Sweet
summary: everyone adores you. always checking on everyone else, but never yourself. jack notices the pattern long before anyone else does. when a brutal shift ends in your fainting, the roles reverse. and jack refuses to let you keep putting yourself last.
pairing: jack abbot + reader
word count: 2.5k
warnings/tags: hinted established relationship, not explicitly stated between jack and reader, night shift cameos, shen mentioned to have a wife, more crus appreciation !!!
notes: based on the ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
"You're kidding me. You actually packed him a lunch?"
Jack leaned against the nurses' station, arms crossed, watching as you rummaged through your bag like a magician pulling endless scarves from a hat.
"Not just a lunch," you corrected, emerging with a bento box wrapped in a chequered cloth. "
"Three lunches. One for Crus, he forgot his again. One for the new intern who looks like she's running on caffiend and terror." You tapped the lid of the third box, "And this one's for Shen. He's been on his feet for so long."
Jack blinked. "And yours?"
"Ah." You waved a hand dismissively, already halfway down the hall toward the breakroom. "I'll grab something later. The cafeteria's open till three."
By noon, you'd checked on Crus twice ("Eat the damn sandwich, I saw your hands shaking earlier"), coaxed the intern into taking a ten-minute nap in the supply closet ("Hand me your pager, I'll cover it."), and discreetly swapped Shen's watered-down coffee with a fresh one.
At 2:47 AM, Jack found you in the middle of explaining discharge instructions to an elderly patient, your voice patient as you repeated the same sentence for the third time.
Your pen hovered over the paperwork, but your fingers had started trembling. You didn't seem to notice.
By 3:15 PM, you managed to sneak a granola bar into the pocket of Crus' scrubs, reassured the new intern that no, she hadn't killed anyone by mislabelng a vial, and somehow talked Shen into sitting down for five minutes.
You were mid-sentence, something about ibruprofen dosing, when the world tilted sideways.
Not metaphorically.
Your vision narrowed to a pinhole, the edges fuzzing like static on an old TV. The papers slipped from your fingers, fluttering to the floor. You reached for the counter to steady yourself, but your hand missed entirely, swiping at empty air.
The last thing you registered was the sharp scent of expensive cologne, the distant sound of someone calling your name. Your name, not "Doc" or "Hey," and then the cool unforgiving floor rushing to meet you.
Jack saw it happen. One second, you were talking, hands moving in that animated way you had, like you were physically shaping the words between your fingers.
The next, you were folding at the knees. He moved before he thought, his body reacting faster than his brain could catch up. He caught your before your head could hit the floor, one arm hooking under your knees, the other cradling your shoulders.
The first thing you registered was the smell. Then the texture beneath your fingertips, the kind that came standard on hospital-issued blankets.
You blinked, and the ceiling tiles swam into focus.
"Back with us, sleeping beauty?"
Jack sat perched on the edge of the gurney, his usual smirk replaced by something sharper, tighter. He held a juice box with a straw already punched through the foil.
When you didn't immediately reach for it, he shook the box pointedly, the liquid sloshing inside. "Drink," he said, and it wasn't a question.
You tried to sit up, but the room spun violently. Jack's free hand shot out, pressing gently against your sternum to keep you horizontal. His palm was warm through the think fabric of your scrubs.
"Nope. Try that again and I'm cuffing you to the rails." The jokes fell flat when his fingers twitched against your collarbone.
Across the room, Shen hovered near the door, his arms crossed. "She's fired," he announced, too loud, like he'd been rehearsing the line.
The juice box straw brushed your lips, and you took a reflexive sip, the flavor bursting across your tongue. Jack's gaze didn't waver, tracking the bob of your throat as you swallowed.
Behind him, Shen snorted. "Even I can't fire her for fainting," Jack said, still staring at you like you'd personally offended him. "Half the department's running on caffeine and spite."
You managed to lift a hand. Weak, but enough to take the juice box from him. His fingers lingered a half-second too long before releasing it.
"Statistically," Shen drawled, "she's also the only one dumb enough to forget to eat for hours while force-feeding the rest of us like we're her kids."
Jack leaned in, voice dropping so only you could hear. "When was the last time you ate?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. The granola bar you'd given to Ellis flashed in your memory. Your last one, plucked from your locker this morning.
"Thought so," Jack muttered. He reached into his scrub pocket and pulled out a crumpled protein bar, the kind stocked in vending machines. The wrapper was already torn open, one corning missing.
"I bit it," he admitted, handing it to you. "Just to make sure it wasn't expired."
The bar tasted like sawdust and regret, but you chewed anyway, because Jack's stare had taken on the intensity of a laser. Shen, still hovering by the door suddenly snapped his fingers.
"Hold on. She packed my lunch today." He left for a moment and came back with a tupperware container in his hands. "Here. Eat this instead of that expired vending machine crap."
Jack looked at the container before you could react, flipping the lid open. His eyebrows climbed "You made him goddamn club sandwiches?"
You swallowed another bite of the bar, which was sticking to the roof of your mouth like glue, and shrugged weakly. "His wife's out of town. He burns toast."
Shen pointed at you triumphantly. "She gets it."
The sandwich tasted like guilt. Rich with mayonnaise and thinly sliced turkey, the kind of careful meal you'd never make for yourself. You managed two bites before you hands stalled, the weight of eyes pinning you to the gurney.
"Jesus," he muttered, plucking the container from your lap. "You're worse than the med students." He tore off a corner of bread and held it up, hovering near your mouth.
You opened your mouth, more our of shock than compliance, and Jack fed you with a precision that suggested he'd done this before, probably with Robby drunk.
Shen coughed into his fist, clearly enjoying what he was seeing. "I'll just..." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "Charting. Or whatever." He disappeared before you could protest, abandoning you to Jack's relentless stare.
"Don't look at me like that," he grumbled. "You'd do the same for any of us." The truth of it hit you square in the ribs. You had done this. Last month for Ellis when she was hypoglycemic after a double, last week for Nazely who'd forgotten her lunch.
The difference was, no one had ever noticed when you skipped meals.
The next bite came with a sip of juice, Jack tilting it toward your lips with exaggerated care. His thumb brushed your chin, catching a crumb you hadn't felt fall.
Something cracked behind his eyes. "You're allowed to be selfish, you know," he said, so low it was almost audible. "Just enough to not collapse in the middle of paperwork."
Your fingers curled into the blanket, the starchiness of it grounding. "I didn't..." you started, but Jack cut you off.
"Yeah, you didn't mean to. That's the problem. You keep giving everything to everyone and nothing for yourself. It's stupid."
The word should've stung. Instead, warmth pooled under your ribs. No one had every called you stupid with that particular edge. Like it physically pained him to say it.
"Christ. You're smiling? Now?" But his thumb was already tracing the curve of your lip where it had lifted, rough skin catching. He froze, as surpised as you were by the contact.
A knock of three sharp raps flooded the quiet room. Crus, leaned in, his scrubs rumpled. "Uh. We have a GSW incoming, ETA for minutes."
His gaze flicked between you, Jack's hovering hand, the half-eaten sandwich. "Should I... tell them you're working on something else?"
Jack didn't move. "Yes."
"No," you said at the same time, pushing upright. The room only spun a little this time. Jack's palm landed between your shoulders, steadying. "I'm fine. Just low blood sugar."
Crus hesitated. "Garcia was called downstairs. She said you--"
"Garcia," Jack interrupted, "can eat my entire--"
You elbowed him. Hard.
Crus' mouth twitched. "Right. Well. The GSW's stable, but it's Senator Reeve's nephew, so." He mimed an explosion with his hands. "Media circus incoming."
The senator's nephew could wait. Jack's hand stayed firmly planted between your shoulders, his grip telegraphing a silent, immovable no before he even spoke.
"Crus," he said, "tell them we're in a trauma consult." He didn't blink. "And if anyone asks, I'm instructing her."
Crus opened his mouth, glanced at your still-pale face, then snapped it shut with a nod. "Got it. Try not to let her die before shift change, please." He ducked out before you could protest, the door swinging shut.
"Lie back down."
"I'm fine, Jack."
"Lie back down," he repeated, softer this time.
And you did, because his voice had cracked open somewhere between exasperation and something raw. The gurney creaked under your weight as you sank back against the thin pillow.
Jack's fingers skimmed the curve of you shoulder, tentative, as if he wasn't quite sure he was allowed. "You scared the hell outta me."
You stared at him. Really looked, and noticed the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.
"I didn't mean to," you said, and it came out embarrassingly small.
Jack's thumb traced idle circles against your collarbone. "That's the thing about you," he murmured. "You never mean to."
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then flicked away just as fast. "But you do it anyway. Every damn time."
The overhead lights hummed as Jack's fingers stilled against your collarbone. His thumb rested there, an anchor point in the spinning room.
"You're not going back out there today," he said in a way that wasn't negotiable.
You opened your mouth to argue, but Jack's other hand came up, pressing his fingers to your lips. "Don't even," he warned. "I will physically restrain you."
The threat should have been laughable, but the way his jaw tightened suggested he'd bench-press the gurney with you on it if it meant keeping you there.
A knock shattered the silence. The door creaked open just enough to reveal Crus' wary face.
"I know you said to tell them you're busy, but the nephew's asking for the 'hot doctor with the nice hands.'" His eyes flicked to where Jack's fingers still hovered near your mouth. "I'm assuming that's not you at all, Abbot."
Jack didn't move. "Tell him she's off-duty."
Crus hesitated. "He's--"
"Tell him," Jack interrupted, "she's indisposed."
Crus' eyebrows shot up. The door clicked shut with exaggerated care.
You stared at Jack. He stared back. His fingers were still at your mouth, close enough that you could feel the heat of them, not quite touching anymore but not pulling away either.
"You're staring," he murmured.
"So are you, you whispered back.
The overhead page crackled to life. "Dr. Abbot, STAT to Trauma Bay 3. Repeat, Dr. Abbot, STAT to Trauma Bay 3."
Jack's fingers tensed against your collarbone, his body already pivoting toward the foor before the announcement finished. But he didn't let go. His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat like he was memorizing the shape of it.
"Don't move, okay?" The protein bar wrapper from earlier fell to the floor as he reached for the IV pole beside your gurney, yanking it closer. "I'm hanging a bag of dextrose. "
Another page, more urgent said, "Trauma team, Trauma Bay 3, now--"
You saw the exact moment duty won. His jaw locked, shoulders sagging as he stepped back. The warmth of his touch lingered.
"Crus!" Jack shouted toward the foor, never taking his eyes off you. "Get in here!"
Crus materialized instantly, as if he'd been hovering just outisde. He took one look at Jack's expression and raised both hands. "I'm on it. Go."
Jack hesitated. Just a breath, just long enough for his gaze to drop to your mouth again, then turned on his heel.
Crus let out a low whistle, nudging the abandoned juice box toward. "So. That happened."
You pressed two fingers to your pulse point, counting the slugging rhythm as Crus adjusted the IV drip with practiced ease.
Crus didn't comment on the way your gaze kept flicking to the foor. Instead, he nudged the juice box closer. "Drink," he said, echoing Jack, but gentler. "Before Abbot comes back and burn me alive."
You took a sip, the flavor cloying without Jack's glare to make it taste like a challenge. The ER's distant chaos filtered through the closed door. The raised voices, the beep of a crashing monitor, the unmistakable sound of gurney rattling past at a sprint.
Crus' pager buzzed violently against his hip. He glanced at it, grimaced, then deliberately silenced it. "There's someone else on the floor, it's okay," he muttered, though his knee had started bouncing in a restless tempo.
"You should go."
Crus shook his head, adjusting the IV flow. "Abbot said--"
"I know what he said." The words came out sharper than intended. You softened them with a weak smile. "But we both know he's elbow-deep in someone's chest right now. Go help him."
Crus hesitated, his fingers drumming against the rail. "Abbot's been pacing the nurses' station like a lost child since they wheeled you in here," he admitted, voice dropping.
"Nearly took the head off an orderly who tried to move your chart." He tilted his head, studying you with sudden intensity. "You know he canceled that thing he had with that cardiology chick last week? Said he had 'charting' to do. Pretty sure he just sat in the break room watching you force feed Nazely those sandwiches."
The juice box crumpled in your grip, the straw bending at an awkward angle. "For what it's worth," he said, "I've never seen him bite open a protein bar for anyone else before."
His pager buzzed again, more insistent this time. He ignored it. "Pretty sure that's his version of a love letter."
The door burst open before you could respond. Jack stood framed in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His chest heaved like he'd sprinted the entire way.
"You're still here."
Crus stood smoothly, pocketing his pager. "She's all yours, Romeo." He dodged Jack's half-hearted slap, pausing to turn back and look at you, "He told me he cried during Marley & Me in med school," before disappearing into the chaos beyond.
The overhead lights hummed a steady note as Jack stepped fully into the room. His fingers flexed at his sides, still damp from where he'd scrubbed hastily at the blood streaking his forearms.
Jack didn't speak. Neither did you. The silence between you stretched, elastic and charfed, as he reached for the IV bag with one hand, his fingers skimming the tubing to check the flow rate. His other hand landed on the gurney's rail.
The bag crinkled under his touch, nearly empty now, the last of its content slipping into your veins like a slow, sugared confession.
None of you said anything, but you're exactly where you want to be.
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