#crash

The teases he could find then, God. Not now. 

“That’s…ill-advised.”

Yep. You know him so well. That’s only your heart’s fault, really…amongst other factions of your anatomy, all pulsing, all needy—

What’s wrong with you?

“It’s fun. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”

Jack only mms in the depths of his throat. It’s where he takes the moment to eye your badge. And your shoes. And the numerous tiny pins you’ve forced upon your scrubs. 

You pout, and unfortunately for your dignity, it’s purposeful, as if these ridiculous, cutesy bits could do anything to Jack.

...Well. Sometimes they do, although you think you exaggerate his stiff flusteredness. But those moments, riddled with the pulsing veins in his forehead or cheeks going just slightly red, are addicting. 

You’re chasing it now. 

“You already look like a craft store exploded on you.”

You gasp. How dare he? You know very well he’s not as annoyed with the way you wear your personality on your sleeve…for the most part. 

“Excuse you. These are curated accessories.”

Jack does another once over, slow—badge, pins, shoes. He turns his eyes away in a quicker glance off to the hall, and his smirk is awfully slight. 

“Mmhmm,” he mutters. “Very curated.”

You bounce on your heels despite Jack’s inability to see why this is the most amazing thing to ever happen to the Pitt. 

“I have options. Real options. I can finally color-coordinate with my shoes, or I can wear my themed tops! Or—”

“No themes, Sleepy. It’ll take less than half the shift for someone’s bodily fluids to get on Winnie the Pooh.”

…How could he possibly know you have Winnie the Pooh theme scrubs?

“You don’t get a vote, Dr. Abbot.”

Dr. Abbot merely rolls his eyes, and you wonder if the clearing of his throat comes out harder than he wanted it to. 

“Just—don’t go overboard. It’s a hospital, not a fashion show.”

“You say that like I own anything boring enough to not turn free scrub Friday into one.” 

“That’s exactly what worries me, Sleepy.” 

Jack steps closer, burning the distance away with a deep sigh, leaving his awful, stomach-flipping smile.

There it is, the burning in the fat of your face. Screw you, Dr. Abbot—Jack, Jackie. As stoic as you are, you know what you’re doing. 

“This attending, for one, can’t wait to see Tigger and friends bloodied up for your laundry pile on Friday.” 

Jack turns back to the sign, neck rolling stiff.

“Yeah, definitely would boost my morale. I don’t know about yours.”

Your heart skips a beat at his nearly muttered quip, or two—enough for it to make it down the hall in a half-second.

Jack watches you go and immediately wants to slit bits of him off for how invested he already is—in a way he can’t deny. It’s not just curiosity or a mild, rightful interest in seeing what the hell you plan on wearing. He’s sure everyone is. 

…It’s the thought of you presenting yourself in a way that’s not dictated by hospital policy that sets something restless humming under his skin. 

“You planning on wearing somethin’, Abbot?”

“The scrubs we’ve been mandated to wear for the past ten years.”

This burning, over fucking scrubs. Who knew that this would be the joke that makes up his life? He imagines it without meaning to, and that’s what he needs to tell himself. 

Color. Movement. Something stupidly cheery that clashes with the Pitt’s fluorescent misery. Something that makes Kiddo look ever more like herself. 

Like she needs to turn more heads than she already does. His little attention seeker.

The word’s anticipation. Jack can admit that, because…God…wanting to see what you’ll wear for free scrub Friday? 

It’s at the bottom of the list of things he’s wanted to see when it comes to you, Sleepy. Still, it comes as warm as it comes unwelcome.

Whatever God that isn't there help him, he needs to see what glitter and color Kiddo is going to riddle herself with, and like with everything else in reference to her, her, her, he hates himself for how much.

Friday morning is a trap that Jack walks into willingly. He walks in earlier than he needs to, and it doesn’t take long for the Pitt to hum itself to life. 

“Oh…Jesus.”

It’s Dana, because of course she wouldn’t leave before she sees whatever you’ve got planned. Jack assumes it’s you who is the victim of her exclamation. 

He turns. 

…He's correct. There you are.

You—normally grey scrubs, sparkles smuggled in through pens and clips—wearing a soft pink top with white accents. Which—that’s not the worst. Not at all. Pink to go with your shoes, he expected that. 

It’s what’s scattered across the fabric that Jack can’t help but eye. Jesus Christ. 

It’s…they're--

They're feminine cartoon rabbits. Pink-eared, white-bodied girl rabbits. Your badge reel somehow matches. 

You’ve got a fucking bow in your hair. 

And you look criminally happy. 

Jack’s throat bobs. 

God fucking help me. 

“Jack…DON’T say anything yet. Wait—”

There it is, the familiar urge to turn you into something squeezable, scoopable. 

Crushable. 

“I wasn’t…” He swallows. “You look…”

God fucking damn it. 

He steps back and stops, because the only words he can find are fucking adorable and pathetically precious, and those are words that will get him sent to HR. Or worse, he’ll be emotionally exposed. 

“Oh my god, sunshine. You look like a Saniro sticker collage.”

Saniro? Is that the name of the rabbit girl? 

Dana laughs. 

“That’s shockingly appropriate. Man, you’re making me wish I had the initiative to wear my Bugs Bunny scrubs.”

You do a tiny spin, just enough to make the fabric flutter. “Free Scrub Friday! I waited my whole life for this moment.”

Jack’s past the point in denying that he has to fold his arms hard across the hammering of his heart. This is not the first time he’s had to suffocate the impulse to smother you, but Saniro—it’s making it pretty fucking hard to.

“This is a seismic level of distraction. Peds is calling.”

Something in his chest clenches. Hard. Just when you grin at him. 

“That’s your way of saying you like it.”

Who the fuck cares if it is? Why are you smart enough to know that? 

“I want you to go start an IV on four before I—”

Jack stops himself. Resets. 

Before I say or do something filthily unprofessional, because I need to choke you for how adorable you are, see if you can squeak when I crush your bones, because grounding myself in holding you is the only way to stop the feeling from seeping out of my skin.

I don’t know why I know that. I think I’ve dreamt of this, kiddo.

“Next Friday, wear something boring.”

Why wouldn’t your smile turning dopey worsen his affection turn feral? Why? It’s not like he deserves otherwise. 

“And miss out on that beautiful smile you’re giving me, Dr. Abbot? No promises.”

“I am not smiling.”

“You are. It’s just doing that thing that makes it look like you’re in pain.”

You pull on the hem of your scrub top, flattening out the material to present it like a poster. 

The material at the top tightens around your bra. 

He can only swallow at the sharp, visceral spike hitting him square in the sternum. Yep, why wouldn’t it, Abbot? With all the things you’ve dreamt about. 

“Next Friday, wear something fun.”

Dana pffts. “Jack in anything that isn’t black or camo? I’d pay to say that.”

It ends there, thank God. He wouldn’t be able to get past the night if you asked him if he thought you were cute—his brain would’ve supplied twenty inappropriate, filthy, bone-crushing reactions and zero usable sentences. 

But later, because of fucking course, you catch his eye from across the floor and grin.

Like you could know, like you could possibly know that there’s this stupid, animal impulse to squeeze your perfect, resentful body until you pop in his arms because of your stupid fucking rabbit scrub and bows.

Like you could know that even though this is very much your fault, Sleepy, it’s what gets Jack to hate himself even more.

This aggression at the altar of your ridiculousness.