#abbotjack

“You know, security is getting worried about you,” Robby chuckles, his steps slow. “I heard the guys making bets on how many times a week you’ll come here.”

“Says the man who likes to brood in my spot,” Jack huffs without looking at him.

“Me, brooding? No idea what you are talking about.”

Robby gets to the roof edge but stays behind the railing, leans on it and slowly stretches his arms. His tone lets empathy in when he speaks up:

“Tough night?”

The sky is overcast, a mush of white and grey clouds the blue barely peeks through, and Jack sighs as he turns away. “Remember you told me about the kid who OD’d on Xanax laced with fentanyl? The parents sat by his bed hoping he’d wake up by some miracle,” Robby only nods when Jack throws him a glance. “I’m dealing with one of those.”

They both lost patients before, and both know that it doesn’t get easier with time. You have to tuck your grief away to walk into the room with their loved ones, offer apologies that carry little meaning, take even more grief in because this isn’t about you and this loss is not for you to carry. But they do carry it — Robby memorizes lifeless faces, Jack never forgets the names of everyone he couldn’t save.

“Brain dead?”

“Yep,” Jack drawls, hands gripping the metal rails. “He’s got three sisters, and all three were begging me. And I stood there feeling absolutely useless.”

Robby watches as his friend’s knuckles turn white. “If you couldn’t do anything then there was nothing that could’ve been done. And I’m really sorry.”

If only words could bring people back from the dead, Jack thinks bitterly but doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want to sour Robby’s mood. And he can’t help but notice — it used to bother him way more, it sometimes would eat him alive; now Jack is mostly numb.

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

It takes a few seconds for the reminder to pop up in Jack’s head: a new senior resident, today is her first day. After Collins took maternity leave, Robby spent hours on the phone, glasses pressed to the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the applications, always unsure, never satisfied. And then he got a call and drove across the city to another hospital to meet her in person — he came back beaming. Jack must’ve zoned out so he didn’t catch the details.

“Don’t think I have a very welcoming face.”

“Should’ve seen the guys she worked with. I thought her chief of surgery would literally fist-fight me after I offered her the job,” Robby cackles.

It stirs Jack’s curiosity a bit. “She’s that good?”

“I believe she is. Skilled, confident, haven’t heard a single bad thing about her,” and even though his voice is certain, Robby dithers, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

“No-no, she’s great, really, and I made up my mind. It’s just that… She comes off as quite stubborn, and I feel like she is used to flying solo,” his eyes dart to Jack. “Reminds me of someone I know,” a smile grazes his lips, an unvoiced comparison he can’t help but draw.

Jack doesn’t see it, his gaze set somewhere on the horizon. “We all have to be team players here, that’s how it works,” he says dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll learn.”

The streets are getting busy, filling with people talking, rushing, making endless calls — and with more honking and more sounds that all merge into one unpleasant noise. And Jack is getting really tired.

“I should go back. Don’t want anyone to scare her off,” Robby puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly but firm grip. “I’d also rather not waste my time on scraping your frail body off the pavement. Let me walk you out.”

“Frail body? You are three years older, you bag of bones,” Jack quips, and they share a laugh, and it warms up his heart a little.

But the warmth fades as they get inside, into the weave of corridors, into the crowd of nurses and other doctors pacing, the lighting bright and harsh, the smell of antiseptics clinging to the walls like mold. And it is not as overwhelming as it’s tiresome; once he is out on the street, Jack takes a few deep breaths. It’s hardly a relief.

As he passes by the park, exhaustion already on his heels, he suddenly picks up a sound, something between a whine and a small woof. Jack looks around to find the source peeping out from behind the bushes — brown eyes, wet nose, grey fluffy ears, one marked with a white spot. When Jack takes a step closer, the stray puppy immediately runs off.

On his way home he gets some dog treats and throws them in his bag. He tries thinking of pet names but nothing comes to mind. And when he falls into his cold bed, thick curtains not letting any light reach him, he dreams of standing on a long road framed with grass, a murmuring of waves heard through the mist. But he can’t see the ocean.

It keeps raining, and they have to close the roof — “Merely a precaution, sir, we don’t want anyone to slip. I heard the weather is supposed to clear up in a few days,” one of the guards assures Jack. His mood these days is just as gloomy as the sky. But he’s a man of habit, so every time Jack wants to get out to the roof, he instead gets more cases, drinks more coffee, barely a few words squeezed in between that aren’t work-related.

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

On the days when your shifts overlap, he sees you tearing along the hallways, your hair up and your face focused, removing gowns to quickly put on fresh ones, your hands either in gloves or carrying the charts. You don’t speak much, and very few times Jack gets to walk past you, he is slightly puzzled by this combination of quiet and fast-paced.

Your first week is nearing its end when Dana prompts Jack to make a proper introduction. She calls him uncooperative and calls for you herself when she sees you leaving trauma#1. You swiftly come by the nurses' station and glance up at the board — and then you finally face Jack, your gaze so piercing, it catches him off guard. He clears his throat and manages a greeting, a bit coolly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him calmly, offering a hand. And you don’t look away, and your handshake is firmer than he would expect. The next thing you are holding is another chart, eyes following the lines of words and numbers as you step away, Whitaker barely keeping up.

“She is so fast, she’s almost flying. Beautiful,” Princess notes approvingly, and Perlah hums in agreement.

Their voices snap him back into reality, and Jack inhales sharply, only now realizing his gaze is still on you. He looks down, pretending he needs to fix his watch. “What is this, a fan club?”

“Aw, no need to be so jealous. You will always be our favorite old white doctor,” Princess teases.

Perlah gives her a side-eye. “I thought Dr. Robby was our favorite.”

“Well, yes. But I have a soft spot for men in existential crisis,” Princess winks at him.

Perlah rolls her eyes. “They are all in existential crisis.”

“And I wonder why,” Jack deadpans, then picks a case just so he’s got an excuse to leave. And maybe an excuse to pass by the room you’re in, your gloved hands already stained with crimson.

He starts watching you more often, an impulse he can’t necessarily explain.

He’s careful, he’s not staring, but his hazel eyes always pick you out from the crowd. He’s taking mental notes: you lean on doors with your right shoulder when you rush in, you scan the injured head to toe in every case, hands moving quickly in tandem with your gaze. You never raise your voice but you keep eye contact — with the interns when you give instructions and with the patients to make sure they understand what’s going on. You are efficient with your work-ups, you’re the first one to come in and you stay late to turn your patients over to the night shift. You are meticulous and disciplined in a way he finds relatable; in three weeks' time there’s a foundation laid for him to grow respectful. But sometimes Jack can’t stop the thought: he is yet to see your smile. He is also yet to see you slip up, and that is bound to happen because no doctor is without fault.

A month in, he thinks you finally come close to failure.

A patient is wheeled in on a gurney, gesticulating, red in the face from how displeased or pained he is (probably both); still, as you talk to him, he makes pauses to listen. There’s blood on his chest and his speech is slurring, and Jack’s gaze follows you. From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly, so he can’t help but glance up a few times from his computer screen. It’s all the same routine and it seems to be working smoothly — but when he takes another peek, he sees you frozen.

Jack instantly draws near, alert and observing through the glass: the man is intubated, his shirt cut and chest bared — and with a nail sticking right out of where his heart should be. The monitors go off as the blood pressure drops. When Whitaker makes eye contact with him, Jack takes that as an invitation to come in.

“What do we got here?”

Whitaker looks half worried, half relieved. “Um-m, 41 years old male, nail to the chest, intracardiac. Prepped for the thoracotomy. Cardio is tied up with another surgery, and it’s at least 15 more minutes until we can get an O.R.”

Jack knows the patient doesn’t have that long. His gaze flickers to you but you do not meet it, and he can’t tell what you are looking at. There is no time to guess — if you’ve never cracked into someone’s chest, he’ll gladly guide you. And his guidance is assertive, if a little cocky.

“It’s not every day that you get to do a thoracotomy. And it can be daunting — also, pretty risky if you ask me—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking,” you retort abruptly without even sparing him a glance.

And then you pick the scalpel and make the first incision, your hands steady and never hesitating, the confidence of a tsunami sweeping rocks away.

Jack has to take a step back because it would be childish to argue when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. And all his doubts are crushed before his very eyes the way ribs are under the pressure of a steel retractor you are holding, the metal sinking into flesh and blood to give you access to the heart. After the nail is out — long but intact, you deal with excess fluid and with the bleeding — and you are more nimble than he is, than he’s ever seen the other doctors be.

“Well, call me impressed,” Jack says earnestly.

The silence is a little awkward — a couple of seconds before you give reply: “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He wonders if maybe his compliment might’ve come as patronizing. What he knows for sure is that you do not need his help. But when he backs away, he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye — dog tags left in the pile of the man’s belongings on the floor. Jack has the same tags hanging on a chain around his neck. He almost doesn’t feel the weight of them but the memories they bring are heavy — sometimes an image flashing through his mind, sometimes a nightmare stirring him awake. And mostly it’s the latter.

But today, as his shift goes on, he isn’t thinking of torn limbs and collapsing buildings and bombings that looked like firecrackers in the night. Those weren’t the reasons he kept going back — he never once craved violence, never really cared about the money. For him, it was the roar of the adrenaline and the belief that even amidst the death and ruins, he could make a change. He hasn’t felt that for a while: the rush, the determination, the power held in your hands when you are cutting into someone’s body, fixing the organs and sewing the skin together, bringing the life back in. He lacks that spark, he misses it, he wants to get it back. To prove to himself that he still can do that — or maybe not only to himself.

So now he isn’t watching you but studying, with a diligence of a man who once had to learn how to walk again.

He starts work earlier just so he can get more patients — but also to listen in on your case reports and trail your steps, peek into trauma rooms you run in and out of. He often finds himself holding back the questions: damn, how did you do that? How come you easily catch things others take so long to figure out? You take on complicated cases: a feeble woman who can’t hold her food down, her arms marked with a red rash; a young jogger who keeps fainting, short of breath; a man whose neck hurts, the pain radiating to his chest. And you examine them and pick the clues to solve the tangle of the symptoms — it’s Celiac disease, it’s kidney failure, it’s spondylodiscitis and you know exactly how to treat it. But Jack knows all these answers too. And even if they don’t click in his mind as quickly as they do in yours, it’s still a victory: he’s not as rusty as he thought he was, he is enjoying this. He can’t believe he almost let himself forget.

When he decides to try a day shift for a change, he’s met with Dana’s worried face, her wondering out loud if he feels okay. She then proceeds to ask the same question two more times, just to make sure.

“You on day shifts may be the thing that saves Robby from a heart attack, you know,” her face softens.

“Are you saying you guys get way more action than us night owls?”

Dana grins. “What, you are already reconsidering your choices?”

“Like hell I am,” one corner of his mouth hints at a smirk.

The day is busy, and he can barely catch a break, but it isn’t a chore: he’s equally enthusiastic about a road accident that left a guy with a skull fracture, an appendectomy, a stoned teenage with a knife stuck in his thigh, a street worker with a leg broken in two places. An hour before his shift ends, they get a lacrosse team of middle schoolers, and the staff shares an exasperated sigh; but not Jack. He fixes broken noses and split eyebrows and some nasty shoulder dislocations, then goes to talk to their coach — a woman in her fifties, robust and perhaps too loud with her scolding. But her blaring voice cracks as soon as the kids are out of her sight. At some point, Jack finds himself holding her hand in reassurance, and she jokes that she’d gladly marry him if only she didn’t have a wife. She also promises that all the kids' parents will give the hospital the highest ranking. And they do.

Jack clocks out when the sky is colored orange, the shadows bleeding on the pavement, and his limbs hum but this weariness is pleasant. He is content, he’s almost joyous — the almost comes from you having a day off. He got to work with so many people, why would your presence make a difference? Jack persuades himself it’s not the reason he takes a few more mornings.

But when he comes back the next time, and you’re already there, there is this weird feeling in his ribcage — a spill of heat, a flutter of his heart. He blames it on the caffeine. You stand with your eyes glued to the chart while Princess lets out a big yawn.

“If another lacrosse team comes in today, I might actually quit,” she laments.

“Send them my way,” you say with ease, without missing a beat.

“That’s ten people,” she punctuates, incredulous. “We got lucky they were just kids. Grown-up men who slam into each other while voluntarily chasing a ball scare me.”

“I’m not easily scared,” you carefully tap on the screen, scrolling through some case report, someone’s illnesses broken into signs and terms; but you do pay attention to what she’s saying. You glance up at the nurse, your voice kind: “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

And then you look over your shoulder as if you can feel him watching — and it’s the same as the first time: your gaze startles him, like would a fire eruption or a ball lightning. But Jack’s greeting stays rooted in his mouth because Mateo sprints in:

“Hey, there’s something wrong with my patient’s veins, can someone take a look?”

And you are by his side and following him out of the hall in what feels like barely a second.

“I’m so grateful for you!” Princess calls after you. Then she spots Jack too, her face expression turning smug. “Oh, hello there, boss,” and she grins like she knows a secret Jack wasn’t let in on.

Turns out, Robby showed his gratitude by taking a sick leave, the first in three years (Jack would’ve sent him home himself if he heard Robby’s muffled coughing one more time). And it left Jack with way more shifts to cover. He readily gulps coffee from his to-go mug as he skims through the list of patients. The others join him soon: Mel smiles at everyone, the ever-optimistic one, Whitaker looks like hasn’t slept in months, and Santos teases him about something Jack doesn’t care to listen to. McKay is running late. Langton walks briskly to the nurses' station, taps on the tabletop right next to Jack.

“Ready to get back in the game?”

“I’ve been in the game for more years than you can count on your fingers,” Jack gives him a cold stare.

Frank sighs, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface, although he sounds barely concerned. “Love the positive attitude. Dr Robby surely won’t be missed.”

“As if you are such a pleasure to work with,” Dana cuts in, hands on her hips. “You guys should redirect that buzzing testosterone into your work. No one is getting paid for whining.”

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

He stops himself from immediately going to check up on you. And twenty minutes later, he is glad that he did — you walk back, unruffled as you always are, Matteo tagging after you. His patient is an old lady with thrombocytopenia she probably ignored until it got too bad: there are bruises sprinkled on her arms and legs, a splotch of dried blood under her nose from how often it’s been bleeding. You gave her a platelet transfusion but you suspect it’s cancer; you order more blood tests and bring her a blanket before she even asks for it. Her eyes well up, voice shaking with heartfelt gratitude. And Jack has to remind himself that he can’t pick any favorites, he isn’t in it for the long run; but if he was to pick, it would’ve been an easy choice. And no one lags behind today — he’s got a well-coordinated team, like gears interlocking in a clock, the harmony built out of weeks of practice. They make jokes, share work stories and snacks; but every time Jack’s eyes get back to you, he can’t catch even a ghost of a smile.

He finds that you are very hard to read. And it unnerves him, maybe just a little.

He tries for his attempts to look brief and nonchalant — a kind word here and there, a quick approving look, a dry joke — and you offer nothing in return. As thorough as you are with diagnosing, you take no part in other conversations, you rarely take breaks or stand around. By the time the noon rolls in, Jack is fighting the urge to grab you by the shoulders: hey, take a seat and have something to eat. And tell me how can I cadge a laugh out of you, just one will be enough.

Dana waves a hand before his face, the phone up to her ear. “There’s been some gang fight at the North Side. Four victims coming in, two critical — one shot in the stomach, the other has his head smashed in. Don’t think they both will make it.”

Jack’s bet is on the first guy but it’s the head injury that’s fatal — the victim is pronounced dead, face so disfigured they’ll need a DNA test. Mel looks away in shock, and Santos frowns. Your stare is blank and unimpressed. You volunteer to take the third guy with a pelvic wound — he’s rambling incoherently, the tight bandage over his hip already soaked; you press your hand to it on the way to trauma. Jack leaves the worst case to himself.

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

“Can I run the bowel? I’ve never done it,” Santos asks, hopeful.

“Sure. Once we open the abdomen and remove the bullet, you can have your fun,” he offers, and she runs along with joy.

Although Jack can’t imagine a procedure less joyful. Yet, he is fueled by his new-found appreciation for his job so he walks her through the steps: identify the entry wound and cut in, look for the bleeding and what the bullet might’ve hit. It missed the liver by an inch; but to confirm the damage they need to evaluate the area by hand.

Perlah peeks into the room. “Is he stable?”

“Well, unless Dr. Santos gets too excited and makes a bow out of his intestines,” her hands stop, and Jack breathes out a chuckle. “I’m just joking, keep going. I’d say, his vitals do look promising.”

“Then you can keep him down here for a bit. We have a guy with a balloon in his aorta, he’s gotta go up first.”

Jack blinks at her once, twice, the meaning of her words settling in. “Did someone do a REBOA?”

“You bet she did. And it was awesome,” the nurse then scrunches her nose. “Apart from the amount of blood. And by the way, the fourth one only has a broken rib, so no miraculous procedures needed.”

He doesn’t find it funny and he can’t find the word for it: it’s something in between confusion and offence. As soon as Santos’s done with stitches, he strides out to find you.

His turmoil momentarily recedes when he sees one of the cubicle curtains stained, the deep red lurking through. Jack pulls at the material and barges in — and then he’s silenced at the sight. The area looks horrifying: bright streaks of blood left on the floor, the anesthesia trolley, the table with the instruments that you are now collecting, a few droplets smudged over your cheek. Before he’s even angry, there is another feeling — a thought, a pull: if only he could brush that splatter off your face, a few brief seconds for one briefest touch. Of course, he doesn’t.

Jack keeps his hands behind his back. “You didn’t think you should consult with anyone first before doing a damn REBOA?”

“Why would I?” your eyes are on the tools.

“Because it’s dangerous as hell and since I am the attending—”

“I do know protocol. But I also know how fast a human can bleed out. It was a truncal hemorrhage, and you were hands deep in someone’s abdomen. Was I supposed to wait?”

He wishes you were meaner, rougher, anything that would give him an excuse to snap. But you aren’t doing this to show off — your tone is measured and your reasoning is simple: a man was dying and you knew how to save him. Jack realizes it is the same logic he often uses. And he can’t tell what is it that bothers him so much. If Whitaker pulled off something like that, Jack would’ve chosen to commend him. The same goes for Santos, Javadi or King, for any other intern or resident that he can think of... Except, they would’ve asked for his opinion or his help. You didn’t even think to.

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

“I want to be informed about any life-altering decisions. At least give me a heads-up so I am not blindsided when a nurse gushes over it in passing,” Jack insists, head tilted slightly so he can catch your gaze.

What he really wants is for you to look at him. You grant him that one wish.

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

But your eyes are still unreadable, a book written in a foreign language, a manuscript he doesn’t know how to decrypt.

And either out of incomprehension or rejection, his brain makes an assumption: maybe you believe that you are better, maybe you think the rules weren’t made for you. You never really gave him cause for rivalry — you are in your final year of residency, and Jack is put in charge. But you are so bluntly independent and reserved, his every try to understand you feels like leaping in the dark. Later that day he can’t help but glimpse into your file — there’s hardly anything of interest: you previously trained in a small clinic, in a nice neighborhood, your letters of recommendation all consist of praises.

What adds to his moroseness is that you fit really well with literally everybody else. Langdon tones down his sarcasm, listens to you like he only does to Robby. Santos discreetly brings you cases she needs advice on, McKay and Mel enjoy your company when you get a free minute. Whitaker seems to be your favorite although Jack isn’t sure why — he deems him soft and insecure; but Dennis does a better job under your guidance. On rare occasions when he’s got a day off, Javadi always takes his place.

Jack figures out everyone’s relationships by his fourth morning shift; he hasn’t gotten any closer to figuring you out. He’s fighting the grimace at how bitter his coffee is when Javadi pops out in the hall and you follow suit. He catches scraps of your conversation: something about a teen with a gashed forehead. Javadi rambles — until you ask her nonchalantly, unprompted. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”

“What? Oh no, it’s fine! I’m totally fine,” Victoria stumbles over the words, but her denial is too meek.

From how nervous she is, Jack guesses that she’s lying. He almost wants to laugh — before a thought comes to his mind: how come he never noticed her fear of blood?

“It’s just a little disturbing sometimes... But I only passed out, like, once or twice.”

“I used to be like that. Fainted many times during blood tests,” you tell her quietly while entering some data.

Jack is so caught in disbelief, he can’t help a glance in your direction. But your sincerity doesn’t seem feigned. Javadi gapes at you.

“And how did you... what did you do to overcome it?”

“I found myself in a situation where someone needed help and there was no one else around to help him,” you shrug. And Jack discerns the subtle reticence behind your tone.

It only spurs Javadi’s interest. “Was there a lot of blood? Like, a heavy bleeding, a deep wound?”

Your fingers freeze over the tablet screen, your facial profile not betraying your true feelings. But Jack swears he can see the tension crawling down your body. You don’t give the answer right away, you weigh the words carefully before you say them.

“A drug overdose, he still had a needle in his arm and I must’ve missed it. Took barely a minute of chest compressions for the needle to fly out across the room. It was a lot of blood to me.”

Javadi’s hopefulness grows dim. “Yeah, I don’t like needles too. I tried drawing blood a few times but the process kinda makes me nauseous, and I can’t force myself to —”

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

Your comment slips out involuntarily — and immediately you look like you want to take it back. But you get it together and meet her eyes, your voice carrying just the right amount of firmness.

“Listen, I’m not suggesting you should torture your family members. But you may not always have attendings by your side or someone else to take your place in case you feel like fainting. If you fall, you can hurt your head, you can hurt a patient, you can disrupt a surgery when every minute counts. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t want to downplay your efforts. But please, figure it out. Otherwise, you won’t make for a good surgeon.”

You reassure her you won’t tell anyone her secret. Javadi manages a small smile, a hushed “thank you”. It is a sweet moment, a heart-to-heart chat you bond over; it’s also three times more words than you’ve spoken to Jack in weeks.

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

Jack keeps an eye on you, now critical, resisting the gravitation that’s been attracting him to you. Although it’s hard to find the reasons to be hard on you. Whenever he has questions — or more so when he can come up with some, you give detailed replies, and he’s left with nothing to complain about. Your patient satisfaction score is high, you are never facile or reckless with your judgment; with how smart you are, you can give odds to many doctors, him included. And Jack knows he is older, with years of experience under his belt — but he can’t in good faith wish for anyone to go through the same things he did to gain the same knowledge.

On his second week of day shifts he is still clueless about what to make of you. And Jack tells himself that he is simply looking for a connection — except, all his attempts look like he is trying to pick a fight.

“This is a teaching hospital. You are supposed to teach them things,” he grumbles as he meets you outside the trauma room. You got a guy who came in spitting blood — post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage, and things went south pretty quickly. He started choking, crashed, his airways flooded with liquid; you had to intubate him blindly. Whitaker spent an hour by your side, his questions endless — to which you did give answers, barely ever breaking focus, but you only allowed him to use suction.

“He’ll learn plenty if he is attentive enough,” you say, throwing away the gown, trying to put some distance in between you.

Jack doesn’t like it, he keeps pace with you. “Whitaker needs more practice, as much as he can get. He’s not supposed to stand there like some deer who wandered into the yard.”

You whirl around, so fast that Jack comes to a stop when you are separated by merely an inch. And your gaze burns, like lava seeping through the mountain’s restrain.

“And I needed the patient not to die on the table,” you bite back, then breathe in — and then add more coolly. “Dennis will get his chance to shine.”

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

“That’s for me to decide,” you state, like you would do a fact that can’t be questioned. “Thank you for your input, Dr. Abbot, but I have to get back to work.”

You turn your back to him and leave him standing there, and Jack almost feels helpless. And that’s the feeling he can’t stand. It simmers in him, it must be the reason his cheeks suddenly feel hot.

Dana tsks as she comes near, her brows furrowed and face visibly concerned.

“You know how I’ve been calling Robby a sad boy? I’m gonna start calling you a pissy boy.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” he dismisses, a humorless escape attempt. But her fingers grab at his elbow, and he pauses with an annoyed exhale.

“I’ve been watching you hammering away at her for days,” Dana makes sure to lower her voice. “If she was a student, I’d maybe let it slide, but she is a resident, a senior one. And nothing I am seeing suggests she isn’t doing well.”

His eyes dart to her hand; then he glares stubbornly at her. She looks unfazed.

“Jack, you will take it too far one day — and you will regret it,” Dana tries to reason. “She is a good kid and she’s really good at her job. Just let her be.”

“Thank you for your input, Evans. I’d prefer to get back to work,” he frees his arm, and she allows it. But Jack can feel her worried gaze as he walks away.

He doesn’t come home until the twilight hugs the sky, until he feels like he’ll pass out on the next step. Jack wastes hours on attempts to wear himself out: he walks the entire park three times, peeping about in case the puppy comes again. It doesn’t. He stops by the bar he hasn’t been to in a few weeks, orders a beer and sips on it, his musings soon drowned out by the blasting music. The alcohol tastes weird, and the bass guitar gives him a pounding headache. He takes a walk instead of taking a bus home, two miles on foot in hopes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

But the thought of you cuts into his mind as easily as a nail does into a human body, and it stays there, vexing and robbing him of whatever little peace he’s had.

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

It’s just another Friday, and these bring in a lot of drunks — from parties and family gatherings, from business meetings that ran late and tense until someone reached for whiskey. Jack stays behind for paperwork, a tedious pastime that keeps him pinned to an uncomfortable chair. He briefly takes eyes off the screen, stretching his neck — and then a noise catches his attention. It’s someone talking in a raised voice, someone who sounds too wasted to be reasoned with. Which sounds like a problem.

Jack finds the source with ease — the nurses all glance in the direction of the trauma room, and in support of their agitation Mateo all but flies out, his face hardened at the edges. Jack gets up and gets closer, his ears open and eyes watchful.

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

Mateo brushes the suggestion off. “No, it’s fine,” — but it sounds like it’s not. “I just need a short break.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

And it isn’t a question but a demand for explanation Mateo can’t reject. He lets out a tired sigh.

“The guy got drunk and couldn’t hold his liquor, some passersby saw him sprawled out in an alley and called the ambulance. Came in with a nasty arm fracture. He’ll live though,” Mateo looks back at the room with obvious disdain. “Unfortunately.”

Jack promptly moves forward. “I will deal with it.”

“Hold on, Rambo,” Dana interjects. And she keeps her eyes on him while she talks to Mateo. “Did he get physical?”

“Nah, he’s too inebriated. Keeps trying to get up from the gurney but mostly he’s all talk.”

More can be heard from where they are standing — it’s some drunken yelling, a disarticulated chain of curse words. And then they hear something break, a dull sound of an object hitting a wall.

In a few seconds comes another one.

“I can’t just let him trash all of our equipment,” Jack gives Dana a pointed look.

She clucks her tongue at his persistence. “It’s not the equipment that I fear for.”

“Rest assured, Evans, I won’t give him another arm fracture.”

“I didn’t think you would, but now that you suggested it so easily—”

“Finally someone decided to take action instead of all this talking,” Perlah remarks, her gaze isn’t on either one of them. And Jack turns to follow it just in time to catch you running right into the room.

His heart falls. Why the hell are you even still here?

And it’s barely three heartbeats before a realization strikes: you can’t go there alone. He can’t let you.

Jack bolts to you without waiting for anyone’s permission. He comes in just in time to see you dodge the trolley the patient pushed at you — it slams into the wall and rolls over, the instruments scattering loudly across the floor. You don’t seem scared, but you are all tensed up, gaze fixed on the guy who’s screaming his lungs out.

“You won’t trick me! I won’t let you experiment on me!”

And you don’t look away once but you must’ve noticed Jack; your voice comes out low. “I think he’s having an episode. He needs benzodiazepines but I can’t get close to administer them.”

“And you should not,” Jack retorts, eyeing the guy with discontent. “You absolutely shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Not when he’s flapping around and yelling like a fucking psycho.”

“Silently watching him wreck the room didn’t seem like a good tactic either.”

In an instant Jack’s gaze is drawn to you, pulse racing as he is struggling to bite down his emotions: why would you put yourself in danger, why can’t you ever back down, why can’t he stay away? And unexpectedly you look at him, and your gaze isn’t a puzzle or a dare but an explanation: you can’t be mad at me for the thing you would’ve done yourself. I know you would have.

The room goes quiet but only for a moment — before another cry comes, and the patient lunges straight at you. Jack’s eye catches the movement, and at the very last second, he moves to stand in the guy’s way.

The drunkard crashes into him, hands swatting at the air, too uncoordinated to land a proper punch. And then all of a sudden he headbutts Jack. The pain is sharp, shooting toward his nose, but Jack manages to stay upright. He can’t see you stopping cold or the security approaching in a hurry and in worry.

Because Jack is only seeing red.

He breathes in through the mouth and grabs the man with both hands, rough and unflinching. Jack pushes him back to the gurney, then throws him on it, face flat against the pillow; his angry cries tone down to weak whimpers.

“Shut the fuck up. Stop moving,” Jack hisses into his ear.

He can taste the blood that oozed down to his lips and he can hear the sound of footsteps in the room. But he doesn’t let go.

Jack feels a hand on his shoulder — he turns to see one of the guards, Ahmad. “Man, let us handle this. C’mon, step away.”

Begrudgingly, Jack does. Ahmad quickly takes his place, he and two other guards strapping the patient down; Mateo wriggles in the middle to sedate the guy. He dozes off, a dark purple bruise already blooming on his forehead, drool at the corner of his mouth.

You are still standing at the exact same spot, but then your eyes land on Jack’s blooded nose, and you immediately fall out of the stupor. You rummage through the nearest drawer and get a few clean cloths, then call for Dana to bring an ice pack. The guards leave but Mateo hangs back; he pulls up a chair for Jack to sit on.

“Are you okay? Any headache or dizziness or—”

“I’m fine, no need to coddle me,” Jack waves off his concerns crankily. Mateo looks at you for some support.

“He needs a head CT,” you say, gaze glued to Jack. “Ask the radiology if they can squeeze him in.”

Mateo nods and takes off with no other questions asked. The silence is now laced with tension, and while Jack’s pain gradually subsides, his anger doesn’t. He’s not the one for chit-chats, and it’s not a 'thank you' that he wants — but an admission: he was right, and you were careless, and maybe this is the one time you can agree with him.

You lean over wordlessly and wipe the dried-up blood, pushing his head back to examine his nose. Your touch is light, fleeting, but his skin heats up under your hands. You take a penlight to check for septal hematoma; then your thumbs move from his cheekbones to his nostrils. Jack doesn’t wince or look away, eyes dark and boring into you, unblinking. You put a finger to his nose and move it slowly from side to side, watching closely as his gaze follows it.

And then you pull away, and something cracks in him, a line formed on the ocean floor after it’s shaken by an earthquake, a force that pushes waves to crash onto the shore. And all his feelings surge up, unstoppable like a tsunami.

You look for more cloths, and only with your back to him, you finally decide to speak:

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jack bursts out, the stridency of his voice barely contained.

Your hands flinch at the sound. Jack misses it or maybe chooses to ignore it, too adamant in his displeasure, too wrapped up in it.

“Do you realize how dangerous it was for you to go here alone? What could’ve happened to you if security came late? Or do you just assume it’s not a big deal if you get hurt? Can you for at least a second consider the consequences of your relentlessness, can you imagine how dire they might be? And what it’s like for someone else to throw themselves between danger and you?”

But then you turn to him, and his tirade breaks off, the anger ebbing instantly as he sees your face expression.

It would be easy to assume he must’ve hit a nerve. Except, it looks way worse than that.

Your gaze is swept with pain, eyes wide and bright with tears you are holding back. An inhale quivers at your lips, chest heaving like you are scarcely managing to curb your feelings. Like there’s been a wall you’ve built meticulously over the years, and he didn’t just put a crack in it — no, he tore it down completely, drove through it with a bulldozer, only a mess of rubble left behind. And he knows that’s not something an apology will fix.

Jack feels the guilt already swirling in his chest as he sits straighter, eyes not leaving yours.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Abbot,” your voice is lacerating, a blade you’ve armed yourself with, steel that cuts him deep. “If my company displeases you so much, I will make sure to limit our interactions. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

You turn away, and when he sees you wipe your cheeks with one quick motion, Jack knows he is the only one to blame. But you don’t let him see your tears nor do you wait for him to talk again. You rush out of the doors, and the words he catches aren’t meant for him:

“Dana, please help Dr. Abbot with the ice pack.”

He hears her coming in and he’s almost ashamed to look — Dana meets his gaze with arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t say a thing and puts ice on his nose with a face that looks like she would rather punch him. Jack doesn’t even try to come up with excuses — he knows that he has none.

He fails to find you after the shift ends: you must’ve sneaked out to avoid him, and he can’t say that he’s surprised. Jack walks home in the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella, the street lights drowning in the puddles underfoot, the wind biting his wet face. He can barely feel it. And in the privacy of his apartment — a cold, half-empty space, walls void of any color — a thought that has been lurking in his mind finally takes shape:

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

»»» part 2

🎵 the title is a quote from Tom Odell’s “Can’t pretend” (the song is just so Jack-coded to me! highly recommend you give it a listen. the small part from 1:29 to 1:49 gives me heart palpitations and is very fitting for this chapter lol).

by “rivals” I meant it’s all in Jack’s head, he’s silly like that 😩 you’ll learn about the reader’s past in the next chapter!

I didn’t specify how big the age gap is exactly. google search told me you get into residency when you are in your 30s, and Abbot is def over 40. but some like to imagine the reader younger, so I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

there are definitely some medical inaccuracies (pretty sure ex-lap isn’t performed in the ER) but I am begging you to ignore that.

dividers by me & plum98.

But things changed. Somewhere between covering for each other during rounds, tagging out on disaster admits, and a running tally of how many times you each got paged during a single trauma night, familiarity set in. You became colleagues. Then reluctant allies. And somewhere along the line—rivals. Enemies, depending on who you asked and on how bad the night was going.

One time, you were both elbow-deep in post-codes, barely functioning off stale coffee and mutual spite, when he passed you a chart and muttered, "Try not to kill this one with your bedside manner."

You took it without looking up from the board above you. "I'll match your emotional range and we'll both be fine."

You were never late, but it soon became a silent game. He always beat you at it. Whether it was by five minutes or five steps, you never let yourself get there before him. A superstition, maybe. A routine. A rhythm. And because you liked to keep him on edge—just to get a reaction out of him.

Seeing Jack colored with shades of affect, even if it was playfully annoyed, was fun. It made him predictable, addictive, a full 180 from his usual stone-cold demeanor. He’d scowl, grumble something about professionalism, and still let you win half the time. It became a kind of game, and you were very good at it.

Now as a senior resident awaiting board licensure, it was practically tradition.

He was already at the nurses’ station, sipping black coffee like it was fuel and he was a half-full tank, eyes scanning over charts. His voice cut through the hum of bedlam as you approached. "Late again, Dr. L/N. At least you're consistent."

You flipped him off without breaking stride. "And yet, somehow, the hospital hasn't burned down yet. Miraculous, wouldn't you say so, Dr. Abbot?"

He raised a brow, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Not even ten minutes in and already have our claws out, do we?"

"Oh, Jack," you pouted, "this is just foreplay."

"Ah, is that what you call passive-aggressive incompetence now?"

"Bold of you to assume it’s passive," you fired back, picking up an iPad and scanning through your list of patients for the night. "Or that I’m incompetent, considering I actually round with patients instead of brooding in corners like a gargoyle."

"Gargoyle?" he echoed. "I’m flattered you’ve been staring long enough to come up with nicknames."

"Please," you scoffed. "Your aura of gloom is visible from space. NASA actually filed a complaint saying it was interfering with their ability to conduct research."

Jack paused for a beat, gaze flicking over you more intently than usual. "Did you eat before your shift?"

You eyes were glued on the iPad, your only response a single head bobble "no."

He didn’t like that. Robby could tell from the way his jaw flexed slightly—but he said nothing. Just hummed under his breath and looked back at his clipboard.

Robby had been watching through his glasses the entire time, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like a dad wrangling in two over-caffeinated siblings. He blinked at the two of you, then sighed—long, theatrical, the kind of sigh that said he had survived more codes than he could count but this was titrating his patience.

"You two ever gonna kiss, or just keep trying to murder each other with sarcasm?" He took his glasses off to bury his face in his hands with a groan.

Jack didn’t look up, turning the page over on his clipboard. "I prefer homicide. Cleaner paperwork."

"Honestly, I'd take an explosive diarrhea case over having this conversation," you muttered, half to Robby, half to yourself, rubbing at the bridge of your nose like the words might erase Jack from your field of vision. 

Robby would be remiss if he didn't catch the way neither of you clocked his kiss and make up comment. He stared at you both, mouth frozen in a half-smile that said he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or launch you into separate time zones. He gave it two full seconds—long enough to confirm that you were both still hopeless—before shaking his head in defeat.

"I think," Robby hummed, patting both of your shoulders like a tired camp counselor, "to be so dumb must be nice."

You and Jack had the same unimpressed expression locked and loaded—scowls sharp and identical, contempt trained squarely on Robby, both of you about to mouth off in perfect sync.

He walked off before either of you could open your mouths. 

—

By 3am, the fatigue and hunger were chewing holes in your composure.

Too many admits. Not enough staff. Shen being chronically unbothered. Myrna threatening to murder her wife—when you and Jack turned to ask if she had a wife, matching expressions of disbelief already locked in place, she looked at you deadpan and asked, "You wanna get hitched?"

And always—always—Jack.

Fucking Jack.

With his clipboard full of passive-aggressive notes in that damn attractive calligraphy handwriting.

His tone clipped like a warning and welcome all at once.

And his black scrubs making him look like the grim reaper of constructive criticism and deconstructive mental undressing.

"Patient in six?" you asked.

"CT just came back. Small bowel obstruction. Classic presentation, apparently."

You glanced his way. "Told you it wasn’t just post-op gas."

Jack didn’t miss a beat. "And yet, you were already quoting discharge guidelines to the new intern before radiology even called back."

You shot him a look. Walsh would be proud of you for that one. "I was outlining possibilities. It’s called methodical thinking—must not be a concept you’re familiar with."

He grinned, lazy and unbothered. "Chaos works for me. You panic without bullet points."

You rolled your eyes. "You’re the only attending I know who thrives in complete chaos and calls it a ‘method.’"

"And you’re the only resident I know who color-codes her trauma alerts."

The edge of your lip curled. "That’s called being prepared."

He gestured vaguely. "It’s called being uptight."

You arched a brow. "Spoken like someone who thinks organized is a four-letter word that starts with 'f' and ends with 'k'."

He leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. "Spoken like someone who secretly enjoys cleaning up after my messes."

You blinked once. Then grinned wider. "One day, your beloved chaos is going to bite you in the ass."

He tapped your chart as he walked past. "I guess it’s a good thing you’ve already alphabetized the first aid supplies for me."

—

By 3:20, the storm hit.

Lightning cracked the sky. Power flickered. The backup generator hummed to life with a groan. You should've brought an extra jacket to keep in your locker but it would end up disappearing anyway. Jack was in the hallway already, flashlight in hand.

"OR’s shut down. We’re triaging manually. You good?"

You nodded, biting your tongue. This wasn’t the time.

You worked side by side in the makeshift command center. Tension simmered beneath the quiet coordination—until a grabby frat-boy type from bay four decided he didn’t like being told to sit still and wait.

It happened fast.

He flung the tray off his bed, sending instruments clattering across the floor. You instinctively raised your hand to shield your face—just as a stray scalpel nicked the back of your hand, slicing a sharp, shallow arc. The pain didn’t register immediately. Jack did.

He was on the guy in an instant, stepping in front of you, voice low and lethal. "Sit. Down." The words came out all but minced. 

Security had already been called, but Jack looked like he wanted to break the guy’s face just for breathing in your direction. He didn’t even turn back to you until the orderlies dragged the patient away.

Then his hand was cupping your elbow, his voice much softer. "Let me see it."

You hissed as he inspected the cut. "It’s not deep."

"You’re bleeding on my chaos," he muttered, guiding you gently to an empty room.

You snorted through the blossoming pain. "Told you my color-coding wasn’t excessive."

He grabbed a suture kit, pulling gloves on with the kind of care you usually saw him reserve for crics and broken ribs. "Hold still."

"Bossy."

"Only when someone I like gets stabbed in the hand."

Your breathing hitched. "Like, huh?"

Jack’s attention was fixed on your hand. "Don’t make it weird."

You smiled, watching him thread the needle, so close, so focused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy. Quite the opposite. It felt warm. Easy. He worked methodically, hands sure, touch gentle, eyes flicking up every few seconds to check your expression like it mattered more than the wound. As he cleaned around the cut and prepped the lidocaine syringe, you both said it in unison—

"Slight prick and a burn."

You laughed under your breath, both at his expression of surprise and your synchrony. "God. That phrase is ingrained in my soul. I think I said it to a grapefruit during my 5th year."

Jack’s lips twitched. "I said it to a patient’s plush raccoon once."

You watched his hands move with steady precision, stitching you up like he had all the time in the world. The storm outside cracked again, but neither of you flinched.

"Make sure I don’t scar, Doc," you teased, settling in as he prepped the suture. "I need these hands to make magic and miracles happen. Might even become a hand model if this whole medicine thing doesn’t pan out."

Jack didn’t look up, but you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I’ll do my best, ma’am. But if you end up on a billboard somewhere, I expect royalties."

You snorted. "In your dreams."

Jack didn’t say anything at first—just gave you a small, private smile like he was tucking something away in the back of his mind. Like he was keeping it just for himself.

And this time, when you looked at him, he didn’t look away.

For a few minutes, the raindrops tapping against the windows were the only sound that filled the empty space. Jack didn't speak. He just kept his gaze on your hand, now bandaged, resting on the edge of the tray table like it had never been hurt. You watched him watching you, your heart thudding quietly in your throat. 

"You always take care of your disasters this nicely?" you mumbled.

He smirked. "Only the pretty ones."

You didn’t speak of it.

Not until later, when the lights came back and the halls emptied and you were alone in the break room.

You noticed it as he leaned against the counter, scrubs rumpled, hair even more so. His scrubs were black, as always—just rumpled enough to prove he'd been moving all night, just fitted enough to be infuriating. You took a sip of water, eyeing him from across the break room table as you both took a seat. Something about the way the fluorescent light caught the curve of his jaw made the words slip out before you could stop them.

"Do you own anything that isn’t black?" you asked, voice light with sudden curiosity. "Or is your off-duty wardrobe just a series of increasingly gothic-toned hoodies that match your work-wear?"

Jack glanced up from his coffee, one brow arched. "It hides blood."

You stared. "You really don’t let anyone in, huh?"

He didn’t answer right away, just sipped his coffee and stared out at the empty hallway beyond the break room.

Finally, with a shrug that didn’t quite match the weight behind it, he said, "You’re one to talk."

That made you laugh, but it came out softer than expected. "Guess we’re both pretty terrible at normal."

Jack’s lips twitched. "Normal’s overrated."

You leaned back in your chair, legs stretched out in front of you, the tips of your sneakers barely brushing his. Neither of you moved. 

Suddenly, Jack got up and yanked open a small drawer by the coffee machine and pulled out a sad-looking granola bar, handing it to you without meeting your eyes.

"Eat this."

Your brow furrowed, suspicious. "Seriously?"

"You haven’t eaten since yesterday," he muttered, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t noticed.

You stared at the wrapper, then at him. "You really had that locked and loaded?"

He didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms and stuck the bar out at you further. "It’s chocolate. Don’t make me regret it."

Instead of prying further, your hand reached out slowly and took it, eyes still narrowed, studying him like he’d just burnt out a fuse in your brain.

Silence washed over you again. Occasionally filled by the sound of you munching on your granola bar and taking measured sips of your coffee. After a few minutes and one crumpled granola bar later, you caught Jack sneaking a glance at you over the rim of his cup.

You didn’t say anything—just raised a brow.

He looked away like he hadn’t been watching you at all.

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The words crept out of your mouth carefully. "Do you think..." 

Jack looked up, gaze intent. 

"Nevermind," you stopped yourself. 

He leaned in closer, the space between you shrinking into something almost unbearable. Not quite touching, not even brushing—but the air thickened under the weight of his stare. That kind of eye contact that felt like it could crack glass. Steady. Searching.

You let the quiet spool between you like a thread someone might tug, if they were brave enough.

"It's rude to start things you don't intend on finishing," he stated simply.

You blinked, still caught in the current of that look, then leaned in a little—almost like you were about to whisper a secret. Jack mirrored you without hesitation, like it was instinct.

Your voice was barely above a murmur. "Do you think..."

He waited, gaze steady, maybe even a tinge of hope if you squinted.

"...that the real reason you thrive in chaos is because it matches your personality?" you deadpanned.

Jack exhaled sharply, the ghost of a scoff tugging at his mouth. He sat back, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

You grinned, eyes bright and playful. "What? I finished it."

"Barely," he muttered, but he was smiling too.

A few beats passed. You both sat in the lingering quiet, the kind that settled in only after long shifts and half-spoken things.

Then he leaned in—just a little—mirroring what you'd done earlier. You furrowed your brows, curious.

He lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial. "Do you think..."

You leaned in too, expecting something real, something heavy.

"...that you secretly enjoy being wrong? Because, statistically, it’s seems like your favorite hobby."

Your jaw dropped to let out a puff of air, baffled by his audacity, and pushed his arm. "God, you’re insufferable."

He chuckled under his breath. "And yet, here you are."

You gave him a sideways glance, lips quirking. "I will admit that it’s in my top five favorite hobbies. But it still doesn’t beat ‘annoying Jack Abbot.’ That one’s undefeated."

Jack shook his head, eyes warm and lips softened in a grin. "You’d miss me if I ever stopped letting you win."

Your only response was a coy smile. You nudged his foot with yours beneath the table, and he glanced down at the contact. He nudged back, subtle and sure, like he didn’t want the moment to end just yet—then looked back up at you. Something passed between the pair of you—unspoken, tentative, curious.

The room fell quiet again, comfortable this time. Neither of you moved to leave.

Until Jack's phone buzzed.

He glanced at it, then cursed under his breath. "Room seven. It's that kid who demanded to speak to the 'head doctor' because I wouldn't give him dilaudid for a tension headache."

You raised a brow. "So... a normal Friday?"

"Basically."

You watched him go, expecting a quick de-escalation. Room seven. You knew who that was. Height rivaled only by his ego. Frat letters drawn across his bare chest like illiterate war paint. Barked at nurses like he owned the floor. The kind of guy who made everything someone else's problem, backed by daddy’s legal team and a two-semester record of hazing infractions.

Jack had said he’d handle it. He always did. Especially with these types. It was like they were on a rotation—every Friday night, a new brand of uninhibited pre-frontal cortex, privileged chaos.

But then you heard his voice—Jack’s—sharp and too loud from down the hall. A clatter followed, unmistakable. Tray to tile. A chair scraping. Then another crash. A shout that definitely wasn’t Jack’s.

You were already moving.

By the time you rounded the corner, the frat boy was mid-lunge, fury twisting his face as he hurled a tray toward Jack’s head like he was reenacting some half-remembered bar fight. Jack ducked, barely—but he was boxed in, too close to the wall.

You didn’t think. Just moved.

"Hey!" you barked, adrenaline surging. You threw yourself at him, coming at him like a freight train and making him fall back onto the bed with a grunt. A nurse hit the emergency call. Security swarmed seconds later.

Jack had grabbed your arm and pulled you back—tight but not painful—pulling you just out of the fray. "What the hell?"

You glared at him, chest heaving. "Returning the favor."

He didn’t let go.

"On-call room. Now."

He practically hauled you down the hall, his hand never leaving yours. You were both silent until the door shut behind you. He pressed his palms to the counter and stared at it like it had personally offended him.

"What was that?" His voice was sharp, unfiltered, pissed in a way you didn’t see often—not like this. Not when it was about you. "You could’ve gotten hurt."

"So could you." You leaned against the metal bunkbed frame, still catching your breath. "A simple 'thank you' would suffice."

His Adam's apple bobbed, slow, like the movement itself took restraint. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual.

"You're reckless," he said quietly.

"Takes one to know one," you laughed.

Jack didn’t.

He stepped forward instead, jaw clenched. "You have no regard for your safety and only for that of others."

You took a step back.

"You will go out of your way to treat and protect everyone around you at the expense of your own well-being."

Another step back. Any closer and—

"Do you understand," he said, each word measured, devastating, "how much I worry about you?"

Your heartbeat was a war drum now—loud, insistent, thunderous.

"Do you know how much I think about you? How much I plan for the worst every time you throw yourself between danger and someone else without a second thought?" he added, voice cracking just enough to reveal the truth beneath it. Laid bare.

"When you walk into the ER and you haven't eaten since the night before and I can see it—you're running on caffeine and impulse and whatever scraps of adrenaline are left."

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

He didn’t stop there. "When you give your jacket to a freezing patient and spend the next six hours shivering without saying a word—like that’s normal."

You swallowed. "It wasn’t cold..."

Jack’s voice sharpened. "You forget your umbrella and show up soaked but act like it's fine. Like it’s not freezing. Like you didn’t just volunteer to get sick."

Your fingers twitched against your side.

"And when you blow off your own wound care to finish a chart. Or cover a code blue for someone else even though your shift ended twenty minutes ago."

You looked away. His eyes never left you.

He stepped even closer, willing you to look at him. "When you pretend you’re made of steel. And then crack alone in the stairwell when you think no one’s looking."

It felt like ice cold water had dropped from the ceiling.

"Jack—" you managed to force out. 

He held up a hand and turned around, cutting you off. "Please." 

He couldn’t hear it. Not unless you felt the same. Not unless you'd listened, actually listened, for once. He’d rather bleed out not knowing than survive a rejection he couldn’t patch. Just colleagues. He'd switch over to day shift if he had to. Robby could put in a word for him. Temporary, at least until he found a new hospital. Maybe in a different city. Of a different state.

He looked anywhere but you, turning like he meant to leave, like he could walk it off and pretend none of this ever happened.

"Jack, please..." The words came out desperate, begging, pleading for him to stop.

He didn't meet your eyes—couldn't. "I'll see you at the nurses station." 

"Oh, for the love of God—" You reached forward and yanked him back by his forearm.

And then your lips were on his.

It wasn’t clean or careful. It was a crash—years of tension detonating all at once. He froze for half a second, eyes wide open like his brain was short-circuiting, then kissed you back with everything he had and more. Desperation, disbelief, hunger—it all poured out of him like water breaking through a dam.

Your hands cradled his face, thumbs grazing over the light stubble along his jaw, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones like you were learning him by touch alone. He kissed you like he couldn’t stand to stop, and you held him like you weren’t going to let him. He tasted like spearmint—sharp and stubborn—the gum he always carried in his pocket, and behind that, burnt coffee and something so distinctly Jack it made your limbs tingle.

His hands found your waist, your jaw, your back—grasping like he didn’t trust the moment to be real unless he mapped every inch of you with his fingertips. You were pressed chest to chest, and it still didn’t feel close enough.

Jack had kissed people before. He had slept with people before. He'd been married, for God's sake. But this—this—was unreal. This was heat and gravity and every inch of restraint he’d stitched into place finally tearing wide open. This was the reason human beings fought in wars. Why people wrote poetry and ruined perfectly stable lives for one perfect, maddening kiss. Why everything else material and immaterial suddenly paled in comparison.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging salt and pepper curls just enough to make him groan, low and wrecked against your lips.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, share the oxygen in your lungs, the little gasp you made when his thumb grazed the spot behind your ear just right. He devoured everything you gave him and kissed you like a man who had run out of time and patience.

Because he had.

He’d wanted this too long to pretend otherwise, and he'd sooner die than deprive either of you from this any longer. 

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting lightly against his. Both of you were gasping, eyes locked in the kind of dazed silence that usually followed adrenaline crashes. 

"Took you long enough, old man," you whispered, lips still brushing his.

Jack blinked once, twice. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like the thought had crossed his mind a thousand times, but the reality of you—this—hit harder than he’d prepared for.

"You feel the same?" he asked quietly, in a tone that was more awe than question.

You nodded. "Since before either of us were brave enough to say it."

Jack let out a breath that shook at the edges. "I thought if I let it slip—if I looked too long, said too much—you’d shut me out."

"I thought if I admitted it, it would ruin everything."

"It didn’t," he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours.

"No," you whispered. "It finally made sense of everything."

Jack blinked again, almost like he hadn’t fully registered it until now. His gaze swept over your face, pausing at your lips, then your eyes, as if searching for the lie he couldn’t find.

"You really mean that?" he asked, quieter now. Not disbelieving—just internalizing.

You nodded again, slower this time. "I don’t do this if I don’t."

Jack let out another breath, but it wasn’t shaky this time—it was solid. Grounded. Relieved. He laughed under it, the sound warm and slightly incredulous.

"You really are impossible," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.

"And you’re dramatic," you whispered back, smiling.

"Fair," he said. "But you’re still mine."

"Yeah," you said. "I think I always was."

Jack huffed a breath, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Careful. You just kissed your attending. That kind of power could go to your head."

You grinned, still breathless. "Please. You kissed me back like your life depended on it."

"Who says it didn't?" he asked rhetorically, so quietly it almost got lost in the air between you.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing softly along the hairline, anchoring him there. Jack shivered. Not from cold—never from cold.

"Thank you," you admitted. "For taking care of me while I was busy taking care of everyone else."

His grip on your waist tightened, grounding himself, and then he leaned in again. This time it was slower. Less frantic. His lips found the curve of your neck, warm and reverent. You gasped—quietly—but it was enough. He kissed lower, just beneath your jaw, and your hands curled in the fabric at his shoulders.

"Always." The word left his lips like a prayer.

His fingers traced the hem of your scrub top, ghosting up your sides like he was overriding any and all memories of anything else other than you. No dissonance. Just Jack, desperate to feel something real in a world that never gave him space to.

You pressed closer, kissed the corner of his mouth. "You taste like that godawful spearmint gum."

He grinned against your skin. "You love it."

Another scoff. "If throwing myself in front of a raging frat boy was all it took to get you to shut up and kiss me, I would've done it ages ago."

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, smug. "If you do that again, I’m going to make you do my charting for a week."

You snorted. "With pleasure."

He didn’t argue. Just dipped his head and kissed you again.

—

You woke in the on-call room, a mess of tangled limbs and haphazardly strewn clothes. Your cheek pressed to the rise and fall of his chest. The storm had long passed, but its echo lingered in the hush around you. Jack’s arm was slung low around your waist, fingers drawing lazy, absent-minded shapes against your hip like he didn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’d started.

"For what it’s worth, I still think you’re a pain in the ass," you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

His chest rumbled beneath your cheek. "Likewise," he said, but it came out softer than usual.

You shifted just enough to look up at him, your hand brushing gently across his ribs, then settling over his heart. "Don’t get used to this."

His brow arched. "This?" If you looked hard enough, you might have seen worry flash across his face. 

"Me being nice."

Relief painted his expression. He smiled, full and rare. "You’re the one curled into me like a particularly mouthy cat."

You buried your face in his chest. "Shut up."

His fingers tightened slightly at your hip. "Not complaining. Just saying... I could get used to this."

You looked up again, caught the vulnerability flickering there before he blinked it away. Your thumb brushed his jaw, and you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, a smile blooming in its wake.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Me too."

—

A few weeks and an undetermined number of shifts later, you walked through the double doors of the ER wearing a black hoodie—oversized and unassuming to anyone else, but unmistakable to anyone who knew him.

Robby and Dana spotted it from a mile away. The frayed drawstring, the hole near the front pocket, the faded cuff seams—the one he always reached for when the weather dropped below 60 degrees, too tired to bother, or too raw to pretend. Jack’s favorite and now second most prized possession.

The first being the shirt you wore when you stayed the night for the first time—oversized and soft, probably older than the first year med students—borrowed without asking. He never washed it. Claimed it smelled like you now and he'd keep it that way.

No one said a word.

Except Robby, who walked past and muttered, "Finally." Then, as you and Jack strolled side by side toward the nurses’ station—still bickering, now with smiles tucked behind every jab—he held out a fist to Jack.

Jack bumped it without hesitation.

Robby grinned. "Took you long enough."

"Shut up," you and Jack muttered in unison, but neither of you stopped smiling.

Jack's hand brushed yours between steps, a casual touch that lingered just long enough to say everything he couldn't say out loud in front of witnesses. You let your pinky hook around his for a second before letting go—just a flash of something soft beneath the usual snark.

"Didn't know we allowed pets in the ER," Dana remarked from her chair before looking up through her glasses. "Or are those lovebirds I hear?"

You smirked. "We’re just evolving."

Jack raised a brow. "Into better people?"

"No," you replied. "Into slightly better-functioning disasters. I am, anyway. Jack’s still somewhere between disaster and cryptid."

He bumped your shoulder gently before giving you a playful wink. "Speak for yourself. I was already perfect."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. A smile crept up like second nature. You'd get him next time.

Robby snorted. "God, you two are insufferable."

You turned just enough to shoot him a smug look. "You love it."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I do. But if I walk in on you making out in the supply closet, I’m blackmailing both of you. With photos."

Jack didn’t even flinch. "Make sure you get our good angles."

it's not glamourous- some two day old pasta and the last two cookies from the batch you'd baked earlier in the week- but it's food, actual real food, so it would do.

the hospital wasn't too out of your way, only a ten minute drive from your place then another fifteen to your office. you parked in a spot outside the er, taking your keys in one hand and the lunch bag in the other before heading inside. you don't know many day shift faces, so luckily one of the few you do is standing right by the entrance.

"hi dana!" you smile, walking towards the nursing station. she glances up from the ipad she was previously enthralled in to look at you, "oh hey kiddo, you here to see abbot?" you nod and hold up the bag, "yup. forgot to bring something to eat, figured on an empty stomach he might not make it through the shift without killing anyone," you tease.

"well, thank you for that," she laughs, "did you want me to take it? i think he's with a patient right now- not quite sure how long he'll be and i don't want to keep you waiting." dana sets the tablet down and puts her hands out to take the bag. you pass it to her, "yeah thanks, i've gotta get to work actually-"

right before the fabric touches her hand, jack walks out from a room behind you. "oh!" dana interrupts, "speak 'a the devil- abbot!" she calls, you pull the bag back and turn around. jack looks up right as you face him, a smile tugs at his lips while he walks over to you.

"hey baby," he places a hand on your waist and kisses your cheek, the stubble he didn't have time to shave ghosts over your skin with a light scratch, "what're you doin' here?"

you hold up the lunch bag and he scoffs, "told you i could get something from the cafeteria," he says, taking the bag from you. you shrug, "yeah, but you always bitch about how you're gonna get food poisoning from there one day and i really didn't want to hear that spiel again."

"yeah, yeah, you're right," he says. you raise an eyebrow, "i'm always right."

he laughs, low and under his breath, "yes ma'am," he presses another kiss to your forehead, then takes your hand in his and leads you down the hallway where his locker is. he rounds the corner, inputs the combo to open the locker and places the bag inside it, next to his outside shoes and spare hoodie he keeps on hand for when it gets cold.

he takes your hand again and pulls you close to him, "thank you," he mumbles, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. he closes the gap between your bodies and kisses you, soft and slow and definitely forgetting that anyone could walk by as he slides his hands down your body.

"i tell you how beautiful you look today yet?" you shake your head, "mmm, no i don't think you did, actually." he smiles, "well then, i better get on that." he pulls away and shoots you a subtle wink, before grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you into a supply closet across from the bank of lockers.

he wastes no time once you're inside, pushing you back against the door to click it shut and wandering his hands under your blouse. "jack, i've gotta be at work in like fifteen minutes," you say against his lips. you feel him smile against yours, "i can do a lot with fifteen minutes," he murmurs, planting one last kiss on your lips before dropping to his knees in front of you.

you tilt your head back to rest against the door, an anticipatory sigh escaping your lips as he finds the zipper on the side of your skirt, pulling it down and letting the clothing fall to land on the floor around your ankles. he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulls those down next.

you look down at him when he brings his hand to your core, "we're gonna get caught and you are gonna be in so much shit." jack smirks, dragging a finger up your slit and making your breath catch when he reaches your clit. "don't care about that," he mumbles, then proceeding to bury his face between your thighs.

"fuck," you breathe, your head rolling back against the door with more of a thunk this time. one of your hands finds his hair, twining through the greying curls and pressing him further into your cunt.

"greedy, hm?" he teases, bringing a finger to your aching hole and sliding it inside you with ease. you gasp upon it's entrance, grip tightening on jack's hair as he adds a second one and starts pumping them in and out of you.

you catch the way he stares at every little twitch of your face while he's pleasuring you- always eager to learn what touches you like the most, to study the way you squirm so he can make you do it more often.

"shut up and make me cum already," you breathe, "don't exactly have a lot of time here." you feel him smile against you, "yes ma'am," he mumbles, before latching his mouth around your clit and rolling it between his lips. "oh my god- fuck, jack- just like that." you writhe your hips against his face, desperate for more friction.

jack's got your pleasure down to a science- a formula. he knows exactly how and where to touch you to have you falling apart in mere seconds.

he trails his mouth down slightly, licking over your slit and letting his nose knock against your clit. he plunges his fingers deeper inside you, curling them just so to rub against the spot you taught him about that has you seeing stars.

you should be embarrassed that you're nearing the edge already- knot tightening in the pit of your stomach and threatening to snap with every movement of his tongue and fingers- but all you can think about right now is jack and how good he's making you feel.

part of his formula includes knowing when your close, a little piece of information that lets him prolong your orgasm when he's feeling mean, or coax it from you when he's feeling generous. the way your thighs start to shake ever so slightly tell him that he's getting you there- that if he doesn't stop what he's doing it'll only be a few more moments before you're coming undone.

he doesn't speed up, doesn't make his movements harsher- doesn't change anything. just keeps sucking at your cunt like his life depends on it and driving his fingers inside you.

"i'm close, i'm- fuck- so close," those few words are all you can muster as your high washes over you- pleasure taking over all your senses and radiating outwards through your body from your core. "yeahhh, just like that, so good for me," jack mutters, the words barely comprehensible amidst the absolutely sinful slurping noises that are filling the room. jack works you through the orgasm, letting his movements slowly come to a halt as the sound of your ragged breathing takes over the air.

jack looks down at his watch, his chin still glistening with your release, "see, only took two to make you finish."

you roll your eyes, amazed at how consistently cocky he is when it comes to his skill of making you feel good. "yeah, yeah, whatever," you smile, bending down to collect your skirt and panties. jack stops you with his hands on your hips. you give him a questioning look, and your met with his smirk again.

"only needed two which means i've got thirteen more to have my way with you."

Junkie came from your first day on the job, you were a surgical intern, came in with a full face of makeup with the only exception of waterproof mascara and eyeliner. When you got out of assisting your attendings, the mascara that burned your eyes from the heat of the operating room, had smeared. The eyebags that you covered with concealer were prominent as ever as you turned in your charts for the night shift, you looked horrible, like a junkie, at least according to Doctor Abbot. 

“Female. 31. Her scans are pretty good but, when we got the full 360° viewing, t’looks like something is lodged in the third intercostal space, I would page Doctor Steele but she scares the living shit out of me”.

“So you want me to page Steele for you? I’m a resident Doctor Abbot, I can’t certifiably give you a consult” you spoke up, putting her scans to the light, “However this is definitely exploratory, look-“ you trailed, putting the several sets of scans to the light, “All of that occlusive space, they all mimic what you saw in the third intercostal space- did she reveal any past pulmonary issues?”.

“No, her breathing was normal, even during the tests no rasping or croaking” he responded, in your peripheral you could see his eyes fixed on your cheek.

“If I had to guess she’s packing drugs, there’s remnants of what looks like plastic, maybe cocaine? How were her labs?”.

“All good, sodium levels are a bit high but nothing out of range”.

“I’ll page Steele, maybe she’ll let me scrub in, thanks Doctor Abbot” you told him, “Also maybe if you weren’t such a ‘combat zone medicine’ dude, surgery would love the hell out of you” you teased lightly, staring down at your pager as you typed for Steele.

“I thought ladies liked the veteran form of medicine” he spoke up, the wedding ring of his late wife still donned on his finger as if she were never gone, “Do you?”.

“I’m against war Doctor Abbot, though the adrenaline high of your GI Joe medicine is appealing, not enough to get surgery to respect you” you deadpanned, honest and true, “Plus you’re not my type” you both walked alongside each other, walking down the stairs into the bottom floor towards the emergency department.

“How long is your emergency rotation?”.

“You and Robby have me all week, next week I’m off to neuro… then peds… and maybe ortho” you trailed off, losing attention as a man threw up right on Shen’s sneakers he just bragged about this morning, “What happened to sticking to night shift huh?”.

“Even attendings have to rotate their schedule” Jack sighed, leaving you to yourself as he walked to the several trauma bays that screamed for his attention, you took left, he took right. 

“What do we got?” your voice announced, seeing the nurses scramble to set up, helping them glove before you put your own on, the blue rubber smacking against your skin.

“Male in his late 20s, mom reported he wasn’t breathing when she woke up to check up on him, both fell victim to a car crash just before approaching the hospital” one of the interns ran through the information given to her by the EMT. 

Just in time for Abbot to join alongside you, “Mom was DOA, how’s the son?”.

“Burn marks that look like branding on his hips” you studied, “Several aged bruises along his ribs, is he involved in any gang activity?”. 

“That doesn’t look gang related, boxing ring” Jack affirmed, “Pittsburgh has a bunch of underground shady shit, might be a part of those”. 

You nodded, putting your stethoscope to his chest, “Looks like the crash restarted his heart function, breathing is fine, mild case of tachycardia. His abdomen is rigid- Princess can you call Doctor Shamsi down please?” Your hands trailed down to the man’s hipbone as you pressed down firmly.

“Fuck!” the man screamed throughout the trauma bay as your hands poked towards the lower right quadrant.

“Tell Shamsi we have a case of appendicitis” you smiled lightly from figuring out the man’s source of pain, “Sir I’m Doctor Y/n L/n, I’m a surgeon here at PTMC, we’re going to take good care of you”. 

“Where’s my mom?” the man groaned, slightly slurring, you looked at Jack who was on the opposite side of the gurney, wondering how to handle the news.

“Don’t worry about that right now, what is your name?” you responded, look back at the patient.

“Erick”.

“Well Erick, looks like your appendix is either inflamed or has burst judging from your pain, however we want to get you to CT for full body scan just to make sure we’re not missing anything” you told him, setting the locks on the gurney down so you and Jack could move him out of the trauma bay. “Walsh c’mon” you signaled towards Emery.

Emery and you were the only third-year residents cleared for operating on your own without attending supervision but with mandatory attending clearance or approval. To be fair, you both had the most emergency rotations, worked the most hours, had the darkest eyebags collectively. It intrigued the two of you, being the best in your field together. 

After an hour that felt like several, you and Emery successfully removed Erick’s appendix before calling in a trauma attending to explore if he had internal bleeding caused by the contusions and several bruises that painted his torso purple and green. 

“Wanna get drinks tonight?” Emery spoke up as you both discarded your surgical gowns, “They're on me…”.

“Why do I feel like there’s something you’re hiding…”.

“‘Cuz there is. There’s this guy I’ve been seeing, totally attractive and- great sex- he has this friend that might just be perfect for you” Emery responded, whispering the vulgarity. 

“You know dating isn’t my thing- at least right now”. 

“I know but no shame in experimenting, who knows he might just be Mr. Right” she shrugged, leaving you alone in the scrub station, dimmed lights and all. 

Truth of the matter was, you haven’t approached the subject of dating in months. One bad breakup sent you spiraling, once healing whatever the fuck that man did to you, you took a chance and fell into a repetitive cycle of sex with an emotionally inept man only to lead you down the downwards spiral of hell. Safely to say, you’re glad you took that sabbatical with Doctors Without Borders, it felt fresh to get out of Pittsburgh, in a place where no one can hurt you. 

You didn’t want casual, or sex, nor did you want commitment and wedding dates; you wanted solitude, with a mix of maybe some personal intimacy. It was Maslow’s rule, currently you were missing the middle section of the hierarchy of needs to which you made up for with an abundance of self-actualization and acceptance. 

You remember it getting so bad you had Emery do a brain scan on you just to see what the fuck was going on with you. She recommended therapy, you took that as a sign to befriend your lovely, ever-growing, liquor cabinet. If it was any consolation, you never mixed your work with your interpersonal relationships, Emery was the closest anyone ever got to you. 

Day shift ends at 7 pm sharp, too afraid to deal with union complaints, Gloria and the chief of surgery made sure you all knew about night shift phasing in. Deciding to take up Emery’s proposal for drinks, you got dressed in your car; no matter what you had at least a spare change of clothes in your backseat.

“Y/n!” Emery flagged you down when you walked into the Irish pub she told you to meet her and her mystery guy. You noticed the man from your internship at Presby, last time you remembered, he was a second year internal medicine prospect, one thing you did note, he was quite respectful. Explains the great sex. 

You smiled in response, it was only polite. Avoiding bumping shoulders with other people, you walked to the booth Emery sat with the two guys, the friend being quite attractive. 

“Sorry for the hold up, forgot there was a Pirates game” you inhaled deeply, taking the space next to Emery in the booth. 

Mystery guy’s friend was named Jason, financer tech-mogul adjacent, part shareholder at Presby, a complete capitalistic wet dream, therefore, a huge turn off. 

He wasn’t pushy, wasn’t expecting you to be highly in tune with his tech jargon, neither were expecting him to be invested in your entire lexicon being medicine or something graphic about a patient. You both understood each other through some sort of lens that you could not understand from the innermost part of your brain processes. 

Nevertheless, you let him walk you to your car when the night grew colder in Pittsburgh and the uproar of the city was prevalent from the Pirates winning. 

“You know I know my tech jargon is a mouthful but I had a good time tonight” Jason confessed, hands in his pockets with his breath icy. 

“Yea- my nerdy medical tendencies isn’t fun all the time either” you joked, smiling back at the guy. “Look I don’t date- it’s a me thing, I don’t plan on it or necessarily want it… Just so we’re on the same page” you sighed.

“That’s cool” he shrugged, looking off at the bumper stickers on your car, “Brother a vet?”.

“Huh?” you shook your head, moving it to where his eyes were, your esteemed United States Navy sticker that was worn and damaged to the point that it has since become one with your car. You lightly smirked, stunned by the questioned, “No— that’s mine” you took a moment to pause, “I was a lieu- instead of undergrad I served thinking it’d be— you don’t need to hear this” you awkwardly butchered the explanation. 

“Cool, thank you for your service” he laughed to ease the tension, “Emery didn’t mention that, I would’ve probably paid the b-“.

“She doesn’t know so…” you trailed off, “I don’t really flaunt it” you shrugged realizing the sticker that you thought would be invisible to the naked eye, was in fact a form of flaunting. “We don’t have to do that thing where we explain emotional baggage it was a long time ago”.

“You’re like what… twenty-six?”.

“Twenty-five” you corrected, “I was given a guaranteed offer as a surgeon if I completely competency exams and did a fellowship— surgery was an obvious choice” explaining furthermore before ducking out abruptly, only seeing it as right as you just spilled more details about your life than your coworkers seem to know. 

Those who knew were slim, Princess knew— by association, Perlah knew, Gloria knew as she was the one who hired you, your attending knew, and that was about it. You got enough attention as is from your family, the last thing you wanted was it to bleed into work. 

The next night shift, you stood on the roof, cigarette in hand; the cold air of Pittsburgh pinching your cheeks red and nose began to slightly run. The menthol felt warm against your lips and cold in your lungs, the ledge felt like a kiss of adrenaline to an already swamped night, it was your 15 minute break therefore, smoking, seemed like the only probable outcome for the slither of time.

“You know that could kill you right?” a voice greeted you at the entrance door across the roof. Both annoying yet strangely comforting. 

“The fall or the cig?” you quipped as a joke, looking at the brunette attending, “It’s a once in a blue moon thing— used to have an insane oral fixation”.

“If I knew you better, I’d make a dirty joke by now” Jack replied, pulling out his own pack of Newports, gaining a look of hypocrisy that painted your face, “Once in a blue moon”. 

After you two shared a few silent puffs, it ate away at your insides of not knowing his dirty joke, “What was it?”. 

“Hm?”.

“The joke… let’s hear it” you shrugged, your eyes meeting his, the catchlights making his eyes sparkle almost. You two sat on the guard rails, gently swinging your feet. Jack chuckled only to realize you were serious and about to be added to the long list of women he has had the pleasure of humoring.

“It’s not really a joke, it's more of a crude com-“.

“Just tell me” you impatiently sighed, puffing the cigarette once more, knowing for a fact that he’d probably bring up blowjobs or that he too had to satiate an oral fixation with cunnilingus. 

“Junkie I respect you too much” he used the excuse, smiling back at you. “Your tags are showing” he pointed towards your scrubs, you furrowed your brows on instinct, immediately touching your chest, feeling no metal to your touch. Only for Jack to reach for the nape of your neck, fingers cascading your skin and tucking in the clothing tag. 

“Thanks” you murmured, “You know this is my spot right? Can’t be sharing it with anyone else” you joked after a moment of silence creeped up on you both.

“Your spot is safe with me” Jack nodded, then came silence— a fond and comfortable silence until you sighed and climbed off the railing. 

You checked the watch that you wore on your left wrist, it read 2:48 am, you thanked the silence that made time feel faster when your brain would be on autopilot. Once it reached 6 am, you really needed your stiff back to crack and a cold beer or another menthol. 

You never wandered around once 7 am hit, you’d just go straight to your car. If you saw someone, you’d wave, other than that, they’ll see you when they see you.

“You truly are an enigma” you heard a voice emerge from behind you as your hands fumbled your car keys. The statement led you to give the man a look of confusion.

“What makes you say that?” you tilted your head as you unlocked your car, the small beep emitting in confirmation. 

“Well you disappear into the shadows for one” Jack smiled lightly, “You smoke, you’re a scalpel junkie, your car is older than some of the interns, and by all accounts… you don’t talk to anyone”.

“Ouch…” you feigned offense as you looked Jack up and down as a means to tell him you too, were studying him, “I do.. talk to people, Emery and I are friends”. 

“Evil twins almost” Jack quickly quipped, walking off to his black truck two cars down from you, “Don’t worry about it Y/n, medicine is an isolating field”. 

You furrowed your brows from the comment to yourself, nevertheless getting in your car and driving off with no shame of waiting for the car to warm up after hours of no usage. 

Normally comments wouldn’t get to you, though ones from a man you thought highly about, made you think a tad bit critical of yourself. You had to hand it to Jack, the intense eye contact leads to more emotion to which his words falter. But the words remained in your earshot for the rest of your emergency rotation. 

“Do you think I’m talkative?” you asked Emery as you took your hair out of a bun and scratched your scalp, it was a rough shift and it was barely time for your mandated break. Trying desperately to crack your back but not getting into the right position. 

“Fuck no” Emery released her breath as she cracked her wrists, “It’s a good thing though, you’re pretty intense when you talk”. 

“What do you mean?”.

“You know how you have a thing to make eye contact with every single person you talk to… Intense in this day and age, you’re only at par with Abbot and I wouldn’t take that as a compliment” Emery chuckled, looking at the ER board one last time before walking with you to the staff lounge. 

Once you sat down, you asked the question that’s been eating you alive, “What do you think of Abbot?”. 

“He’s good at what he does, and apparently, he fucks good” Emery added on, “Trisha from OB went on a date with him like four years ago— to this day she’ll say he’s the best she’s ever had and she is married with a kid now”.

You slightly cringed from the statement, not being able to picture your de-facto boss for the week having sex— and being good at it. In your opinion, guys were never really good at sex, with the harrowing reality of your PTSD and SSRI intake, orgasms are sparse and near unachievable, with technological intervention which men see as a threat somehow. You paid no mind to the picture Emery and Trisha painted, as much as it intrigued you, he’s your boss.

The second half of shifts was always the most intense, marked at 4 am, Emery liked to say it’s due to the “freaks coming out”. You like to think it’s just a superficial thing that every emergency room must face.

“Inserting the catheter” you whispered as Doctor Steele looked down at you like a hawk with Doctor Holden, vascular attending. Leaving no room for error as you were about to perform a REBOA on a 17 year old girl who got into a car wreck with three others. 

“Perfect form Doctor L/n”. 

“And inflating the balloon again” you bit your lip, looking the teenager's stats raise to an appropriate amount, “Okay she’s stable, she’s all yours Doctor Holden” you spoke out as Holden took over the bed to wheel her to surgery. 

Going back to the Nurse’s station to see a displeased Bridget, “Everything alright?” you asked, grabbing a chart from the side of you.

“I don’t know what we’re gonna do without you and Emery” Bridget sighed, looking at the board as it lessened within an hour, “No chance of being a trauma fellow?” she quirked a brow as she dialed on the landline.

“Gotta explore my options… not even too sure I’ll do my fellowship here” you shrugged. In actuality the statement would be seen as selfish, though healthcare officials do it all the time. It would make sense, with your history and record, to be a trauma surgeon, it would also make sense for you to explore your options especially as your residency program is coming to a close within a few months. 

Bridget simply nodded as you walked off into a trauma room with the EMTs settling everything and giving Jack a debriefing. 

“What do we got?” you asked as you snapped the blue sterile gloves on your hands, the band smacking your wrist painfully to wake you up. 

“Kennedy Davis, got into a car crash with a claw clip— it’s lodged into her skull” Jack responded, looking at the young girl's head, “It’s metal, already paged neuro to help you”. 

“I’m not scrubbing in, I have to alert Steele though” you sighed, there was a tinge in your chest you couldn’t quite put your finger on. A tinge of self-doubt and almost fear. “Send her to OR 6, Steele should be there soon” you told one of the nurses who quickly nodded his head, you took your leave before hearing a voice behind you.

“Hey what happened right there?”.

“Nothing. I’m not her surgeon… I’m a resident” you responded, still sighing and taking your leave to another patient in order to ease congestion. 

Jack felt offended, the callous of your voice that he never once heard struck a chord he didn’t even know was active. He felt a tinge that he couldn’t describe, one of hurt and chalance. 

So when the clock struck 7 am, he knew he had to catch you at your car, again.

“You working tomorrow?” he asked as he walked a few paces behind you, his truck again, parked close to your car. 

“Yeah.. peds round though— I logged too many neuro hours this week— so I’m out of your’s and Robby’s hair ‘til my next rotation” you answered, it was a harmless question. “Following me to my car again Abbot? I thought you were above stalking”. 

“You seemed off today”. 

“You don’t know me” you sighed back, grinning slightly from the hint of him caring, “I’m tired, underpaid, and looking forward to working tomorrow night after uninterrupted sleep” you teased. 

Jack stood there, not knocked speechless but knowing he had nothing else to say. He stood there as you drove off, wondering if the words were sticking. He didn’t know you. He knew you as a good surgeon, magic hands as Robby would call it, painstakingly stoic since last year, emotionally closed-off and most importantly, a hidden gem.

“Hi honey, what’s your name?” you beamed as you entered a little girls room, she didn’t seem too old to be above and over baby talk; you knew her name from her chart but, it was always a good part to break the ice. 

“Lisa” she answered, her front teeth were missing, causing her ‘s’ to become ‘th’. Her mom had just came in from behind you, two drinks in her hand.

“Good evening, you must be Mrs. Adebayo” you smiled at the mom, her eyes revealing tiredness and worry. “Lisa here is scheduled for surgery at 9pm tonight, quick and easy appendectomy and while we’re there, we’ll check on her gallbladder like you’ve asked”. Her mom nodded, rubbing her eyes before you continued. 

“Now gallstones are common for kids with sickle cell, you can always choose to pass them via medicine or we can go in there laparoscopically— that’s when we put a little camera in you to see what’s being problematic” you explained, “Little Lisa here, may be predisposed to having a bile duct blockage from passing them if you choose medicine, that can cause her to become septic if it worsens”.

“If the gallbladder is fine would you still remove it?” her mom asked, running a hand on her daughter’s hair and forehead. 

“The body doesn’t need the gallbladder, some doctors keep it in there even after experiencing attacks if there’s a low risk factor. If you would like the removal via surgery, we have some additional papers for you to sign”. 

“I’d like to sign them please” she quickly answered, for the first time in hours, she felt relief, “Would you be the surgeon no offense but, you look awfully young?”.

You smiled, “I’ll be assisting, I’m a resident” you nodded. 

“Thank you mama, you’ve been more helpful than the other doctor” she sighed, feeling more and more relieved from being aware of her daughter’s condition.

“You’re very welcome, I’ll have one of the nurses come and bring the papers and we’ll get you prepped honey in a couple of minutes” you smiled at the two before taking your leave.

Peds was both healing and destructive. All departments had their pros and cons: neuro was exhilarating and mentally-draining, general was average and morbid when it came to surgical drawbacks, cardio was rewarding and existentially challenging, ortho was precise and traumatic in operation complications, urology was interesting but not interesting enough to specialize in, oral was bleak with no pros in your mind, vascular was a high contender with interesting and complex cases but the department is disparaging underpaid, oncology felt too depressing albeit it is a miracle to challenge the blight of cancer, ob/gyn was also a high contender— women’s healthcare both in knowledge and practice is certainly subpar in the states; you could work the system from within, and trauma, where you do it all but with extreme time demands. 

Emery matched to specialize in neuro until she saw an old man with Parkinson’s become brain dead, now she’s considering cardio or ortho. You matched with cardio, changed to neuro, now it’s looking like trauma might have them both beat.

“Normally, I don’t date within the workplace but Y/n, would you like to go out for drinks after our shift?” Caden Thorne, attending pediatric surgeon— the doctor Mrs. Adebayo highlighted as being less than helpful when it came to explaining her daughter’s care. He stayed glued to the paper as he charted, as if his confidence carried him in ways eye contact wasn’t needed. He was attractive, freshly divorced, and there was a power imbalance— his words alone would send anyone up a few floors to human resources. 

People gush over pediatric surgeons and caregivers, they keep one of the most vulnerable populations alive and well, they wear colorful scrubs, have decal stickers in rooms, and carry an arsenal of stickers and jolly ranchers for the kids to choose.

“I’ll see you in 30 minutes Doctor Thorne” you replied, sighing deeply before walking away from the nurse’s station. In a way you were offended, you rotated here to learn and practice pediatric surgery not be propositioned for drinks at 7 am because someone wanted to test the waters with you. 

It was gross, absurd, slightly flattering, ultimately flawed. Just as Abbot’s words began to leave your mind, Thorne’s came down to single you as just a woman, in a male-dominated field. It showed you that he wasn’t there to teach you, he saw you as a thing he’d be entitled to.

Therefore you hit him where it hurt. 

“Doctor Thorne the mother specifically requested the gallbladder to be removed, her daughter came in with a gallbladder attack” you spoke beneath your mask as he insisted to keep the gallstone ridden organ, “The Adebayo’s already signed the consent forms, she has sickle cell which only makes her more susceptible—“.

“You think I don’t know that?” he chuckled beneath his mask lightly, you gazed around the nurse’s and the anesthesiologist all of whom stared at each other wondering what the hell is possessing him to have a weird sense of judgement. “By all means go for it Doctor L/n since you’ve seen to know the most out of all of us”.

You blinked beneath your mascara, hands slightly trembling internally. You’ve assisted, you’ve operated on your own but never on a child.

But you had to give Lisa a chance to wake up and not feel terrible abdominal cramps from her genetic predispositions. So, you operated, tediously and with rage seeping out from you due to his malpractice. 

“You ever pull that fucking shit again I will have you kicked from this program do you understand me?” He yelled at you in the hallway outside of the operating rooms, spit landing on your cheek. Yelling wasn’t what provoked you, it was the audacity. 

“Doctor Thorne” a voice emerged from the side, his hand coming up to silence her, “Doctor Thorne” she said again albeit with a stern tone the next, “Step away from my resident, get your ass back to peds, I will handle Lisa’s post-op care and forms, leave” Doctor Steele approached you both. 

You exhaled deeply as you lowered yourself from the tall stance you held in front of him, his leave meant for your relaxation for the past thirty minutes of tension and torment. 

“You okay?” Steele asked— Natasha was her name. Natasha Steele attending and department head for trauma. 

“Yea- Yeah. Nothing I’ve haven’t— experienced” you repeatedly cleared your throat, your ears ringing. It felt perverse, dealing with such abuse in your own workplace, felt degrading and hostile.

“I can ask if you can change back to trauma—“.

“No it’s okay, I’ll just work with Abby the rest of the week” you shook your head, composing yourself.

“Okay” she nodded her head, “Let me know, I’ll fill out the paperwork ASAP” she reassured, patting you on your back. 

You spent the next several hours with paperwork and another two surgical cases. Then came another parking lot interaction with Doctor Jack Abbot.

“How was peds?” Abbot breathed out, this time by your side, not ahead or behind. His backpack slung on his shoulder.

“It was—“ you tried to bite your tongue, almost wanting to hide the truth, “Doctor Thorne wanted to go out for drinks” you sighed, “Kinda got all… woe is me during surgery so he’s on suspension”. 

“I heard” he chuckled lightly, “It confuses me, the medical field used to be predominantly women, you’d think that’d make someone less… of a cunt” he ranted, it astonished you for the refreshing view.

“You’d think,” you nodded.

You were starting to take comfort in the sparing interactions in the parking lot.