to fall asleep, guard down, letting his love heal you for now, bit by little bit. You begin to drift off, and as you fall into dreams, you swear you hear Jack’s voice say “It’s me, and you. That’s all we need when the day is through.”
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
p.s. Darcy is near and dear to me, mostly because she's basically my late grandma but whatever.
p.p.s. if the end seems disjointed, it's because i was in flowstate and then kept getting interrupted. anyways lmk what you think!!
