drops of jupiter

(princess)^2

Silence settles for a moment while she talks, his gaze fixed out over the city instead of immediately looking at her. It keeps the moment from feeling cornered somehow. Less like interrogation, more like sitting beside somebody while they bleed a little without making them explain the wound before they’re ready.

The worst day I’ve ever had.

Something in his expression shifts at that, subtle but immediate. Understanding, maybe. Recognition.

“Yeah,” Jack says quietly after a moment, voice roughened by exhaustion and something older sitting underneath it. “Those happen.” His jaw tightens faintly before easing again as he glances over toward her properly this time. “And they make you think stupid shit.” The corner of his mouth twitches without humor. “Like one bad shift suddenly erased every good thing you’ve ever done here.”

He leans back lightly against the ledge then, shoulders settling for the first time since he came upstairs. “You know what I think?” Jack asks, calmer now, steadier. “I think if you didn’t belong here, you wouldn’t be wrecked over it.” His eyes hold on her a second longer. “The people who scare me are the ones who have catastrophic days and sleep just fine afterward.”

Eyes squeeze closed and another heavy sigh escapes as she listens to Dr. Abbot, shoving all thoughts of her  mother aside -- because apparently she stopped thinking about me when she decided to go on a cruise around the world, the thought is bitter and angry and makes her feel guilty again. Twisting her stomach into knots before Abbot asks her you know what I think? Curiosity makes her look over at him even though she knows there’s an annoying shine of tears in her eyes, ones that just will not go away no matter how much she wants them to.

If you didn’t belong here, you wouldn’t be wrecked over it, he says, and it hits her that this was what she had needed earlier, when she had said to Robby that maybe she didn’t belong. A scoff escapes and she looks down at her hands again. “No way am I going to be getting much sleep tonight.” She mutters quietly, picking at her thumbnail as a fresh wave of exhaustion and defeat sweeps over her, but it is still kind of reassuring to know that he’s had days like today and is still around.

“Did you ever have a panic attack on the clock in triage and think you were having a heart attack, only to get carted back in a wheelchair by a med student, and then be told by your attending that it’s your mommy issues and that you’re a liability?” She asks before a lump lodges in her throat and she shakes her head, glancing back out at the city, listening to the cars pass by, horns honking distantly somewhere. Samira tries not to think of her father, of how she thought earlier this is how I’m gonna die, just like he did, how that had made her panic worse. 

Jack stands in the kitchen with flour dusted across the front of his black t-shirt and one forearm, focused intently on sliding the pizza peel beneath the margherita like the process requires surgical precision. The apartment smells like fresh basil, garlic, and blistering dough, warm enough now from the oven that the windows have started fogging faintly around the edges. Music hums quietly from his phone on the counter while he works, shoulders finally loose for what might be the first time all week.

It smells amazing.

If Samira put in an order, there was a reason. I trust her. Maybe you should too.

because it comes for us all...

indie & selective dr jack abbot from the pitt

oc & crossover friendly, rules

For a second after she kisses him, Jack forgets every speech he'd rehearsed. The cold rooftop, the anxiety, the dozens of reasons this was a bad idea—all of it disappears beneath the simple fact that she kissed him back. His hand finds her waist almost instinctively, holding there as though he's grounding himself in something real. Around them, the city continues moving completely unaware of the life-altering conversation happening several stories above it. Headlights stream through the streets below in ribbons of white and red. A car horn blares somewhere in the distance, followed by the faint echo of someone shouting back. The sounds feel strangely far away.

When she pulls back, Jack is smiling before he can stop himself, the expression rare enough to look almost surprised on him. Then Samira starts talking, and the smile softens into something warmer.

"Samira." A quiet laugh escapes him, shaking his head once. "You really went from kissing me to planning our hypothetical breakup in under thirty seconds." The teasing is gentle, taking some of the weight out of her fears without dismissing them. His thumb brushes lightly against her side through the flannel shirt. "That's got to be some kind of record."

His expression settles after that, becoming more serious. More honest. The city lights catch in his eyes when he looks down at her. "Look at me." He waits until her eyes find his again. "I can't promise you forever. Nobody can. I can't promise that life won't get messy or that we won't screw this up occasionally." A small shrug lifts one shoulder. "But I can promise that I'm not standing out here freezing to death because I think you're convenient."

The corner of his mouth twitches faintly. "And if we're being honest, I already know you leave socks everywhere. Half the department knows you leave socks everywhere." That earns a softer look, one that lingers. "What I know is that you're smart, you're stubborn, you're one of the best doctors I've ever worked with, and somewhere along the way you became the person I look for first when I walk into a room."

The admission hangs between them while the wind shifts around the rooftop, tugging lightly at his jacket. For months he'd found reasons not to say it. Professionalism. Timing. The risk of ruining something that already mattered too much. Standing here now, all of those reasons feel smaller than they used to.

Before she can open her mouth to retort, Jack’s gentle command pulls her focus back to the moment like he’s got some kind of magic touch. He’s always able to do this somehow, pull her away from the edge as her thoughts spiral, or when she starts questioning herself, when she simply needs steady reassurance, even during a procedure. Looking up, she holds his gaze, catching the way the lights from the city make the hazel in his eyes dance -- different shades of green and brown, warm and comforting. Home, something echoes in her brain.

His words make the rest of the city fall away; all she can focus on his the way his hand rests on her waist, grounding and sure. The realism he provides, knowing the both of them are too stubborn to not come to a head from time to time. But he says he doesn’t think she’s convenient, he doesn’t care about her socks and maybe he won’t care about how messy the rest of her is. It’s not when he calls her one of the best doctors that makes her breath catch -- it’s when he admits that he looks for her in every room he walks into.

Her heart’s in her throat and she feels too stunned to speak for a moment, searching his eyes and finding nothing but steady honesty and softness. Certainty. The reassurance that they’ll leave this roof and this feeling will follow after. The optimism, the willingness to… to try. To let herself be with him. “Okay.” Samira finds her voice finally, quietly confident as she lets a smile pull at her lips, her fingers absently toying with the short hairs that curl at the nape of his neck, leaning into his touch when he tucks her hair back. “And while I appreciate you not making promises you can’t keep? Can… just promise to be patient with me? Because I’m… not good at letting someone take care of me, Jack.” Samira murmurs before sighing softly and leaning close enough to let her forehead touch his. “But I want you and I'm tired of pretending like I don’t.” Consequences be damned, she thinks.

You're burning up. Don't argue with me. Get back in bed.

I made soup. It's not great. Eat it anyway.

You should have called me the moment you started feeling like this.

Stop trying to get up. There is nothing on this earth that needs you upright right now.

I found three blankets and a hot water bottle. Pick your combination.

You look terrible. I mean that with so much love.

Let me take your temperature. Stop being difficult about the thermometer.

I cancelled everything. Don't apologize. I wanted to be here.

You fell asleep mid-sentence. I stayed anyway. I hope that's okay.

Drink the tea. Yes, all of it. I'll make more.

I've been checking on you every hour. You keep telling me to go home. I keep not going.

Your voice sounds awful. Rest it. We can talk tomorrow.

I'm not going anywhere. Stop thanking me for staying.

You hate being taken care of. I know. Do it for me anyway.

The fever broke. I don't think you know how relieved I am right now.

Sleep. I'll be right here. I'll wake you up if anything changes.

I brought your favourite thing from the place on the corner. Don't cry. Please don't cry.

You're a terrible patient and somehow I still want to be the one doing this.

I know you think you're being a burden. You are not a burden.

Let me sit with you. I don't need to talk. I just don't want you to be alone.

You tried to make your own tea and you could barely stand up. Sit down. I've got it.

I've seen you strong. This doesn't make you weak. It just makes you human.

You smell like fever and you still somehow look like everything to me.

Lay your head here. Right here. I've got nowhere I need to be.

I brought every movie you've ever mentioned. We have time.

You're mumbling in your sleep. I'm not going to tell you what you said.

I changed the sheets while you were in the shower. Don't make it weird.

You need to eat something real. I know you don't want to. Eat something real.

I've been sitting in this chair for four hours. I'd do it four more.

Stop apologizing for being sick. People get sick. Let me help you.

Your hands are cold. Give them here. I'll warm them up.

I found the medicine in the back of the cabinet. Take it. All of it. Don't negotiate.

You're not inconveniencing me. Taking care of you is exactly where I want to be.

I didn't know you got like this when you were sick. Softer. I like knowing this about you.

You asked for me. Out of everyone, you asked for me. I haven't stopped thinking about that.

The heating pad is on the lowest setting. Tell me if you need it warmer.

I'm not leaving until your temperature is normal. Make your peace with that.

You cried a little when the soup was too hot to eat yet. I pretended not to notice.

I've never seen you let anyone take care of you before. I'm honoured. I mean that.

Your hair is a mess. Can I? Is that okay? Let me just — there.

You keep saying you're fine every time I check and you are so obviously not fine.

This is the third night in a row. I'm not going anywhere. Stop looking at me like that.

You're delirious and still trying to be funny. It's working. Please stop, I'm worried about you.

I learned how to make your mother's recipe. It took three attempts. Don't tell her.

There's nowhere I'd rather be than right here, even like this. Especially like this.

You always take care of everyone else. Just this once, let someone take care of you.

I left the light on in the hall in case you woke up scared. I remember you mentioned that once.

Abbot's Hobbies (Questionably Therapist Approved)

Jack lets her guide him without resistance, which honestly says more about how exhausted he is than anything else could. Normally he’d already be brushing it off, insisting he can patch himself up alone, cracking some dry joke to redirect the attention away from himself. Tonight he just follows her into the kitchen, quiet except for the faint hitch in his breathing every few steps.

The second her fingers brush under the hem of his shirt, he tenses instinctively. Not pulling away—just reacting. His eyes close briefly as she exposes the bruising already blooming dark along his side beneath the blood smeared there. “Couple cracked ribs, probably,” he mutters, voice rough with fatigue. “Maybe more. Haven’t exactly had imaging yet.”

At the question, he leans back lightly against the counter, head tipping toward the cabinet behind him for a second like he’s trying to gather enough energy to explain it. “SWAT call went sideways,” Jack says finally, quieter now. “Shots fired. Lot of blood. Lot of bad decisions.” One corner of his mouth twitches faintly, humorless. “I got lucky.”

His gaze drifts back to her then, softer in the harsh kitchen light. There’s something unguarded there now that the adrenaline’s finally burning off.

She wants to tear into him, to be angry that he came here instead of the goddamn hospital where he should be. Even if he went anywhere other than the Pitt, if he was trying to avoid people seeing him or something -- but then he starts explaining. SWAT gone sideways, bad decisions accompanied by gunshots and too much blood, and it makes her wonder if the blood on his hands is his own or someone elses’.

She doesn’t ask.

Fingers still rest on his side, her palm warm against his skin as she finds his eyes, her breath catching in her lungs with how… open he looks. Vulnerable, unguarded, walls nonexistent. Her free hand comes up to rest on his cheek despite herself, stubble rough on her palm. “You could have called me from the hospital, and I would have come.” Samira says simply, her heart rushing in her ears with her admission -- would it have been professional to come running to her attending’s bedside? Probably not, and God knows the rumors that would have spread like wildfire. “I wouldn’t have let you be alone.” Because he would have done the same for her, she knows it with a staggering certainty, one she doesn’t know what to do with.

"Or ever."

MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH & JACK ABBOT and CASSIE MCKAY & SAMIRA MOHAN in The Pitt 1x15 — "9:00 PM" // 2x01 — "7:00 AM"

OPEN STARTER

The apartment door swings open and shuts behind Jack with a solid click. He drops his messenger bag by the entryway without much ceremony, a stack of mail still clutched in one hand as he starts toward the kitchen.

"It's official," he announces. "I have now gone two full weeks without being shot, stabbed, impaled by shrapnel, getting into a car accident, or any of the other crazy bullshit that you keep insisting follows me around." There's a note of triumph in his voice as he crosses into the kitchen, dumping most of the mail onto the counter in a messy pile. "At this point, I think we're all ready to admit I'm actually a very responsible adult."

One envelope remains in his hand. Still talking, Jack hooks a finger beneath the flap and tears it open. "In fact, I would argue that the last fourteen days have been a shining example of excellent decision ma—" He cuts off abruptly.

She still isn’t talking to her mother -- though, maybe right now it’s for the best. She needs space and boundaries and --

The door opening snaps her attention and she can’t help the small smile that starts pulling at her lips when she hears him from her spot on the sofa. Proudly announcing his ‘two weeks injury free’ as he strolls into the kitchen, and her heart jumps into her throat. The casual domesticity, the warmth she feels upon hearing him come home is something she wasn’t convinced she’d get to experience, wasn’t sure it was something people actually felt, now here she was.

Moon-eyed because her boyfriend was home -- boyfriend still feels a little juvenile, but at the moment she can’t find it in her to care. Samira stands and finds him in the kitchen with his mail, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans against the wall, a soft snort escaping when he curses and points at the envelope. “So much for two weeks injury free -- also, I’ve never accused trouble of following you… you just happen to find your way into it at every given opportunity.” She arches a brow like she’s daring him to say otherwise.