#abbot

It’s not that you expected the frequency of sex to remain the same throughout your pregnancy. Hell, there are times where intimacy has been scarce before. Life gets busy. Sometimes those sorts of things fall to the wayside. It feels different lately, though. And maybe that’s just you getting into your own head. You tend to do that.

Trouble is, your body is changing—every day it’s changing, and in ways you don’t always find easy to reconcile with. Sometimes it’s hard to look in the mirror and appreciate any of what you see. So is it really that farfetched to assume that Jack might feel the same way—that his attraction has waned over the past several months?

After weeks of him constantly side stepping intimacy, you decide, one evening, to give it one last try. You doll yourself up, shave as best you can given the constraints your pregnancy puts on you, and wrap yourself in a silk robe.

You feel a bit ridiculous, posing in what you hope is an alluring manner on the bed. Jack hardly looks up as he enters the room and sits at the edge of the mattress. Your confidence, as fickle as ever, shrinks a few sizes. He grunts as he doffs his prosthetic, leaning down to massage his leg. 

You swallow hard and shuffle closer, sidling up to him so you can press a kiss to his jaw. One hand lands on his thigh, fingers trekking upwards. He shrugs you off, rolling his shoulders. 

“You should get some rest, sweetheart.”

The rejection feels sharper than usual. You think because this time you’re trying—really trying and he barely looks at you. Maybe it’s worse than you thought. Is he so repulsed that he can’t even bring himself to look at you for more than a few seconds? You feel like an idiot for attempting to make something happen. 

“Jack,” you begin, failing to keep your voice as prim and even as you want to. “It’s okay if you’re not attracted to me anymore, but please tell me so I can stop making a fool of myself.”

A silence presides over the room, so potent you could hear a pin drop. His movements still completely. Then he whips his head around so fast that you swear, if you were none the wiser, you would be convinced that you’ve just shot him straight through the chest.

The utter shock on his face makes you feel crazy. You have half the mind to start back pedaling, but you’ve already hit the gas on this conversation. There’s no turning back now. The damage is done.

He opens his mouth then closes it. You have rendered your husband, who can rarely ever shut his mouth, speechless. Absent-mindedly, you fiddle with the hem of your robe, waiting for him to muster up his next words.

His eyes elevator down then back up your figure. Jack has been your comfort person for so long you forgot how it is to feel as though you’re under his scrutiny. You hate feeling the innate need to shield your body from a gaze that has never looked at you with anything but admiration before.

“What are you talking about?”

“This—whatever is going on.” You gesture vaguely between you. “You barely look at me, let alone touch me.”

Shock resurfaces on his face. Then his brows pinch together, and you watch the gears turn as he retraces every moment over the past couple weeks. Dragging one leg up onto the bed, he scoots closer and cups your face. 

The fragility with which he speaks brings you back down to earth, urging you out of the storm that has been silently brewing for weeks. 

“I’ve been withholding because I worry about losing myself in the heat of the moment,” he says, holding your gaze firm. “I am incredibly attracted to you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m pregnant, not made of glass, Jack,” you huff. All this worry and insecurity because Jack didn’t think himself capable of being gentle enough with you. It would be endearing if you weren’t terribly sexually frustrated. It feels like a lot of time has been wasted—opportunities let slip away.

“I know. I know…” he says, eyes deliberately raking over you again. “Very pregnant, and so fuckin’ sexy for it.”

“You’re laying it on pretty thick there.” You want to give him a hard time—make him really grovel for it, but you are so pent up that you’re not sure how long you can deny him. He frowns, and his eyes look so sad that you nearly give in at the mere sight.

“I’m sorry I made you feel anything less than beautiful,” he says. “I shouldn’t have made any decisions for you.”

You turn your head to the side in an attempt to avoid falling back under his spell. 

“I’d like to make it up to you, baby,” he continues, and you’re sure that if you let him, he would talk your ear off for an eternity. “I’ve been pent up myself here…”

“And whose fault is that?” The look you give him is scalding. He offers you a sheepish smile in return.

“Your idiot husband’s.”

“Yeah, my idiot husband’s,” you echo as the space between you narrows. His lips meet yours in a heated kiss. He licks into your mouth. Your axis tilts, and you land flat on the bed. He moves to occupy the space above you. A soft sound wells up your throat when he pulls away.

“Oh fuck…” he hisses. You follow his gaze to your chest where two damp patches have formed in the silky fabric over your nipples. His eyes flick up to you, pupils dilated. “When did this start?”

His fingers are already tucking themselves into the waist tie of your robe before you can reply.

“A couple days ago,” you say. He makes quick work of the knot and your robe falls open. “Didn’t want to give you another reason to find me unattractive.”

He fits your swollen breasts into the broad cradle of his palms, attention locked onto where pearlescent liquid trickles in continuous droplets. 

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” he says. His thumb swipes up a droplet and he brings it to his mouth. You watch as his eyes flutter shut and a groan swells from his chest at the taste of you. He immediately brings his hand back down, massaging your breasts and watching in fascination as thin rivulets pour down your skin. “I’m crazy about you.”

It’s difficult to deny such a statement when his erection is pressing incessantly against your thigh. One of his hands coasts down your body, stopping only once he’s cupped it over your glistening cunt. He slides three fingers over the seam, dipping down to prod at your entrance. 

“I need you—now!” You whine, bucking your hips. It’s been too long, and your patience has worn extremely thin.

“Mhm? Okay,” he murmurs, withdrawing to ruck his pants and underwear down. He gives his cock a few firm strokes before lining himself up with your entrance and slowly pushing in. You mewl at the stretch.

Slowly, he begins to rut into you. His attention fixates on your breasts that bounce with every thrust, your nipples still dribbling milk. He moans lowly, unable to resist for much longer.

“Can I?” His head dips down. You feel his hot breath fan over damp skin and shudder.

“You mean—You want to…?”

“There’s nothing I want more right now.” He hovers a second longer before latching onto one nipple, and giving a gentle suck. His hips stutter as a strangled noise escapes him. You cup the back of his head, fingers tangling in sandy grey curls. He reaches between you to toy with your clit. 

“Jack…!” you keen, consumed by a multitude of sensations. He hums, pulling off of you with a wet pop. Next, he’s leaning down and dragging your other nipple into his mouth. It’s so much all at once. Your body shakes apart, tensing up and then going listless. He bottoms out one last time, pouring himself into you while he smothers himself in your tits.

It takes him another couple moments to withdraw, lifting his head to meet your gaze. He looks a mess, but satisfied—that smirk of his twitching at the corner of his lips.

“You’re crazy,” you say breathlessly.

you glare at him from where you’re sprawled dramatically across the couch in shorts and one of his old loose fitting t-shirts. “if you say electrolytes one more time, i’m leaving you.”

“you can’t. it’s too hot outside.”

annoyingly, he’s right.

he’s spent the entire day implementing increasingly ridiculous survival strategies. curtains closed to block sunlight. damp washcloths in the freezer. homemade iced tea. strategically placing a fan in front of a bowl of ice like some kind of exhausted scientist.

and worst of all? all of it actually works.

“you’ve thought about this way too much,” you mumble as he presses a cold bottle of water against the back of your neck.

he shrugs. “heat stroke cases go up every summer.”

“romantic.”

“i contain multitudes.”

by nighttime, the temperature barely drops.

you’re both lying in bed on top of the sheets, trying not to move because movement somehow makes it worse. jack’s hair is damp from another cold shower, his t-shirt abandoned somewhere on the floor hours ago.

you hear him sigh beside you before he rolls closer automatically, half-asleep and seeking you out of habit.

the second his arm touches your waist, you immediately squirm away. “absolutely not.”

his eyes crack open. “rude.”

“you are a human furnace.”

“i’m just trying to cuddle my girlfriend.”

“you’re trying to kill me.”

he groans and flops onto his back dramatically. “this heat wave is destroying our relationship.”

“survival first.”

“wow.” jack scoffs.

you point weakly at him from across the mattress. “stay on your side before i start hissing at you.”

he snorts tiredly. “noted.”

the next afternoon, you come home expecting another miserable day of sweating through existence.

instead—

cold air hits your face the second you open the door. you stop dead in the entryway.

“…jack?” you call out.

from somewhere down the hall, he calls, “living room.”

you follow the sound and find him kneeling beside a brand-new portable ac unit, screwdriver still in hand, hair messy, looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

you stare at the machine. then at him.

“did you install air conditioning?”

“i did.”

“today?”

“i had a post-shift moment of clarity.”

you blink at him in disbelief before immediately walking straight into the stream of cold air with an emotional sigh.

jack laughs softly from behind you. “there it is.”

“i could kiss you right now.”

“could?”

you turn toward him, already crossing the room. “doctor jack abbot,” you say solemnly, grabbing his face with both hands, “you’re the love of my life.”

he grins as you kiss him, cool air humming softly around the apartment for the first time all week.

The first time Jack had seen you read the morning paper after staying over, he thought that might have been a poke at his old age. 

But what else was he supposed to think when you literally stepped outside, grabbed the plastic covered paper, brought it over to the table, and actually opened it, your eyes scanning the lines with careful precision. Every so often, you’d pick your mug up and take a sip of your straight black coffee before going right back to the paper. 

He bit his lip, either to stifle a laugh or stop him from blurting out something so sarcastic it might sound mean.

Instead, he settled on, “You know you don’t have to do that?” 

The paper crinkled as you folded it in half, your sleepy face pinched slightly in confusion. “Do what?” 

“Read the paper,” he responded, running a nervous hand through his curls. “I get that my age is showing, but you don’t have to read the paper.” 

“Oh.” You looked down at the paper before looking back at him. “Um, no, I actually read the paper, honey. It slows my morning. Less phone time, less eye strain, yada yada yada.” 

His eye brows lifted. “Okay.” 

You covered a giggle. “Surprised?” 

Jack shook his head, mouth pulling to the side. “A bit. Just didn’t know people over the age of sixty-five read the paper.” He walked over with two plates full of breakfast food and placed them on the table. 

A hum rumbled through your chest when he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “It’s fine. I know it’s a bit out of the blue, but—” 

“No, sweetheart, I shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered, groaning as he sat in his chair next to you. “It’s cute; you’re cute.” 

“Thank you.” 

He’d never say it out loud, but he enjoyed seeing the hint of blush rise through your cheeks as he cut through the first bite of pancake. You had been right after all, he though while sitting there. The quiet morning was indeed nice and slow. Without the noise of a doomscroll or messages buzzing, he felt a sense of peace he hadn’t in a long time. He didn’t even care if he couldn’t see your face throughout the breakfast. 

When you finally placed the paper on the table, you smiled over at Jack, leaning in to plant a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks for letting me read your paper, honey. My apartment canceled the paper sub two weeks ago.” 

And if Jack Abbot started hoarding his newspapers for the next time you slept over just to see you in your cute oversized glasses wearing just his shirt during breakfast? That was between him and the kid who threw the paper at his door at 6 a.m. 

_______________________

Now, the morning paper had been one thing, but Jack seeing you pull out a flip phone of all things was another. He couldn’t possibly comprehend the hot pink bedazzled thing you took from your scrub pocket and held between your fingers. Hell, he didn’t even know the last time he used a flip phone. 

And he guessed he wasn’t the only one to noticed since Trinity stopped a few steps away and gawfed loudly, causing you to look up at her. 

“What?” you asked. “Never seen one of these?” 

Trinity rolled her eyes. “Only in movies that got released in like 2000-something. Why are you using that?”

You sighed rather loudly. “My iPhone fell in a puddle, and I needed something quick and easy. This bad boy was less than two-hundred bucks at Walmart, and I had a few rhinestones hanging around and thought why not.”  

The resident stepped closer and rounded your body, now peering over your shoulder. “How do you even type with that?” 

“You just push the button until you get to the letter you want.” Jack watched you demonstrate. “And then send it off. See, not that hard. Rotary phones are kind of the same way—” 

“Rotary phones?” Trinity giggled. “What are you, fifty-two?” 

Jack caught the way you glanced at him. 

“Nah, I’m sixty and some change.” 

Trinity followed your eyes. “Hear that, Dr. Abbot? You got yourself a cougar.” 

He chuckled softly and shook his head. “Basically a cradle robber at this point.” 

The flip phone shut with a click before it disappeared back into your pocket, and for some reason, Jack was sad to see it go. Not that he was happy your iPhone was broken (he was already planning to upgrade it for you), but seeing you with something so simple and personalized, it was almost healing to his soul in a way. 

His late wife had had a flip phone. 

It wasn’t sparkle-ified like yours, quite the opposite actually. He remembered the black, scratchy feeling of the plastic whenever he needed to use it. If he thought long about it, he would remember that the same phone is sitting dead in his bedside drawer. The phone that was now in your pocket must have been a sign for something.

When Trinity walked away, he took the opportunity to side up next to you, arm brushing yours in a soft, controlled motion. “Am I going to have to ask you for your number again?” he teased. 

You scrunched your face in mock contemplation. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around since I robbed your cradle?” 

His arm raised and wrapped around your shoulder tightly, bringing you into his side. “My favorite cougar. What’s next? Am I going to be your sugar baby?” 

“Ew, Jack!” you squealed. “Not when you practically beg me to use your credit card all the time.” 

“What can I say, baby. I like taking care of my girl.” 

_______________________

In the middle of a massive cyber-attack after getting shot at was not the time for Jack to be so endeared by you to the point he wanted to squeeze you like one of those squishy dogs where the eyes pop out of socket. 

He handled the newspaper well, the flip phone even better (he thinks). However, nothing—and he really means nothing could have prepared him for the utter glee on your face when Dana hauled a fax machine out of nowhere. 

The machine had made a booting up noise, to which the newest shadowing-nurse Emma had questioned what it was. 

Dana, in all her spare sarcasm and patience, responded with, “UFO landed. Aliens are invading,” as she placed a paper into the slot. 

Jack had pointed at it with a large smirk. “That is a fax machine.” 

Joy, one of Robby’s new daytime residents, peered over it at like it personally offended her. “They still make those?” 

You giggled slightly. “I love fax machines.” 

Jack had barely heard you say that over the chaos of everything, but he still turned toward you with a questioning look. “When on earth did you learn to run a fax machine?” 

“Probably around the same time you were still writing charts by feathered quill and candle light.” 

That earned a snort from every person born before 1990 in the room. Even Robby looked surprised by the quip that had flown out of your mouth. Jack at least looked a bit stunned before he shook it off. 

“Careful, dear. I think I just heard your newspaper quiver.” 

“And I think I just heard your heated blanket frizz out.” 

Joy blinked over at you before looking at Jack. “I like her.” 

By the time Jack glanced over at you, you were already moving to help Dana run the fax machine, your hands carefully placing papers in the top to run through. He couldn’t help the smile that formed across his face. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

_______________________

Some days, life was just hard. 

Jack knew that better than most. His shift had been filled with loss after loss after loss to the point he wanted to leave halfway through just to catch a break. Thankfully by sunrise, the Pitt wasn’t his problem anymore, but then his mind remembered that Robby was still on sabbatical, and his mood dropped even further. 

However, the moment he stepped inside and the smell of a plethora of baked goods hit his nose, he almost melted right then and there at the threshold. He paused, taking in the sight of his crutches that definitely were by the bed he left last night. You must have moved them for him with some supernatural ability to sense that he’d want his prosthesis off immediately. He couldn’t even hold in the groan that rumbled through his chest the minute his stump was free to hang in the air. 

“Jack?” you called out. 

“Yeah, baby,” he grunted. “It’s me.” 

His crutched clicked against the flooring in rhythmic sounds. The closer he got to the kitchen, the sweeter the smell got. His hazel eyes widened at the sight of his counter. Small loaves, cookies, and even a pie rested against the granite. He wondered how early you’d been up, because one glance to the clock on the oven told him it wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet. 

“What’s all this?” he asked, crutching closer to you. 

You gently smiled and wrapped your arms around his middle, not caring that he still smelled like hospital and sweat. “Woke up antsy. Needed to get my mind off stuff.” 

Jack carefully leaned his crutches against the counter and held you close. “Wanna talk about it?” 

A sigh pushed through your lungs. “My grandpa died around this time a few years ago, and I always miss him a lot.” You sniffed quietly. “He practically raised me. Guess he’s the influence as to why I do a bunch of old people stuff.” 

He stayed quiet while you talked, absorbing every word carefully. 

“He always drank his coffee black; said the frou-frou stuff wasn’t necessary when you knew how to make a good cup of joe.” You laughed softly, the sound full of fondness. “He never knew how to use a smart phone, and I’d always want to play with the buttons on his.” Your cheek pressed into Jack’s chest so hard you could feel his heartbeat against your skin. “Fax machine too. Could never get a computer to work, so I started faxing things over when I wanted to talk to him, especially when it got really bad, and he couldn’t move much.” 

Jack felt your shoulders raise just a bit before falling back down. 

“I miss him a lot.” 

Tears pricked your eyes when he kissed your forehead before leaning down to press one to your lips. When he pulled back, you were startled to see tears in his own eyes. 

“He sounds like a good man,” he whispered. “And I am so glad for the little things that you do.” 

The next sound out of your mouth sounded like a watery chuckle. “Yeah? You don’t care that I act like I’m thirty years older than I actually am?” 

Jack shook his head. “Just means you got an old soul, sweetheart. And there’s nothing wrong with that.” He hugged you tighter. “Absolutely nothing.”