#abbotdon

Frank stares at him. Clearly not a joking matter, then. Understood. He'll pivot.

So, Jack just nods. "Sure. We can get you that."

"Cool," Frank says.

His arms are crossed over his chest. He's about Jack's height, but tonight he looks shorter, smaller. Hunched in on himself. He looks cold, too—he's shivering against the chill of the hospital. If Jack were wearing a jacket, he'd feel oddly compelled to peel it off and give it to Frank. He isn't, though.

"I uh," Frank says. He trails off. Looks away. His skin looks kind of sallow, sweaty.

Jack knows all about Frank's history. Robby has told him all of it, in depth, at length. Multiple times, backwards and forwards. Jack has his own opinions about all of it, Frank and addiction more generally, not that Robby particularly cares about what Jack has to say on the matter. But seeing Frank here, shivering and clearly out of sorts and asking for a drug test, it's not a good sign.

"What do you need?" Jack prompts.

He watches the bob of Frank's throat as he swallows. Frank looks at the dark screen of the patient vital signs monitor. Jack imagines the beat of his heart there: steady, but rapidfire.

"A prescription for PEP. And an STD test in a week," Frank says, like he's reciting a patient chart. "Maybe two or three."

Something in Jack's chest twists and goes sour. Ah.

"OK." Jack shifts on his feet. "We can get you those, too. What about a SANE exam?"

Dana's not on shift, but a couple of Jack's night shift nurses are SANE-certified. Frank might not know them as well, but they're good. Solid.

"No," Frank says, lightning quick. Like he's thought about it. He probably has. "No. I'm OK."

Jack nods. He'd expected as much, but asking reduces the barrier to entry. "All good. Whatever you need."

Frank laughs. A sharp bark of a sound. "I don't know what I need."

"You're here," Jack tells him, taking the reigns that Frank subconsciously just handed him. "Drug test, PEP. Both a good first step."

"I don't—I don't remember," Frank says. "Anything, not really."

He sounds tired. Exasperated. He frowns. The way he's carrying himself makes it look like his whole body aches. Jack can't tell if that's physical or mental.

"Do you need any medical care?" Jack asks.

Frank shakes his head. He swallows again and checks out the box of tissues on the counter.

"I'm fine," he says. "I'm OK."

Jack takes him at his word. He nods at the patient bed and at one of the chairs in the room.

"Hold tight. I'll be back in a few."

When Jack comes back with everything he needs for the drug test and the PEP, Frank is still standing, though by now he's wobbling on his feet. Gently, Jack directs him toward one of the patient chairs and thankfully, he sits.

"You can't tell Robby." Frank's eyes are pleading. "Please."

Jack wants to promise Frank the world right now, but he can't.

"He's going to find out, kid. He'll see it in your file."

They both know that Robby's looking through Frank's file every opportunity he gets. Waiting for a slip up, a sign. Something that he might have missed before, but won't this time. Unfortunately, with this, he'll be far too late. But he'll see it. Maybe not tomorrow, but certainly at some point soon. It's inevitable.

"Fuck," Frank says. He pulls his hands up to his face and scrubs them over his eyes. He doesn't cry, though. He just looks hollowed-out, gutted.

When Jack is finished, he tidies up the space. He leaves with a promise to return shortly and comes back with a jacket from his locker that he passes silently over to Frank, who shrugs it on without the slightest protest. Jack's not sure that's a good sign, but at least it keeps him from shivering.

Is Frank just supposed to go home, now? Jack doesn't know much about Frank's personal life, despite having to sit through all of Robby's lectures on the man, but the rumor mill says he's freshly divorced. Back on the market, as it were. Jack's not sure he's got much of a home to go to, in that case.

"After my shift, I sometimes go to that diner on Third," Jack offers.

It's an invitation. Frank looks at him for the first time in a while, like he can't figure out what Jack's game is. Jack just shrugs.

"That place has shitty pancakes," Frank tells him.

"Great burgers, though. And their coffee's not half bad."

"OK."

He walked in as subtly as he could, acting like he actually had a good reason.

This was normal. Doctors took a minute in a empty room if they could find it all the time, it was practically the only way to get peace in here.

Frank grabbed the curtain to pull it back, to slip inside an take a breather, and every thought stopped when he saw that the room was occupied.

"Jack?"

He startled the man hard enough as he was undressing to automatically go to cover himself, relaxing when he realized who it was. "Doctor Langdon, hello."

All that did was get him to roll his eyes and make Jack smirk, taking a small step back to take in the scene and absolutely not ogle his boyfriend. "What are you doing here? I thought you were doing SWAT today."

"I was." Jack sighed, stretching his neck out a little as he sat down. "One of our guys got shot, he's up in the OR right now."

"Shit. He gonna make it?"

"He should. Garcia promised to take care of him."

"Oh yeah, her words hold a lot of weight. Like a feather." That got him a small look, just making him smile before gesturing a hand to the tray. "And all this?"

Without looking up, Jack opened an antibiotic ointment packet, picking up a cotton swab after. "Bullet grazed my vest, I'm fine, Frank."

The assurance was automatic, probably used to Frank's worry after dating him long enough. Unfortunately for him, the moment the world bullet was mentioned, any idea of playing this down went out the window.

"What?" Frank dipped around now to examine, not touching yet, stepping back to look at Jack with what he hoped to be a mix of irritated and disbelieving. "You got shot."

"Shot at."

"Broke skin, pretty sure that counts as getting shot. Jesus, babe." He took a step back to grab gloves, scanning Jack over as he did. "Hiding anything else from me?"

Jack let out a long sigh and a minute shake of his head as he held up the swab, rolling his shoulders back. "How's your first day going?"

"Oh, just fucking peachy. Think cutting my arm off with your pocket knife might be less painful."

"I keep her sharp, it'd probably hurt less than you think." That got him to smile a bit, Jack's voice already helping soothe that nervous part of him drawing his fingers to his rubber band over and over. "That bad, huh?"

Frank shrugged, taking his time spreading a layer over the scrape. It really was very minor, but Jack could bet on Frank kissing the scar once it was healed. "Robby's being a dick."

Jack nearly snorted, making Frank flick him once (away from the active wound, thank you) before continuing care, which got a more proper chuckle and a turn of his head to look at him. "Treat all your patients like that, Doctor Langdon? Gonna have to report you to the board."

"No paperwork, you can't report shit." Frank smiled, leaning forward to pick up the right dressing.

They fell into a nice quiet as he put the bandage on, running his thumb over the edges and pressing his lips to Jack's shoulder before moving to go pull off his gloves. "Keep it clean and covered until it scabs over, if you notice any discharge or-"

Jack huffed, shaking his head as he grabbed for his shirt. "I'll wish I got actually shot if you try to walk me through wound aftercare."

Frank rolled his eyes, pushing the tray to the side to stand in front of him. "Nobody gets shot, and I'll check it when I get home tonight. Deal?"

Jack hummed, putting his hands on Frank's hips to pull him a little closer. "Deal."

Taking the cue, Frank dipped down just a little to steal a small kiss, so stabilized just by him being here, pressing his forehead to Jack's temple after. "Robby really is being an asshole."

Now that he was closer, Jack put his arms more around him, 'hm'-ing quietly. "Yeah? How so?"

Frank debated the pros and cons of telling him. He knew he'd have to sooner or later, Jack would want to know, even if he and Robby were friends. It felt a bit like spilling dirty laundry, sharing with Jack something that rattled him hard enough to make him seek out an empty room, but there was always the chance Robby might tell himself.

He used to be able to read Robby pretty well. Now? He had absolutely no idea.

He let out a long sigh, closing his eyes. "Told me he doesn't know if he wants me here."

Jack went a little too still for his liking, pulling back some to look up at him. "He said what?"

It wasn't accusatory. Not yet, at least. Frank swallowed, wondering if he made the right choice with all of this.

"That, he didn't know if he wanted me in his ER." Frank said it a little quieter this time, feeling the words cut right up through his throat.

Jack stared up at him, pursing his lips after and slowly nodding. "Fuck, alright. I'll talk to him."

"No, Jack, c'mon-"

"Nope." Jack reached a hand up to pull him back into resting against him, tilting his own head into it. "I can hear your gears turning, Frank, stop overthinking it. That's not cool. At all."

Shit.

Frank closed his eyes tight at the confirmation. Even if it was from someone he was seeing, he knew Jack had a pretty decent objectivity to him. Hadn't had a problem before telling Frank when he was out of line. Told him point blank that was shitty when he recounted his and Robby's last fight, making him cringe even if he knew it.

Jack brushed a hand through Frank's hair, a little sticky with sweat. "We'll figure it out, alright?"

He sighed. Conceding the point felt a bit like giving in, like saying he lost. Like giving Robby the point that he got to him.

Every good hunter knows when it’s time to pull the trigger.

No one could deny Jack’s skill, no one could deny his patience, no one could deny his dedication—no one could come along and say that he didn’t deserve Frank Langdon any more than Robby ever did. Perhaps they could say that Jack wasn’t as good man as the rumors claimed; perhaps someone could say that Jack was nothing more than a man who knew how to put on a front—and they’d be right, of course they’d be right. Wasn’t that what every good man was? A shell to hide his true desires, a creature who learned to feign self-control until he himself believed his own story. People might say that Jack Abbot was a million different things.

But never a coward.

Can you really blame a man for showing mercy? Can you blame a hunter for growing fond of the prey he’s been chasing for years? Can you blame an animal for following the instincts it has denied itself for the same amount of time? Whatever the answer was, he couldn’t care less—not now that Robby was gone, not now that he’d left his poor boy all alone, not now that the opportunity he’d been longing for ever since he first saw those blue eyes had been handed to him on a silver platter. So he did what every good predator does before feeding: he prepared to pounce. And there are certain things he’s glad Robby told him—certain truths he’s glad he managed to coax out of him. He knew what Frank liked, what made him a little more docile, what melted his defenses, and how delirious feeling favored made him feel.

“Bad day?” he asked dryly, as if he were about to scold him. There’s nothing better than making a thirsty man a little thirstier before giving him relief; people say that way the water tastes glorious for both parties—and who was Jack to deny such truths?

“I’ve had better,” Frank muttered, fiddling with his phone; he glanced at Jack before looking away.

“Mhm,” he almost hummed. “Every day gets tougher.” He shrugged. “Don’t you think maybe the shift is getting to you?” He let the question hang, as if offering a possibility, as if he weren’t sure, as if he hadn’t planned this moment the second Robby left the hospital.

“I’ve always had the same one,” Frank frowned now, looking at him as if he’d suddenly gained a courage fueled by pure pride, by pure devotion; he didn’t give a damn about the shift hours now that he barely saw his kids—what mattered to him was the man who’d be his boss if he stayed on during the day.

“It’s more disorganized,” Jack replied. “I’ve always believed that Robby puts too much pressure on his residents—you saw what happened with Mohan.” He tilted his head. “It would be a shame if you left with that bad taste in your mouth too.”

Frank didn’t say anything this time; he stared at the floor as if he were thinking about what Jack had said, as if the part of him that knew exactly what the problem was, was internally battling the part that still couldn’t bring himself to leave Robby. There was no struggle more intense than that between duty and desire, between reason and love, between reality and loyalty.

“You’ve got real talent,” Jack continued. Frank looked at him immediately—that’s what he wanted, that’s what he’d been hoping for. Wasn’t it obvious? Wasn’t it easy? “Maybe you’d do better with us at night. You could make the most of your day, and we could make the most of your skills.” He looked at Langdon again, and as a certain part of him melted away faster and faster, growing more and more desperate, as if a single match had been enough to burn the candle down to its wick. “Robby is still very blinded by pain—which is partly understandable—but he’s wasting you.”

“Robby needs—”

“What he needs or not isn’t up to you. Believe me, that’s a fight you’ll never win, and even so, I didn’t think you’d want to stick with him after everything he’s said about you.” He shrugged, but Langdon looked at him immediately, worried, as if he could imagine everything Robby definitely didn’t say—but he didn’t need to know that, not now, not when Jack had him on the verge of giving in. “You could switch shifts, you know? I know it’s hard, but maybe you need a fresh start.”

“Maybe…” He paused for a second—a second in which that foolish loyalty to a man he believes no longer loves him finished twisting, agonizing, and dying. Then, as if he’d somehow learned to bathe his words in pure glory just to give him the final win, he murmured softly, “Maybe I do need it.”

There he is.

Jack didn't smile; Jack didn't celebrate; he simply looked at him and nodded once, twice. There was a certain satisfaction when your prey surrendered to you; some might say it took the fun out of the hunt, but for him, it was what made him feel best—seeing how the creature looked so vulnerable and unable to escape that it simply let you take it away, as if it knew it was a battle it would lose and that there would be no war from which to recover. If Frank were a deer, a rabbit, or a bird, Jack knew he couldn’t have killed him with a single shot; in a case like his, he had to corner him because there was another hunter to whom Frank had surrendered. But wasn’t it characteristic of a man to devote himself to another person the moment the object of his desire was tarnished?

Isn’t the most important thing about prey knowing what it is?

A couple of weeks later, a couple of papers later, Frank was where he had always belonged, where he should have been from the very beginning—working for him, devoting himself to him, a story with a happy ending. Jack was a patient man after all—a patient man who knew how to pretend perfectly, a patient man who, when his best friend called to ask why his most loyal devotee had switched shifts, simply replied with a few words and a smile that couldn’t be seen over the phone.