isabella

It starts innocently enough— or at least, that’s what Fred and George tell you. You’re in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes on a busy Saturday, helping out behind the counter because the twins begged, which you love (plus they bribed you with free Pastilles for life). At the moment, they’re only open on weekends, but once they’ve finished Hogwarts, they’re going to open full time. The shop is a riot of colour, shelves bursting with exploding snaps, love potions, and their latest inventions.

“Close your eyes, Y/N,” Fred says in your left ear, his breath warm on your cheek as you begin to smile.

George mirrors him on your right. “We’ve got a surprise. Our newest product— tested it ourselves and all… promise it’s safe.”

You hesitate, but their identical mischievous grins are impossible to resist. Something cool slips around your neck— a delicate chain with a small, heart-shaped charm that glows faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“It’s a ‘Thought Echo,’” George explains proudly as he spins you around. “Looks just like any old necklace, but it links to the person who charmed it. Lets them know when someone’s… thinking fondly of them.” He pulls the neckline of his shirt down to reveal his own chain with a small heart-shaped pendant attached.

Fred grins, lightly fingering the pendant on your chest as he pulls his own matching pendant from his pocket. “Purely for market research, of course. Want to know if our products make people smile.”

You laugh it off, admiring how the heart shimmers softly against your skin. “It’s beautiful… thank you, boys.”

At first, it’s flattering. Every time you daydream about their laughs, or replay a moment when one of them brushed your hand, the charm warms gently against your chest as it links to the boys’ own pendant, glowing against their own chests from a distance. Without fail, minutes later, one (or both) of the twins appears— like magic.

If you’re studying in the library, Fred slides into the seat beside you with your favorite sweets. If you’re walking alone in Diagon Alley, George “happens” to be passing by, offering his arm or to carry your bags.

You’re in the Gryffindor common room late one night, curled by the fire with a book, trying not to think about them; you’re not a vapid girlfriend with nothing else on your mind. But of course you do— how could you not? And so, the charm glows brighter, hotter against your clavicle.

Upstairs in their secret workshop in the Castle, Fred and George are tinkering with new prototypes when their matching charms suddenly light up.

Fred groans playfully, setting down his wand. “Again? That’s the third time tonight.”

George chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “We said we wouldn’t go running every time it glows. Gotta play it cool, right? Let her have space...”

“Yeah,” Fred agrees, though his eyes are already on the door. “We’re not desperate. We can wait it out this time.” They last all of five minutes— pacing, exchanging glances, grinning like idiots— before they both crack.

“Bollocks to this,” Fred mutters, grabbing his jacket, “Fizzing Socks can wait another day to be invented.”

George is already halfway down the stairs when he replies. “Can’t help it if we’re irresistible.”

The portrait hole swings open moments later; you look up from your book, smiling and placing it face down on the armrest. Fred and George stride in, trying (and failing) to look casual as their eyes find you immediately.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Fred says, dropping onto the sofa beside you with a sheepish grin.

“Yes. How convenient,” you smile, patting the couch next to you.

George settles on your side, nudging your shoulder gently. “Charm went off again. We tried to ignore it… but turns out we’re rubbish at staying away when you’re already so selfishly thinking about us…”

It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.

You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.

It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.

Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.

Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”

You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.

“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”

Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”

Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.

Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.

Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.

Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.

“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”

This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”

A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.

“Dr. Abbot!"

Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.

Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”

This is quite the surprising turn of events.

After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.

Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.

He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.

“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.

“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”

Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.

“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”

You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.

“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.

“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”

“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.

You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”

His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise. 

You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”

Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting. 

Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”

From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.

Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”

Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.

Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex. 

Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.

His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.” 

As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.

“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.

“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.

At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.

He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.

An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.

At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you. 

In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red. 

A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.

“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.

Jack smirks. “Did you now?”

You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.

“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.

The prospect disappoints him just a little.

“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”

Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.

“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.

The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.

“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”

Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”

Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing. 

“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.

You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.

Jack blinks in surprise.

He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.

He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”

Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”

Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—

He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”

Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.

Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”

As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”

Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture. 

The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.

As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.

“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.

Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.

“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”

A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass. 

He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.

“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”

You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.

“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”

You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”

Of course that would be your takeaway. 

He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”

When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.

He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.

And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.

You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.

He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.

As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”

You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.

His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.

He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing. 

After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh. 

Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.

“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.

You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”

“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”

You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”

He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.

Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.

You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.

He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.

You sigh happily and snuggle closer.

It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.

Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.

The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.

Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.

“Stay.”

Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.

Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.

Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.

“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”

You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”

Best behavior, Jack. 

“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”

In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.

“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.

Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.

“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.

Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.

For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure? 

But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.

Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.

“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.

Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”

“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.

Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.

He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.

You wake feeling like death warmed over.

You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.

You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.

Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest. 

You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?

Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.

Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.

Time to face the music.

You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.

Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.

“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”

You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”

He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”

“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”

“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.” 

Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”

“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.

“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.

In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.

You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”

He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”

You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.

“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.

“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.

A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”

Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”

You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”

Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”

Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice. 

 “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”

You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.

It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.

He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs. 

“Of course.”

Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape. 

“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”

You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.

After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions. 

Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.

Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.

When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.

You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.

His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”

His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”

Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”

“Sure thing, sunshine.” 

After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.

As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.

You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”

He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”

“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?” 

“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”

Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?

“Oh god,” you whisper in horror. 

“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”

Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.

You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”

He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”

“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.

Jack places a hand on your thigh.

All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.

His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.

“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”

He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.

After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him. 

“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?

He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”

There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.

“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”

You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”

“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”

“See you tonight.”

You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”

Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.

A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.

“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.

You beam after him.

Dennis and you are Jack and Robby’s subs, you’re all together in a polycule, you all share one another. Jack was originally your Dom and Robby was Dennis’, and Jack and Robby have been sharing themselves with each other for a very long time before they started sharing partners, so it was just inevitable that the four of you would end up together. 

You and Dennis love being used, punished, and roughed up, but Robby forgets that you’re just not as strong, as him, Jack, or even Dennis. Dennis loves being manhandled and giving up control to the two other men, but he can still hold his own, he’s way stronger than he looks – all that farm boy strength and what not. 

Unfortunately for you, there is just no way you could go toe-to-toe with any of them on your own, so you put a lot of trust into them to know when something is too much for you to physically handle.   

So, what would happen if you and Robby are home alone together one night – Jack is on his regularly scheduled night at the hospital, and Dennis went with him to do someone a favor and help cover their shift, and things between you and Robby get out of hand? 

It starts out playfully enough – Robby comes home from work, and you’ve felt just a little bit neglected because Jack and Dennis had to sleep all day for their later shift, then leave shortly thereafter. 

So, you act like a brat, and pretend to ignore Robby when he walks through the door and seeks your affection. You dodge his kiss and act like you’re so engrossed in the book you’re reading. 

You do it just to rile him up because you want his attention so badly, and it works like a charm.

“That seriously more interesting than me, sweetheart?” He scoffs, tossing his backpack on the floor, clearly annoyed.

You just hum, turn a page nonchalantly and not even look up at him, and ohhh that lights a fire under his ass. 

Before you can blink he’s grabbed the book and flung it halfway across the room, knelt between your legs on the couch, and grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks together.

“How about now?” 

He’s pissed, has that irritated, authoritarian look with one brow raised up, daring you to challenge him as you stare each other down.

You’re feeling extra frisky, so you pull away, still not saying a word, and attempt to get up from the couch to go fetch your book. That’s when all hell breaks loose.

He drags you up by the nape of your neck and whips you around like a ragdoll, pinning an arm behind your back while marching you towards the bedroom.

“Walk.”

You whine, and drag your feet a little as he harshly maneuvers you up the stairs and down the hallway to the master suite.

“I work my ass off all day long, and the only thing I ask for is a little affection, just a little acknowledgment when I come home from my ‘good girl’, but then all I find is this fucking brat instead?” 

He throws you on the bed, pushing you face down before shedding his scrubs off, his cock already half-hard. You really did know how to rile him up.

Then he rips your clothes off, nothing gentle about it while he gets you on your hands and knees, continuing to pin one arm behind your back.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you whimper, knowing you might’ve taken it just a little too far, but your pussy is glistening from the spanking you know you’re about to receive. 

And fuck, it has been just a little too long since you’ve had a session that’s left the big purple bruises on your ass and thighs that you love so much.

“Don’t you fucking Daddy me right now,” he growls, smacking one cheek and then the other with a very heavy-handed open palm, the sting radiating up your spine and to your skull, driving the air out of your lungs, “You didn’t want to say a damn thing to me before, so just shut your mouth and take it.”

And that’s all you can do is just take it, you can’t form a word or thought if you even wanted to. He’s absolutely relentless as he spanks you, not letting up even for a fraction of a second as each and every stroke sends a searing pain into the soft flesh of your ass.

Not even a minute in and you’re crying, sobbing into the comforter of their king-size bed, feet slightly kicking out uncontrollably as he slaps you blood-red, so hard he stops earlier than he normally would because his own hand is becoming sore and radiating heat.

You got your wish, you would definitely have bruises for the next few weeks, but it was also going to be a challenge to even sit for a few days. In the back of your mind you wonder how you’re going to explain what happened to Jack, but you file that away for later, because despite the pain, you’re so slick with arousal that it’s pooling against the lips of your cunt.   

After Robby stops, giving one last smack for good measure, his chest heaving with exertion, and eyes dilated almost black, he grabs you by your hair to crane your head back to look at him.

“Did you get what you wanted, you fucking brat? Do I have your attention now?”

You’re still crying, eyes wide with tears that streak down your cheeks and neck. You sniffle, and nod your head the best you can in the position you’re in with his fingers threaded tight to your scalp.

“Ye-yes, Robby, m’sorry,” you hiccup pathetically, “Was just-just lonely today…”

You hope that now he will soothe the tears away, caress your bruised skin and forgive you with a kiss, and then let you cum on his cock, because you took your punishment so well didn’t you? Repented, and was so willing to make it up to him and make him feel good. 

Robby does no such thing, just further drags you up onto the bed so he’s kneeling behind you, pushing into your sore skin, his hard dick sitting rigid and heavy along the cleft of your ass.

“That might work on Jack, doll, but quite honestly, I’m sick and tired of your attitude,” He rolls his eyes, still agitated, dropping his hold on your hair so he can grip himself and harshly rub his thick cockhead against your entrance, “You need to learn some manners, being a brat the second I walk through the goddamn door after I’ve had a long day is no way to get the attention you want.”

Without warning he enters you, thick length sheathing all the way inside with one long push, till the tip is nudging at your cervix. You’re so wet he was met with barely any resistance –  but before you’re able to adjust to his size, he immediately begins a brutal and punishing pace, slamming his hips forward and pulling you back to meet his thrusts.

At first it feels good, makes your head empty the way you like so all you can focus on is the pleasurable drag of him through your slick walls, knowing it’s making him feel good too. But then you try to move the arm he’s been holding behind your back this entire time, just slightly to let him know it’s getting really uncomfortable, and instead of loosening his grip, he pulls it further up your spine at an angle.

You cry out, feeling the unpleasant strain in your shoulder tighten even further.

“Ah-ah,” He reprimands, still shoving his cock into you full-force, “Don’t even think about it. This isn’t for you, you don’t get to cum tonight because of that little stunt you pulled.”     

You whine, pain blooming in your shoulder, but you’re too hazy in the head from his unyielding stimulation to say anything. You had hurt his feelings, and had to take your punishment to redeem yourself, you could take it for a while longer…right?

He’s suddenly changing the angle of your position a bit, crowding in further over your back so he can wrap his other hand around your throat to forcibly bare it to him. It’s not bad at first, he’s not putting much pressure around your neck, the weight and warmth of his hand even feels comforting. 

This is when things begin to go horribly wrong.

He’s still pounding into you, and it’s like he’s punching you in the guts, he hasn’t even once touched your clit and your natural lubrication is beginning to fade and absorb back into your skin and his. Your discomfort is increasing, pleasure being replaced with a twinge of soreness.

“R-Rob-b-y,” You try to speak, hard to get the syllables out when he’s hammering into your body so roughly.

The sound of your skin slapping against his, and his own moans and grunts are so loud that apparently he cannot hear you, because out of what feels like nowhere he bites down on the sensitive place of your neck where it meets your shoulder, hard.

Pain. White-hot, and blinding bursts through you. You want to scream, can feel it trying to claw it’s way out of your chest, but then it’s smothered and dies in your throat as you feel him squeeze your neck at the same time.

Unexpected panic surges through your body when you realize you can’t move. His tall form is completely draped over you, your legs immobilized by the weight and momentum of his thighs moving against you, your one arm still trapped and aching behind your back, the other squished in a weird position by your side. 

It’s not fun and it doesn’t feel good anymore. Now all you feel is fear and pain.

You’ve never had to use your safeword before, but your mind begins screaming it at you.

 Red, Red!

“R-..r.R-e-..Re – !” But you can’t get it out, he can’t hear you, isn’t paying attention, and his fingers are squeezing so tight around your throat that white dots dance in your vision as he mindlessly uses you, lost in his own selfish pleasure.

Hot tears leak out and spill down your face, your cheeks turning a dark red while he chokes you; your struggle to take in air going by un-noticed as he chases his orgasm with your now unwilling body.

You squeeze your eyes shut, praying that it will end soon, praying that you’ll survive this pain. Now all your brain can think of is Jack…Dennis… – and just as the edges of your vision begin to darken, Robby finally finds his release, pumping his cum inside of you with a deep groan in your ear.

“That’s it, fucking take it.”

Finally, finally he lets go of your throat, and you are able to suck in the precious oxygen your brain has been begging for, and you cough at the burn, heaving air into your lungs.

He releases your arm a moment later, and you shakily place it down to your side in a normal position, your fingers gripping the bedding as you feel your shoulder throb, positive he pulled or even tore one of your muscles.

He's panting hard behind you, still basking in his euphoria, finally sitting up and leaning back on his calves, his hands rubbing your bruised hips while he withdraws his cock from your abused pussy. You wince as you feel it leave you, and it stings when you feel his cum drip out.

As soon as you feel his weight lift off of you, you begin to move, clawing at the blankets, willing your tired and absolutely wrecked body to sit up, sit up and run.

“There, now wasn’t that just what you n –“ he starts to say when you feel his hand slide up your spine.

You tense, and then you lose it, your body going into both fight and flight mode.

“Get the fuck off of me!” You scream, wildly kicking back at him, “Don’t fucking touch me!”

Your foot collides with his chest, pushing him halfway off the bed, knocking some of the wind out of him, his eyes going wide with shock.

“Y/N?! What-what the hell –“ He rubs his chest where you kicked him, brows furrowed tight together, his face contorted in complete and utter bewilderment.

You scramble off the bed, legs feeling like a newborn baby deer – you bump into the nightstand, and then almost trip over your own feet as you frantically try to put some distance between the two of you. 

Robby’s standing up now, recovered from your quick jab, and he’s reaching for you, his face and eyes filled with confusion.

“Y/N! Sweetheart, stop, tell me what’s wrong!”

Your body provides you with a burst of adrenaline, and you’re able to rush into the bathroom that’s connected to the main bedroom, slamming the door shut and locking it before he can close the space between you.

“Y/N, open the door.” He demands, shaking the handle.

A sob tears itself out of your throat, and you back away slowly from the door, watching it shudder on it’s hinges. You sink down to the cold tile once your back hits the wall, and you hug your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around yourself. 

“Go away, please just leave me alone.” You wail, your chest rattling with sobs, tears drenching your face, neck, and collarbone.

Robby stops trying the doorknob, and just stands outside the door, both hands on either side of the frame, breathing hard and fast, anxiety welling up like a bubble of blood from an open wound. He’s wracking his brain for what could’ve gone wrong, because how you sounded, and the look on your face, there was no doubt that you were completely and utterly terrified of him.

“Y/N, please… please open the door, please tell me what I did wrong.” His tone much softer now.

He’s trying to take in deep breaths, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head side to side, hoping you’ll answer. 

“You wouldn’t stop, you wouldn’t listen!” You shout at him, and continue to cry, “You choked me, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t even say my safeword!”

Robby’s heart drops into his stomach, bile threatening to rise up his throat. 

He fucked up. He got carried away. Just like Jack said he had a way of doing. 

He had been so frustrated with you, so intent on punishing you in a way where you would feel hurt the way he felt when you automatically rejected him the moment he came home. But then he thought you were liking it, because you do like it rough… and then the sickening realization of just how rough he was with you hits him like a train.

He had not been focused on how hard his hand was squeezing your throat, he didn’t actively listen or check in if you could speak or even breathe. He wasn’t concerned with your pleasure, only his.

“Y/N please, please open the door,” He begs, tears threatening to overflow, his chest tightening with unbearable regret, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please.”

But all he hears in response is your uncontrollable sobbing, and your pained chants of “Nonononono, go way, leave me alone, leave me alone…”

A sob of his own comes out of his throat, his body shaking with the force of it, the tears finally falling.

“Fuck, fuck. Oh my god, oh my god.”

He doesn’t know what to do, just wanders back to sit on the edge of the bed, his hands grasped in his hair as he cries. He’s hurt you terribly, broken the trust you so willingly gave him, broke the vow he took to love and protect you, and he has no idea how to fix it.

It’s around midnight when Jack receives the call from Robby, and he keeps having to ask him to slow down and repeat what he’s saying because he’s a fucking hysterical blubbering mess. But as soon as Jack gets the gist of what Robby is telling him happened to you, he’s rushing out the door. 

“Urgent emergency at home, I have to fucking go.” Is all he says to Dr. Shen as he runs to his locker for his bag and keys, not even taking the time to track down and tell Dennis what’s going on.

He peels out of the parking lot, and speeds most of the way home, trying his best to take backroads he knows are mostly empty of traffic. 

When he pulls up to the house, he doesn’t even bother waiting for the garage door to open, just haphazardly parks in the driveway and sprints to the front door, jamming his keys into the lock and swinging the door open.   

Robby is downstairs in the living room sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. When Jack enters the room, he looks up at him, eyes blood-shot, face still wet with tears.

“Where is she?” Jack demands, his voice much harsher than usual, impatiently swaying side to side to displace some of the discomfort on his prosthetic he incurred from running.

“The bathroom, upstairs…” Robby replies, looking away from his partner, shame dripping from his voice when he drops his head into his hands again.

Jack doesn’t hesitate, just turns away from Robby without another word, and advances to the steps of the second floor, taking them two at a time, and striding fast down the hallway.

The bedroom light is on when he enters, and he briefly looks around. The bed is a complete mess, and it looks like a few miscellaneous items had been knocked off of the night stand. Then he sees the closed bathroom door, the light on inside glowing out from the small gape at the bottom. 

He makes his way over and pauses, hearing the quiet noises of you sniffling, trying to catch your breath as it hitches in your throat.

 He gently knocks.

“Y/N, it’s Jack. Will you please let me in?”

He hears a faint sound of shuffling footsteps, and then you open the door just a crack, so he can’t even see your face.

“Is R-robby with you?” You whisper in a state of uneasiness.

“No, he’s downstairs. It’s just me, I promise.”

As soon as the words “I promise” leave his lips, you immediately open the door all the way. And what he sees is like a punch to the gut, makes him suck in air like he’s in pain.

You’re wearing one of his SWAT T-shirts that he must’ve left on the floor earlier in the week, but from what he can see of the rest of you: your eyes are red, puffy, swollen from crying, still brimming with tears. You have multiple bruises on your right forearm, and the sides of your thighs, but the worst of all is the large, dark hand-print shaped bruise wrapped all the way around your neck. 

Jack swallows hard, and moves toward you very slowly, trying not to scare you as he notices you shaking, your arms wrapped in around yourself.

“Oh baby…” And when you look at him he has heartbreak itched all over his face, eyes swimming with anguish while he looks you over.

That makes you break down again, and you close the space between you, burying your face in his chest as you sob, hands gripped tight to his shirt. He wraps his arms around you as tenderly as he can, and holds you while you weep, pressing his nose into your hair and ever-so-gently rubbing your back.

Neither of you say anything, he doesn’t want to overwhelm you with questions right away. But his heart is hammering in his chest. How could Robby have done this? You all loved each other, Jack trusted him with you when they decided to open their relationships together. 

Guilt stabs like a dagger in his chest. He had coaxed you into the other man’s arms, assuring you that you could trust him… now he just felt like he gave you away to someone to be used like an object without a care in the world.

He wanted to charge down and beat the fucking breaks off the man who claimed to be his best friend, but he shoved his anger down, knowing that more than anything he needed to remain calm presently and take care of you. 

Michael could wait, and sit in his cage of shame and anguish downstairs for however long it took to make sure you felt safe again.

It wasn’t long after Jack had rushed out with no warning that Dr. Shen had ran into Dennis in the hallway, and told him about the older attending’s sudden and urgent departure. 

“What do you mean he left?! Did-did he say why?” Panic rises in Dennis’ chest as a very serious look crosses John’s face.

“No, he didn’t… but he looked scared, man. I think you should go home and see what’s up, Ellis and I can handle it here.”

Immediately Dennis orders a Lyft, paying extra for the priority pickup to waste no time. He grabs his things and runs out to the street near the ambulance bay, where thankfully his ride was already pulling up. 

The driver can tell something’s up, keeps eyeing Dennis in the rear-view mirror with a concerned look on her face while he tries calling the three of you over and over again. But she doesn’t say anything, just focuses on getting this distraught-looking kid to his destination. 

“What the fuck?!” Dennis snaps under his breath, shoving his phone into his backpack after calling both Robby, Jack, and then you, with no success, the line ringing until it went to voicemail every single time.

The drive is about 15 minutes, but it feels like an agonizing eternity to Dennis, who can’t help but feel anxiety tighten his chest and throat, mind racing with every horrible scenario that could possibly have happened.   

He doesn’t even thank his driver when they pull up to the house, just grabs his bag and dashes out of the car, a sick feeling bubbling up in his stomach when he sees Jack’s truck parked crookedly in the driveway.

The door is already unlocked when he tries the handle, swinging it open with a torrent of dread, his eyes scanning back and forth for a sign of any of his partners.

That’s when he sees Robby, practically balled up on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, back to the wall, knees up almost to his chest where his head hangs.

Dennis instantly drops down to his knees in front of him, grabbing him by the forearms.

“Michael, what’s going on? Please tell me what happened.”

Robby takes a deep labored breath wracked with a sob, and just shakes his head, unable to look Dennis in the eye, looking anywhere but the face of the man who loves him.  

“Michael…” He tries again, this time squeezing his shoulders, “Michael, you’re scaring me.”

“I…I, I fucked up, Dennis.” Is all Robby can say, finally making eye-contact with a soul-crushing glance, witnessing the terror swimming in Dennis’ wide blue eyes.

Slowly, Dennis rises to his feet when Robby tucks his head back down once more, shutting down. He’s seen Robby at his worst before, but that was nothing compared to the disturbing pain in his eyes at this very moment. 

He backs away from the older man with trepidation, and begins to climb the stairs to the upper floor with an ache blooming in his ribs, completely mortified by what he might find.

He crosses the threshold into the bedroom, glancing at the mess strewn about, but making a bee-line to the open bathroom where he can hear Jack’s voice. He’s suddenly in the doorway, and he’s not quite sure exactly what he’s seeing, his brain can’t make sense of it.

You’re sitting on the edge of the tub, and Jack’s standing infront of you holding one of your hands, but he can’t understand what the two of you are saying. All he can hear is a deafening ringing in his ears as he looks you over. It looks like you’ve been attacked.

Jack is then abruptly positioning Dennis right outside the door again, gently squeezing him by the shoulders, and the ringing stops when Jack firmly says, “Dennis, look at me.”

He obeys, mouth slack, eyes widened with shock, staring back into Jack’s hazel ones.

“I need you to stay up here with, Y/N. She’s hurt, will you please look over her injuries and see if any of them need immediate attention?”

“Wh-…I-I, yeah, of course, of course. But can you please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Jack takes a deep breath, and swallows, clearly shaken, his hands sliding off of the younger man’s shoulders.

“He choked her, and she couldn’t safeword. I’m going downstairs to take care of it.”

Without another word Jack leaves, disappearing out into the hallway, leaving Dennis reeling with a mixture of raw emotion.

He then gathers himself, and goes back into the bathroom, hanging onto the edge of the doorframe for a moment when you look up and he locks eyes with your teary orbs.

“Denny…” You whimper, exhausted by the constant wave of crying spells.

He approaches you and dips down to softly cradle your head in his hands and kiss your forehead, a stray tear sliding down his own cheek.

“Can I see?” Is all he asks, wiping away the wetness on your face, thumbs gently caressing near your temples.

You nod, wincing as you stand up from the tub, him holding both of your hands to steady you.

You take off Jack’s shirt the best you can with the pain you have in your shoulder, and that’s when Dennis’ blood turns to ice, needles stabbing through his nervous system. 

Your backside and thighs are basically one big bruise, broken blood vessels purple and red beginning to turn dark and spatter up the skin, impressions of fingers visible on both sides of your hips. 

He can tell you have a shoulder injury from the way you’re cradling your arm, and the obvious handprint on your neck confirms what Jack had said about Robby choking you out. There’s also an angry bite wound on one side of your neck, where teeth had pierced and broken the skin and the blood had clotted. 

“Jesus…” He whispers just under his breath, utterly horrified, his finger tips barely grazing just underneath the bite mark.

He looks into your eyes, and all he can see is shame, pain, confusion, betrayal. 

He feels lost. And then he loses it.

“Denny? Dennis, wait!”

But he doesn’t hear you, not with white-hot anger roaring in his head, spilling over into the rest of his body, threatening to burst through his skin. He doesn’t even know how he got down the stairs as fast as he did because all he sees is red.

Jack and Robby are standing at the mid-point of the room where the open-floor plan blends from the kitchen to the living room area. They’re arguing, Jack’s voice raised, Robby groveling, still shedding tears.

“How many fucking times did I tell you to take it easy on her, Michael?! That you’re too goddamn rough, how many times?!” 

It all happens so suddenly, so fast, in the blink of an eye before either of them saw it coming. 

Dennis rushes Robby, body-slamming him as hard as he can into the closest wall, creating a dent, pinning the taller man and crushing forward on his chest with his forearm, veins and muscles bulging from the force.

“How dare you.” Dennis seethes, baring his teeth, face flushed with anger, “How fucking could you?”

Robby is beyond shocked, has never seen Dennis so angry; his normally wide blue eyes are almost black, radiating righteous fury, and there is a hatred there that Robby never thought Dennis could be capable of.

“Den please, it was an accident, I-I –“ He blathers, but is abruptly cut off when Dennis punches him in the face.

“Fuck!” He yells, pain shooting up through his skull, blood beginning to pour out.

Jack grabs Dennis from behind, pulling him off Robby, and wraps his arms around him in a bear hug so he can’t take another swing.

“You piece of shit, you’re supposed to love her! Not use her as a fucking fleshlight!” He briefly fights against Jack’s hold, still furious, itching to bury his fist in Robby’s face again.

“Denny – Dennis, Dennis STOP.” Jack barks firmly in his ear, eyes flickering over to the top of the stairs where you are watching them, “Stop it, you’re scaring her.”

You’re back in Jack’s SWAT shirt, and now a pair of your sweats, arms still wrapped tightly around yourself as your body heaves with sobs at the scene unfolding in front of you.

Robby looks up, eyes meeting yours as his hands drop from his face, blood dripping from his nose onto his shirt.

“Y/N, baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please, please let me explain,” He begs, “I didn’t mean to, I just – I just –“

But it doesn’t matter anymore, whatever he says can’t take back what he actually did, can’t take back his lack of control or lack of concern for your safety.

Jack releases Dennis, pushing him towards the stairs, towards you. He then grabs Robby by the back of his shirt collar and shoves him towards the door. 

“Get out.” 

A heavy silence hangs in the air, Robby looking beyond shocked – first at his oldest, dearest friend in the world, then to the young man he loved who promised himself to him, and then to you, the woman he swore to cherish and protect. All he saw looking back at him was betrayal and disgust.

“We’re done, Michael. We’re fucking done.” Dennis sneers, breaking the tension, walking over to Robby’s backpack he had left abandoned by the couch earlier that night, and throwing it at him, “Now get out. Get the fuck out!”

Robby gives you one last look, pleading with his whole heart and soul that you will say something, anything that lets him know you want him to stay, that all of you can fix this together. But you close your eyes and turn away, bruised and broken, by his own doing.

Without another word, he picks up his backpack and grabs his keys off the counter, and, feeling like he was in a dream or some kind of trance, walks out the door.

If only he wasn’t so selfish, if only he had more restraint, if only he didn’t ruin everything he fucking touched. If only he wasn’t him, if only he wasn’t here.

Dennis and Jack climb the stairs and hold you as you all listen to the sound of the garage door open, and the loud blare of Robby’s motorcycle roaring to life, then him peeling out down the driveway and speeding off into the distance. 

It was over. 

The two of them took care of you for the rest of the night. Bathing you, bandaging you up, crying in their arms, grieving together.

It wasn’t until the next morning when Jack went to park his truck in the garage did he notice that Robby had left behind something.

Jack got out and picked it up, holding it tight in his shaking hands as tears spilled out the corners of his wrinkled eyes.

It was the final promise that Michael decided to break. What was one more, since he figured he completely shattered all of the other ones anyway?

although sometimes he won’t for himself, he will always advocate for you. something’s wrong with your dinner at a restaurant? midway you saying it’s fine he’s pulling a server over to fix it. a stranger is making you uncomfortable? he’s whisking you away from the situation with an arm around your waist and a mumbled apology that he wasn’t there sooner.

he remembers all of your food tendencies and sometimes orders for you — your friends think it’s a bit controlling but you think it’s nice to have someone looking out for you in that way.

he’ll sit and talk with you while you’re showering (with permission of course) just to spend extra time with you. when you peel back the curtain, he always has one hand covering his eyes and your towel in the other.

both his lock and home screen is a picture of you in overalls holding a lamb from when you visited his family’s farm one summer.

with whitaker’s luck, he is always scheduled for Valentine’s Day, no matter how many times he’s asked off or tried to switch shifts. so he sends you on a scavenger hunt all day going to places like where you had your first date, a florist where he arranged for a pre paid for flower bouquet, etc. and has it perfectly timed so you come home just after he’s done lighting a candle on the dinner table.

he has a hummingbird feeder on the balcony and checks on it every day. you have a photo album named ‘papa bird’ that is him refilling the feeder every few weeks.

if someone from work calls him when you’re around he’ll make sure that you don’t feel ignored. he’ll reach for your hand or draw absent minded circles on your thigh while prescribing some medication you’ve never heard of.

he loves doing small things together, like making coffee, getting dressed for work, brushing teeth, that sort of thing. it gives him stillness.

when he notices you’re a night owl, he insists that he reads you a bedtime story to try and convince your body to go to sleep earlier. the first few times felt a little childish, but every night you get a choice between either a children’s fantasy novel or a picture book.

he definitely is a feminist, however when there’s some assembly required for quite literally anything, it is an unspoke rule that you are not allowed to touch any kind tool if he’s home. he makes you sit and watch him for the sake of ‘company’ since it can take a while, but he knows you like to watch him work.

after a long shift, he hugs and holds onto you like you’re about to leave him for six months.

he has a puzzle table that sits in the corner of your living room, surrounded by framed completed ones you both have made together.

when you’re sitting on the couch or desk with your laptop trying to catch up and he’s doing housework, every time he passes by, he’ll give you a kiss on the top of your head. it’s an acknowledgment that he’s thinking about you even if he’s doing something else. occasionally he’ll give you a kiss on the cheek to signal he’s almost done with his tasks.

dennis has a habit of leaving out cash for you with a note that says “for your nails :)” even if you’re just thinking about getting a new set.

The humidifier on the desk made a barely perceptible hum that filled the silence of the room... that and Dennis's heavy breathing against your chest. His hand was pressed loosely against your ribs, cheek resting on your collarbone, eyes fluttering open, trying to not completely fall asleep as you both stayed in silence.

Until he decided to talk.

"I thought of you today" he whispered. "I saw one of these fruit juices you like, watermelon was it? Yeah, I think it was watermelon"

His voice was sleepy, his words barely understandable as he spoke. He was really tired, but was trying hard to stay awake a little longer to make the most of his time with you. He's been busy and hasn't been able to see you much lately.

"I was gonna send you a pic of it, but a patient who had been hit by a car arrived and I couldn't"

You hummed in response, smiling softly at his words. It was the little details that made you smile.

His thumb rubbed your side gently, leg hooked on your thigh, toes teasingly poking your knee every once in a while.

"I love you" he mumbled, nuzzling his face on your chest. "Do you love me?" he asked softly.

"Of course I love you" you replied amused, fingers carding through his hair.

"Mhm, I know. Just wanted you to say it" he shrugged, smirking. "I wanna sleep"

"Then sleep"

"But I wanna stay awake"

"Then stay awake"

He huffed, closing his eyes and hugging you tightly.

"Will you be here when I wake up?"

"I will" you promised, kissing the crown of his head.

Dennis hummed in response, shifting his position and settling in better next to you (well, almost on top of you).

There was a brief silence in the room again before he spoke again.

"Did you know that pigs can't turn their heads upwards? They can't see the sky"

"Dennis?" you said softly.

"Yeah?"

"Go to sleep now"

"Okay, love"