old dog - jack abbot
[abbot x reader]
synopsis! takes place in episode 7, mohabbot scene but yk, you instead of mohan, plus a lil more... wink
genre! heated fluff, hospital setting
1.1k
warning! slight ep.7 spoilers for the pitt! not major, but wouldn't recommend reading until you're caught up to 7.
author notes - it's good to be back!! who would have known that coming back after one and done-ing a tbs fic, i'd be back for abbot from the pitt... no one lol
This day could not be going any farther from good.
You pulled back the curtain of the room where your patient, Orlando Diaz, was placed. You tried pulling every string you could to keep him admitted, and getting him back into a room was your biggest feat of the day. Unfortunately, you chose the most predatory profession, as helpful as it seemed sometimes, you always had the lingering thought in the back of your mind that the cost of a hospital trip could be life-ruining.
As was the case for Orlando Diaz; as you pulled back the curtain you realized he was gone, instead, met with Dr. Jack Abbot in a rather compromising position. Sure, he didn’t think so, he was rather proud of his physique, but to you, it sure felt like it.
His muscles flex as he peels off his uniform shirt, soaked in sweat from the 4th of July heat. The bag you held at your side dropped to the floor.
“Jack? What are you doing here? My patient, Mr. Diaz—Orlando—, is he still here?”
Abbot looked up, almost perplexed by the stupidity of your question. “The room was empty when I got here.”
You cursed under your breath, running a stressed hand down your face. “Fuck.” You bite your lip, sinking down onto the cold, hard floor.
No, fuck that. You push yourself off the ground.
This can’t be right. Maybe he got moved?
You started to pace.
You had gotten through to him right? You watched him surrender, he knew he had to stay for his health! He knew the risks!
Your anxious pacing got faster as your mind ran a billion miles a minute.
Abbot watched as you seemed to subconsciously act, whatever mental turmoil you were experiencing was obviously stressing you out. He sighed, setting down his supplies. “Hey, hey. Talk to me.” His hand settled on your arm, slowing your movements, his hand drifting to the small of your back, guiding you to the bedside.
You would be lying if you said his touch didn’t affect you, the tension in the room was starting to become suffocating.
“Mr. Diaz.. he’s been my patient since my first hour this morning. I know it isn’t long, but I did everything to keep him here, to get him well. He was a diabetic. I wasn’t able to convince him to stay—clear the acid. He wasn’t in the safety zone yet.”
Abbot nodded along with everything you said. “The bag?”
You sighed. “Everything he needed for at home care.”
He refocused his attention back on to the Thanksgiving feast of medical supplies on the tray table in front of him. “So, uber it to his house.”
You scoffed. Gloria would straight up laugh in her face if she even suggested the idea. “Do you really think the hospital will pay for that?”
He was silent for a moment, applying ointment to a Q-Tip. “I’ll pay for it.” He murmured.
You took a moment to study him. Was he being facetious? As long as you’d known him, he’d always had a rather dry sense of humor, probably well-weathered from years in his field, and years exposed to the worst horrors known to man. But he was also a very noble man. He knew better than anyone what it was like to have mindset of challenging authority, and many times throughout his medical career has he gone against the hospital in favor of the patients.
He should have probably been fired years ago.
His morals are probably what drew you to him so much. Not only was he incredibly handsome, smart, and a man in uniform, he also had morals in a place where it seemed like you were the only person who gave even half of a shit. If only your age gap wasn’t so big it could part an ocean.
You hadn’t even noticed you were lost in your thoughts staring at him until he cleared his throat. “You mind?” He asked, jerking his head towards the curtain. You snapped out of it quickly, moving the curtains back to cover the room. For the first time since your mind cleared, you noticed he was injured. “What happened to you?”
He stretched, trying to reach his arm over his shoulder. “Bullet grazed my vest.”
Your eyes widened. “You were shot?”
He quirked his head. “I was shot at.”
He grunted, trying to find the spot with the Q-Tip. You swiftly moved to his side, taking the applicator from his hands. “Here, let me help,” you said, gently brushing the tip over the dark purple bruise forming, bracing your hand on his shoulder. “So, SWAT?”
He nodded, his eyes closing at the slight sting of the ointment. “SWAT physician. They bring me on incase anyone gets injured, they need someone with military and combat experience. Which as fate would have it, is me.” He lifted his prosthetic.
You smiled at the slight joke, placing a bandage over the wound. “I think that’s really cool.”
He laughed, a slight huff. “You’d be one of the only. The night-shift nurses station bullies me til’ hell freezes over.”
“Why do you do it?” You asked, grabbing the next antibiotic ointment in the lineup.
He seemed to think on that question for a moment. “I.. don’t know, actually. Thrill? I do it because they need me, and I feel like I do better than others under pressure.” He shrugged. “I know what it’s like to work under the constant threat of death.”
You nodded, taking in his words. It was very respectable for sure. “Well, thank you for your service.”
He smiled at that, it’s been a long time since anyone’s given him that sort of recognition. You continued, “I can only imagine how risky it is, though I have to say, camo is a really good look on you.”
His lip twitched upward. “That so? I always thought it was a little new-aged of a look for an old dog like me.” The tension was shifting, like this whole interaction could boil over. He lifted his head, looking dead at you, green eyes locked on solid on yours.
“Well I believe you can teach an old dog new tricks.”
Within seconds your lips are on his, hands sliding up his shoulders, up his neck, and tangling in his gray curls. The room suddenly got really hot, the only senses registering are the scent of his sweat and cologne, the feeling of his lips molding onto yours, and his calloused hands slipping under your shirt to rest on the bare skin of your waist.
You pulled away, catching your breath. His head followed, tilting up to seek your lips. “This is highly unprofessional.”
“Fuck professional,” he grunted, colliding his lips wild yours again. He gently pulled down on your hips, guiding you closer to him, allowing you to brace yourself against his chest.
You were both hyper-focused on each other—so much so that the door opening and the curtain moving only registered when Robby’s voice cut through.
“Hooooly shit.”
