ceci

‧₊˚༘˚⋆𐙚

​He was leaning against the table, a half empty beer in his hand, with his gaze entirely on you. You were sitting across the table, throwing your head back as you laughed at a joke someone just made. The warm ambient lighting of the pub caught the edge of your smile, and right then, something shifted heavily in Jack’s chest.

​God, she’s easily the most beautiful person in this room, he thought, a sudden clarity hitting him.

​It wasn't just a fleeting work crush anymore, and he knew it.

Watching the way you effortlessly commanded the space around you, he realized he was completely done for.

He found himself thinking past the walls of the bar, imagining what it would be like to be the one walking you to your front door tonight. He’d willingly play the perfect gentleman, do whatever it took, even charm your mom if he ever got the chance to meet her; anything just to ensure he got to stay in your life.

The mere thought of a future with you, spoken out loud or just kept in his head, made his heart race.

​As if feeling the weight of his stare, you turned your head. Your eyes met his, and your smile softened into something private, just for him.

​Jack didn’t look away. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

The music in the bar shifted to something with a pulsing beat, and a few people from the shift immediately dragged you out toward the cramped dance floor.

Jack stayed at the table, but he didn't join the conversation around him. His eyes followed you through the lights. He watched the way you moved, the unbothered laugh on your lips, and the way you completely shook off the stress of the past week.

Every second he spent watching you only hammered the realization deeper into his chest.

When a song ended, you made your way back, flushed and laughing. The drinks had fully caught up to you by now, leaving your mind pleasantly fuzzy and your movements a little loose.

Instead of reclaiming your original seat, you slid straight into the tight space right next to Jack.

The moment your hip met his, his hand slid effortlessly around your waist, his palm warm as he pulled you against his side. The warmth of your body radiated through his clothes, and because of the alcohol blurring your usual boundaries, you happily let yourself sink heavily into him, leaning your head back against his shoulder and looking up with slightly unfocused eyes.

"Too much dancing?" he murmured, dropping hus voice so only you could hear him over the bar’s bass.

"Maybe a little," you hummed, a smile playing on your lips. "Or maybe it's the drinks."

"You're a lightweight," he teased softly. As the words left his mouth, he leaned his head down and pressed a kiss right against the bare skin of your shoulder, his lips were warm against your skin.

A shiver ran down your spine, and you let out a soft giggle, shifting even closer until there was absolutely no space left between you. You reached up, your fingers playfully tugging at the lapel of his jacket. "Are you being sweet to me, Jack?"

"I can be whatever you want me to be," he replied without a hint of hesitation, his hand at your waist gently squeezing. He was completely dialed into you, entirely forgetting that you two weren't alone.

Across the table, a few looks were traded. A couple of eyebrows went up. One of the paramedics cleared their throat loudly, a massive smirk spreading across their face.

"Uh, Jack? You want us to leave you two alone?"

Jack blinked, fucking finally remembering the rest of the world existed. He looked up, catching the knowing grins of the entire shift crew staring.

Anyone could see it: the way he was holding you, the softness in his eyes, the absolute focus he had on you. He was totally whipped, and there was absolutely no denying it anymore.

Instead of pulling away or getting defensive, Jack just looked down at you, seeing the faint, beautiful flush on your cheeks. He chuckled, his arm adjusting around your waist.

"Mind your business," Jack said to the table, not a single bit of shame in his voice. "I'm minding mine."

Before anyone could even process his words, Jack turned his head down toward you. His hand slid from your waist up to the nape of your neck, his fingers gently tangling in your hair as he tilted your face up and captured your lips in a deep kiss.

The kiss was deep, slow, and full of all the unspoken words he’d been keeping to himself for months. It was a warm claim that left you completely breathless. He tasted faintly of the beer he’d been sipping, his lips incredibly soft but firm as they molded against yours, demanding a response you were more than ready to give.

The shift went absolutely wild around, cheers and loud whistles erupting from everyone, but Jack didn’t pull back. Instead, he only deepened the kiss.

The sheer excitement of the crew brought a shy heat to your cheeks, and a breathless smile broke across your lips right in the middle of the kiss. Jack let out a chuckle against your mouth, loving the feel of your lips curving against his.

Yielding completely to the fuzzy rush of the alcohol and his touch, you wrapped your arms tighter around his neck, burying your fingers in the collar of his shirt. You tilted your head and kissed him back softly, your smile pressing directly into his as you let him completely steal your breath away.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

(urgently need Jack to kiss me)

The plan was simple, or as simple as a Cody job ever got. A quick exchange, a lockbox of clean bonds, and out. But the crew they were dealing with wasn't looking to trade; they were looking for revenge since they noticed the Cody's were at his territory.

When you woke up, the metallic taste of blood was thick on your tongue. The room was dark, standing in the shadows was a man whose face you couldn't see, holding a burner phone.

And on the other end of the line was Andrew.

"I don't give a shit about the bonds," Andrew’s voice came through the speaker. It didn’t sound like him. The usual calculating edge was entirely gone, replaced by desperation. "You touch her, and I will personally dismantle every single person you’ve ever spoken to."

"She's alive, Cody," the man holding the phone drawled, stepping closer to you. He drew a hunting knife from his belt. The blade caught the weak light. "But the price just went up. You brought your own weakness to a job… not so intelligent of you, isnt it? That costs extra, I know you would give everything for her. Poor she. She's really beautiful, you know? Looks like an angel… such a shame I have to make her bleed."

"Name the place." Andrew roared through the phone. You could hear the screech of tires in the background. "We’ll bring the cash. All of it. Don't fucking touch her."

"I don't like your tone, Andrew," the man said smoothly. Without breaking eye contact with you, he drove the knife down into your thigh.

The scream that tore from your throat didn't even sound human. It was an agonizing tear as the blade sliced deep, dragging through muscle and severing a major artery. Dark arterial blood instantly began to pump through your denim.

"No! NO!" Andrew shrieked over the line, the sound of his voice breaking completely. "Stop!"

"Relax, man, I'm just making sure you understand the stakes," the man said. He pulled the knife out with a sickening squelch. The room started to spin. You started losing blood, very fast.

"I'm going to kill you," Andrew whispered, a shaking promise. "I am going to rip your fucking throat out."

"Bring the bonds to the docks. Container 42. Then I will tell you where she is. You have… ten minutes maximum before she bleed out. And Andrew? No brothers. No help. Just you. You were the only one who knew about the lockbox."

The man hung up the phone. He looked down at you, tossing the bloody knife onto a table. "Let's make sure you don't try to run, pretty thing."

He pulled a gun from his waistband. You couldn't even move to cringe away. A bullet pierced your leg and shattered your calf muscle. The force of a kick to your side knocked you and the chair down completely. You hit the ground hard, the pain so blinding that your brain simply shut off the signals, leaving you floating in a numb void.

You couldn't breathe. You couldn't scream anymore. You could only watch the blood expand toward the floor.

You have no idea how much time has passed. Your body was cold, beginning to tremble slightly. The pain in your leg had disappeared; you could barely feel you lower body. Exhaustion was taking over your body when the door was kicked open.

Through the haze of your fading consciousness, you heard gunfire. Rapid, deafening, and relentless. There were no shouts, no warnings, just the execution of the men in the room.

Then, hands were on you. Untying you and then on your face.

"Hey, hey, look at me. Look at me, baby, please."

Andrew dropped to his knees in the puddle of your blood. His face was pale, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He looked entirely broken. The fierce Andrew Cody was gone; this was just a man watching his world end.

He ripped his flannel off, his hands shaking so violently he could barely manage it, and shoved it hard against the gaping wound in your thigh.

You let out a pathetic whimper, your fingers feebly twitching against his vest.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he sobbed, pressing his weight into the wound to stop the bleeding. He took your face in his other hand, his thumb smearing blood across your cheek as he tried to keep your eyes locked on his. "Stay with me, fuck, baby, please. Do not close your eyes. You hear me? You gotta stay awake for me."

"Andrew..." you breathed, the word barely a puff of air. "C-Cold."

"I know, I know, baby, I'm right here." He looked up, screaming toward the doorway. "Baz! She's bleeding out!"

Baz appeared in the doorway, his face grim, already calling a dirty backalley doctor. "All clear. Car's running. Move."

Andrew scooped you into his arms, lifting you gently despite the horrific injuries. As he pulled you against his chest, your blood soaked entirely through his shirt. He ran out into the pouring rain, holding you like you were made of glass, pressing his lips against your forehead over and over again.

"I shouldn't have let you come," he whispered fiercely into your hair as he threw you into the back seat of the truck, climbing in right after you to keep pressure on your wounds. "I should have locked you in the house. This is on me. This is all on me."

A deep agony appeared in his chest when your eyes started closing. "Baby, hey, open your eyes, don't do that," he desesperatly tried to keep you awake, and took your hand with his free one. "Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, please give me a sign, anything." You moved your fingers, interlacing them lightly with his, pressing gently. He sighed and screamed Deran to hurry.

The truck screeched away into the night and Andrew held you tight, his tears mixing with the blood on your skin, begging god to let you open your eyes one more time.

Andrew's hands were glued to your thigh. They couldn't go to a hospital, not with gunshot wounds, not with a Cody job gone loud. It had to be the house.

Andrew carried you in. When he laid you down on the hard wood, the bright lights showed the true horror of it all: the deep slice in your leg and the bloody mess of your calf.

"Get out," Andrew rasped after some seconds, not looking at his brothers. "Everyone out. Leave."

"Andrew, you need help with—" Baz said after starting an IV, but Andrew whipped his head around, his eyes were wild.

"Out!" he roared.

The brothers backed away, closing the doors to the room, leaving only him and the sound of your ragged breathing.

Andrew tore open the medical kit, his hands fumbling with the bottles of antiseptic, local anesthetic, and heavy nylon sutures.

He knew how to patch a wound, he’d done it for his brothers a hundred times, but this was you. Every touch felt like he was breaking you further.

"I have to numb it, baby. I have to clean it first," he whispered, his voice cracking.

The moment the antiseptic hit the open laceration on your thigh, your body convulsed. An agonizing shriek tore from your throat, your fingers clawing at the edges of the table. Your hips buckled from the sheer, burning agony of it.

Seeing you twist in pain broke whatever fragile hold Andrew had on his emotions.

A choked sob escaped his chest. As he prepped the needle to start stitching, tears finally spilled over his eyelashes, hot and fast. He looked so broken in that moment, his massive shoulders trembling as he tried to thread the needle through his blurred vision.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry," he wept openly, a sound so raw it made your heart hurt worse than your physical wounds. "It’s my fault. I should’ve been faster. I should’ve kept you in the house. I did this to you."

The local anesthetic was finally starting to dull the sharpest edges of the pain into a throbbing ache. Through the haze of exhaustion and blood loss, you looked at him. You had never seen Andrew look so defeated. He looked like a terrified child trapped in a monster's body.

Slowly, weakly, you lifted your uninjured arm. Your fingers were trembling, but you managed to reach up, pressing your palm against his wet cheek.

Andrew froze at the sensation of your skin. He leaned heavily into your hand, closing his eyes for a brief second as if your touch was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.

"Andrew..." you croaked. "B-baby." He looked down at you. "N-not your fault," you whispered, trying to force a smile through your trembling lips. "I... S-stop. Don't c-cry."

"You almost died," he choked out, his voice a broken whisper. He took a ragged breath, trying to steady his hands as he lowered the needle to the edge of the knife wound on your thigh. "I can't... I can't lose you. If you die, I don't survive it. I don't."

"'m here," you promised softly. "Fix m- me up. I t-trust you."

Hearing those words, knowing you didn't hate him, knowing you still trusted his hands to put you back together, gave him the focus he needed.

Andrew wiped his eyes on his shoulder and started working. He was meticulous. Every pull of the thread was agonizing, and you still cried out, your grip tightening on the table. Every time you gasped, he would mutter a soft "I've got you, I''m sorry, almost done, baby," using his voice to soothe you.

By the time he finished stitching your thigh and packed the gunshot wound in your calf with clean gauze, the sun was just beginning to peek through the sky.

The table was a mess of blood and medical waste, but the bleeding had completely stopped. Your breathing had evened out, a faint color returning to your body as the IV fluids Baz had quickly started before leaving the room took some effect.

Andrew gently lifted you from the table, carrying you into his bedroom. He laid you down on the bed with agonizing care, supporting your body as your head hit the pillows and placing the IV bag in an IV pole.

Baz and Smurf had already been inside. While Andrew was finishing the stitches, they had silently gone to work turning his bedroom into a makeshift recovery ward. On the nightstand sat a fresh IV pole, lines, and bags of O-negative blood, the benefit of having a dirty paramedic on the Cody payroll. Smurf had even left a clean, damp washcloth and a bowl of warm water resting on the dresser.

Andrew didn’t say a word, he felt a grim wave of relief that, for once, his family had anticipated exactly what you needed to survive.

You were entirely spent, your eyes half closed, skin still holding a pallor of someone who had lost far too much blood.

"I'm going to take very good care of you, I promise, I love you so much, I can't lose you," Andrew whispered.

He still didn't want anyone else touching you right now, so he did it himself. His hands were steady now as he spiked the blood bag, hanging it from the pole where the already started fluids where. He knew exactly how to find the veins, next to the other line.

"Small pinch, baby, I'm sorry," he murmured.

You let out a tiny hiss as the needle slid in, but you kept your half closed eyes locked onto his face. He taped the line down securely, and within seconds, the blood began to flow down the clear tubing and into your system.

Andrew let out a long breath and grabbed the warm washcloth Smurf had left and sat heavily on the edge of the mattress. With gentle strokes, he began to wipe the dried blood from your forehead, your cheeks, and your collarbone, cleaning away the horror of the night.

"The blood will help. It'll make the cold go away," he whispered, pressing the warm cloth to your cheek.

As the transfusion did its work, a faint warmth began to creep back into your skin. You felt the freezing numbness in your limbs slowly begin to lift. Weakly, you curled your fingers around the edge of her t-shirt.

"Thank you, baby."

Andrew closed his eyes when he heard your voice again, then leaning down to give you a soft kiss.

"Don't thank me," he muttered against your lips, his arms wrapping around you as he carefully climbed into the bed, mindful of the IV lines and you injuries. He pulled you against his body, his eyes fixed on the plastic bag as it slowly dripped life back into your body. "Just stay. Stay here with me. Don't leave me."

You were going to be okay. The road to recovery would be long, and Andrew would likely never let you within ten feet of a Cody job ever again. As he held you in the quiet safety of his room, the crushing guilt finally began to ease.

You were alive. And he was never letting you go.

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚

The bedroom is thick with the sweet scent of your wetness. Jack has spent two hours breaking you down, methodically pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you until your thighs are trembling and your skin is flushed in a feverish pink.

You think you’re empty, completely spent, but Jack is relentless.

He pins your wrists above your head, his massive frame all over you as he drives into you with a slow and deliberate rhythm.

Every thrust hits exactly where it needs to.

​"Look at you," he growls, his voice is warm against your mouth. "Just a pathetic, needy little mess. Look how easily you take it. You’re nothing but a sweet little hole for me to ruin, aren't you?"

The dirty words hit your brain like a drug, the sheer degradation of it sparking a violent heat deep in your belly. You look up at him, your expression entirely open, your eyes soft and heavy with total surrender.

Jack locks eyes with you, his gaze dark and commanding as he reads the absolute submission written across your face.

"Open your mouth," he orders softly.

Without thinking, you part your lips and stick out your tongue, looking up at him with those wide eyes. Jack leans over, grabs your neck and spits directly into your open mouth. Strings of his saliva mix with yours, pooling on your tongue and trailing messily over your bottom lip, dripping down your chin. You don't try to wipe it away; you just keep your mouth open, taking it entirely, looking up at him like he holds the entire world.

The sight of you completely undone, unbothered by the mess, and looking at him with nothing but pure devotion makes his chest tighten. Your walls clamp down around him, a tight spasm that catches him off guard.

"Ah, fuck," Jack grunts, his hips tunneling forward as you begin to climax yet again.

You sob around the wetness in your mouth, your head rolling back into the pillow as the intense wave of pleasure crashes over you.

It’s too much.

The overstimulation, the degradation, and hus deep thrusts snap the last cord holding you to reality.

You slip completely over the edge, drifting straight into subspace.

The room blurs. The heavy weight of Jack’s body suddenly feels like a warm blanket. Your mind goes completely quiet, floating in a foggy limbo where nothing hurts and nothing matters.

Jack notices the shift instantly. He feels the sudden laxity in your muscles, the way your eyes track nothing at all, glazed over and staring past him.

"Doll?" he murmurs, his pace slowing to a gentle rocking nudge. He looks down at your face.

It's a beautiful, chaotic disaster: streaked with tears, a sheen of sweat, your cheeks covered in his semen from earlier, and your mouth and chin completely slick with the heavy mix of his spit and yours.

"Ngh, mhm?" You try to talk but you look thoroughly used, entirely his, and utterly helpless.

The sight triggers something primal in him. He sees how deep under you are, how perfectly receptive and small you've become.

"You're so soft for me right now," he whispers, his voice being a possessive purr. "So small. You need me to fill you up, don't you? You need your man to put a baby in this soft little belly."

He doesn't pull out. He drives deep, burying himself to the hilt, and lets go with a groan.

You moan as you feel the hot burst of him filling you, stretching you out, although it feels distant, like a warm secret meant just for the two of you.

Jack pants, resting his forehead against yours for a long moment, letting his weight ground you. Then, slowly, he shifts, pulling out with a soft wet sound and gathering you into his arms. He pulls the duvet over both of you, sealing out the cold air.

"Hey," he says softly, his hand gently cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over the messy mix of spit and cum on your cheek. "Come back to me, baby. Where are you?"

You blink slowly, the fog in your brain thick and heavy. When you try to speak, your voice comes out incredibly tiny, a whisper.

"Jackie," you mumble, your fingers weakly clutching at his chest. "Far 'way."

"I've got you," Jack murmurs, his tone entirely changed now: he is patient, steady, and grounding. "You're right here with me, in our bed. You're safe."

"Mmm... fuzzy," you whisper in that small voice, hiding your face in his neck.

"I know it's fuzzy, doll. You did so good for me. You took so much," he talks you through it, his hand tracking slowly down your back. "Just relax. Listen to my voice. Don't fall sleep yet."

He lets you drift in that quiet safe space for a few more minutes, keeping you warm, murmuring praise whenever you make a small sound against his skin.

Slowly, the room stops spinning. The sharp edges of reality start to return, anchored by the solid, heavy warmth of Andrew holding you tight.

"There you are," he whispers as your eyes finally focus on him, clear and present. He smiles faintly, kissing your forehead before reaching for a warm cloth he keeps by the bedside. "Let's get you cleaned up, beautiful mess."

The warm cloth feels incredibly grounding as Jack swips it across your cheeks, carefully cleaning away the lingering heat and the heavy, slick traces of the mess you'd made together.

Every swipe brings a little more of the room back into focus. Your eyelids flutter, the foggy weight in your brain finally lifting. You blink up at him, your vision fully clearing as you look directly into his eyes.

"Hi," you whisper. Your voice is still a little quiet, but the fragile cadence from before is gone. It's just you again.

Jack pauses his hand. "Hi, beautiful," he murmurs back, his thumb gently sweeping under your eye. "Welcome back."

The memory of exactly how you had just been acting hits you all at once. You remember the tiny voice, the way you had clinged to his chest and how completely helpless you had been under him.

Embarrassment, sharp and sweet, makes you instantly look away, burying your burning face straight into the crook of his neck to hide.

Jack lets out a chuckle against your skin, wrapping his arms securely around you. "What's this? You're shy now?"

"Don't look at me," you mumble into his collarbone, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. "I was... I can't believe I talked like that. It's embarrassing."

"Hey," Jack says softly but firmly, nudging your chin with his knuckles until you're force to look up at him again, your face still completely flushed and pouty. "Don't do that. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. You gave me everything, let yourself go completely. I liked it."

He leans down, pressing a long kiss to your lips, tasting the warmth of your skin.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands rest heavy on his knees, fingers perfectly still. His eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed entirely on the curtains. He’s sinking, trapped in a gray fog where past regrets and future dread blur together into absolute nothingness.

Outside the open bedroom door, small sneakers squeak against the hallway tile.

Your five year old daughter stops in her tracks. She carries a stuffed dog by its ear, her eyes peeking into the bedroom. She watches her dad for a long moment.

He doesn't move.

He doesn't even seem to breathe.

She’s seen this look before.

She turns on her heel and runs back to the kitchen, where you’re leaning against the counter. She tugs sharply on the hem of your shirt, her brow furrowed.

"Mama," she whispers urgently, pointing a finger back down the hall. "Dada is doing it again."

Your heart aches slightly, but you don't let it show. You know exactly what she means.

You set down your mug, offering her a reassuring smile. "Is he? Well, let's go, sweet girl."

You scoop her up into your arms, settling her against your hip. She wraps her arms around your neck, burying her face for a second before looking toward the bedroom.

When you enter the bedroom, Andrew hasn't moved an inch. He looks entirely detached from his own body, a ghost sitting in a room he built.

You position her on Andrew's right, and you sit down quietly on the other side. The bed shifts, but he doesn't react.

"Hey," you say softly. "Look who found you."

Andrew doesn't turn, but a microscopic twitch in his jaw tells you he’s trying to fight his way back through the fog.

"Okay, careful, on three, babygirl," you whisper, leaning close to Andrew's side. She mimics you perfectly, leaning her small frame against his right side, her face inches from his cheek.

"One... two... three."

Simultaneously, you press a kiss to his left cheek while your daughter plants a loud and sloppy kiss on his right.

The physical contact snaps through him.

Andrew blinks rapidly, the dull film clearing from his eyes as a sharp breath hitches in his chest. His gaze lands on his babygirl's hopeful smile, and then at you.

The tension in his shoulders visibly melts away.

"There you are," you murmur, reaching up to gently cup the back of his neck, your thumb smoothing over his hairline.

Andrew swallows hard, his hand coming up to cover yours, pressing your palm firmly against his skin as if to convince himself you're actually there. He reaches out with his other arm, wrapping it securely around his daughter's waist and pulling her tightly into his chest. He buries his face in her curls, breathing her in, baby shampoo and sunshine, before looking back at you, his eyes clear and entirely present.

"I'm here," he rasps, feeling grounded.

Andrew shifts the toddler so she’s sitting right on his lap, her back pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around her.

She looks up at him. "You were gone, Dada."

"I was," Andrew murmurs, his voice softening. He gently tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "But you brought me back."

She beams, entirely proud of her mission. She reaches up, her small hands grabbing both sides of his face, squishing his cheeks together. "Mama said we have to kiss the monsters away."

A smile breaks across Andrew’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Did she?" he asks, glancing up at you with softness.

"Mmhmm!" She nods solemnly, releasing his face to pat his nose. "Are they gone?"

Andrew catches her tiny hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss right into her palm. "Every single one. Thank you, bug."

She giggles, the sound bright and musical, and immediately squirms until she can bury her face in his neck, hugging him tightly.

"On it," you murmured. Your voice sounded a little distant, even to your own ears, but you forced a reassuring nod and grabbed an IV kit.

Inside Bed 6, you prepped the tourniquet and tore open the alcohol wipe. Your hands were usually rock solid, it was why Jack always asked for you on difficult sticks. But as you brought the needle down toward the patient's arm, your fingers violently jerked.

The needle slipped from your hand. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked through your chest.

You gripped your right wrist with your left hand, trying to steady it, but an involuntary spasm rippled through your forearm. Your muscles tightened up, rigid and uncooperative.

No, no, no. Not right now.

You knew the signs. You lived with this reality every day. The entire shift knew it, too. But the velocity with which your blood sugar was crashing caught you entirely off guard.

"Sarah," you choked out, catching the eye of another nurse who was checking the monitor. Your voice was barely a whisper. "Can you... can you take over? I c-can't... I can't get the angle."

Sarah looked at you, confused. "Yeah, sure. I got it."

You stumbled backward out of the cubicle, your right arm tight against your chest as another spasm wracked the muscles.

You needed glucose. Now. Urgently.

You had a strange sensation, a tingling, in your legs, although you could still walk to the break room only because of muscle memory.

From across the floor, Jack catched you exit Bed 6. He frowned. It wasn't like you to hand off a procedure, especially not an urgent one. He stepped away from the central desk, his eyes tracking your swaying stride as you turned the corner into the staff breakroom.

"Hey," Jack called out softly, following you in and closing the door behind him. "Are you alright? Did you—"

You turned to face him, intending to tell him you just needed a fast acting carb, but your body betrayed you. Your neck stiffened slightly, and a small tic appeared, convulsing into a series of uncontrollable muscle spasms. You tried to reach for the cupboards, but your hand was shaking too much.

Jack froze, his medical instincts kicking in instantly.

He knew your diagnosis. He knew what a rapid drop looked like.

"Jesus, baby," he breathed, lunging forward just as your knees buckled.

He caught you before you hit the floor, guiding your trembling body down until you were sitting in one of the breakroom chairs.

"Hey," Jack commanded, cupping your face with his hands. "Look at me, doll."

You were awake. Your eyes were wide open, your gaze still fixed on him, your tics still twitching, but you weren't there. Your gaze was completely lost, glassy and unfocused. An involuntary whimper escaping your lips as another spasm gripped your hand.

"Hey, stay with me. Keep your eyes open," Jack pleaded, his fingers gripping your jaw firmly. He searched into his pocket, grabbing a tube of oral glucose gel he kept strictly for you.

"I'm going to put this in your mouth, okay? Don't swallow. Don't waste energy. Just let it absorb," he muttered, his hands shaking slightly, a rarity for Dr. Abbot. He gently parted your lips and squeezed the gel into your mouth, his eyes locked on yours, desperately searching for a flicker of recognition.

Your eyes remained swimming in an unfocused void, your head still twitching rhythmically against his hand.

The oral glucose gel was in, but your body wasn't responding. Jack knew the gel would take too long to turn this around.

He couldn't risk waiting.

"I need help in here!" Jack shouted toward the door, his voice cracking with urgency. Within seconds, the door burst open. Sarah and a resident rushed in, pausing for a fraction of a second in shock at the sight of the lead attending holding you tightly.

"She's crashing. Severe hypoglycemia, early seizure activity," Jack ordered. "Get a gurney. I need an IV kit and a bag of D50, now!""

The team moved fast. They wheeled a gurney right to the breakroom door, and Jack insisted on lifting you himself, his arms straining as he carefully laid you onto the mattress. They rushed you into an empty trauma bay, pulling the curtains shut to give you whatever dignity they could save.

"Starting IV," Sarah said, her fingers flying as she prepped your arm.

Jack didn't step back. "Baby, can you hear me?" he muttered, holding your head so you wouldn't hurt yourself. He didn't care about who listened to him calling you nicknames in a moment like this. "Are you with me?"

As Sarah successfully flashed the vein and pushed the concentrated dextrose into your IV, the violent twitching in your muscles finally began to subside. Your jaw relaxed and your eyelids grew incredibly heavy.

Your eyes closed completely. Your head rolled slightly to the side against the pillow.

"Hey, hey, no. Stay awake," Jack said sharply. He tapped your cheek, his pulse skyrocketing. "Goddammit, doll."

Jack felt nervous but he felt your breathing deep and even, your body completely limp.

"Fuck, her blood sugar is going to take a few minutes to register a rise in her brain. She’s just exhausted," Jack said gently, he didint know if he was trying to ground Sarah or himself. A patient losing consciousness after a neurological event was never just sleeping. His mind raced through every worst-case scenario: prolonged cerebral hypoglycemia, a postictal coma, a secondary head injury he hadn't seen.

"Get a fingerstick. Check her glucose levels," Jack demanded. He grabbed a penlight from his pocket, peeling back your eyelid to check your pupils. They were reactive, but you didn't even stir from the light. "Come on. Wake up. You can't sleep right now."

Seeing you completely unresponsive was tearing him apart.

"Don't do this," he whispered. "Please, wake up."

Long minutes later, the first thing that roused you from your deep sleep was the sound of the door closing. Your head felt as if it were being pressed tightly between two hands; you felt a great pressure on your temple.

"Hey..." a rough voice made you open your eyes, but the harsh lights of the trauma bay made your vision blur. Before you could even formulate a word, a violent wave of nausea surged from the pit of your stomach.

You gagged, instinctively trying to sit up.

Jack moved fast, grabbing an emesis basin from the bedside table and sliding his arm behind your back to support your weight as you threw up. He held you firmly, his hand rubbing your back as you retched, your body trembling from the sheer exhaustion of it all.

"I've got you," Jack murmured. "Breathe through it."

When it finally stopped, you sank heavily back against the pillows, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

You felt entirely disconnected from your own body.

Jack quickly set the basin aside, grabbed a damp washcloth, and gently wiped your mouth. Then, he picked up his blood glucose meter from the bedside. "I need to check your sugar again, okay?"

You nodded as he pricked your finger, and a moment later, the machine beeped. Jack sighed, a mix of relief and frustration washing over his face. "Two hundred and eighty four. It's high. The D50 overcorrected you, but we can manage that. We'll give you a small correction dose of insulin in a bit."

You blinked at him, the numbers not quite registering. Your brain felt like it was swimming in confussion. You looked around the trauma bay, the familiar sights of The Pitt looking completely foreign to you.

"Jack?" your voice was barely audible.

"Mh? I'm right here," he said, taking your hand and squeezing it tightly. "How do you feel?"

"Tired..." You said, sighing. "Did... did I miss my shift? What time is it? Do I need to clock in?"

Jack’s brow furrowed. He leaned closer. "Doll, you were already working. You collapsed in the breakroom."

You shook your head slightly, confusion hitting your chest. "No… no, it's… it's Thursday. We had the day off yesterday and had a date. I need to clock in."

Jack froze, his eyes scanning yours. Postictal disorientation was common after a severe hypoglycemic episode, but hearing you sound so lost cut right through him.

"It's not Thursday," Jack said softly, his voice was tending as he tried to reason with you. He raised his hand to gently cup your cheek. "It's Friday, love. Well, technically Saturday morning now. It's 5 AM."

"Saturday?" you whispered, your eyes filling with sudden tears as you realized just how blank your memory was. "I don't... I don't remember."

"Hey, it's okay," Jack rushed to soothe you. "It's completely normal to be confused right now. Your brain just went through a war. We're gonna run some studies to check your brain."

After your blood sugar began to stabilize, he ordered a full workup. He personally walked your labs down to the desk, demanded a priority read on your chem panel, and stood over the monitor while you were monitored for any residual cardiac ectopy.

Two hours later, the results were back.

"Good news," Jack said. He sat on the edge of your mattress, taking your hand back into his, intertwining her fingers with yours. "Physically, you’re completely cleared. Your body handled the crash beautifully, all things considered."

You looked down at your lap. "I still can't remember it, Jack. I remember walking into Bed 4 with an IV kit, and then... nothing. Just waking up and throwing up on you."

"You didn't throw up on me," he corrected gently, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And the amnesia is normal. The neurologist on call confirmed it’s just localized retrograde amnesia from the seizure activity. It happens when the brain is deprived of glucose so quickly. It might come back in pieces, or it might not. But you are okay. That’s all that matters."

You let out a sigh, leaning your head forward until it rested against his shoulder. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you with protective tightness that spoke volumes about how terrified he had actually been.

"You scared the hell out of me, you know?" he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking slightly. "Don't do that to me again."

"I'll try not to, baby," you murmured against his shoulder. "Thanks for catching me."

"Always," Jack said, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your head. "You're my favorite, I always be there to catch you."

-

Jack entered the room later as the distant sounds of the early morning shift change began to filter through the curtains.

"Alright," he said, his voice was in authoritative tone. "I’m pulling you off the schedule for the rest of the weekend, and you are going home to sleep."

You groaned slightly. "You know I have a double scheduled for Sunday. The floor is already short handed."

"I don't care if the entire hospital is short handed," he countered. "I'm the attending here, and I'm putting my best nurse, my girl, on mandatory medical leave. Arguments denied."

You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "You're very bossy when you're worried, Jack."

"I am your supervisor, and your soon to be boyfriend. It’s my job to be bossy," he murmured as you blushed.

He reached over, placing a small paper bag carefully in your hands.

"Here. Open it."

You frowned, peering into the bag. You pulled out a brand new glucose monitor sensor box, along with a pack of pink patches meant to secure it.

You blinked, memory suddenly sparking. "Wait... my old sensor..."

"When we were cutting your sleeve to line you, the shears caught your sensor," Jack explained. He rubbed the back of his neck. "It completely ripped it off. I had pharmacy pull a replacement from the emergency stash immediately, and I grabbed these extra-strength overlays from the supply closet so it doesn't budge during your next shift."

You looked from the box up to him, your heart swelling. Even in the middle of an emergency, he was anticipating exactly what you would need to recover.

"Thank you," you whispered, running a finger over the smooth box. "Though I'm pretty sure using hospital supply overlays for personal use is a protocol violation, Abbot."

"Consider it an attending-approved override for an exceptional nurse," Jack smoothly replied, a smirk playing on his lips. "Once we are officially off, I am taking you to my house. I'll help you with the new sensor, and then you are going to rest. I'll even cuddle you to sleep. Deal?"

You looked at him, the perfect blend of your demanding mentor and your devoted partner, and nodded. "Deal. But only if you promise not to critique my sensor placement technique."

Jack chuckled softly, leaning down to give you a warm kiss on yur cheek. "I'm not promising anything. I know you're not exactly… delicate with that."

"Shut up, Abbot, and discharge me."

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