#dr abbott

His voice sounded rough through the phone, sleep heavy, a little gravelled, and guilt immediately creeps up your spine.

Shit. You definitely woke him.

You hesitate, chewing lightly at the inside of your cheek as you glance around the mess again. This wasn’t even the first time. Ever since you’d moved into the house next to his, it had somehow… become a thing. If you had a loose cabinet door, flickering light, a lock that wouldn’t turn properly, you would call him. 

And every single time, he showed up.

“I’m really sorry,” you wince, pacing a small circle around the mess like that’s somehow going to fix it, “it’s just– I actually tried doing it myself this time, and it looked like it went well. Until it didn’t.”

You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, your hand coming up to scratch at your eyebrow, a nervous habit you’ve never managed to shake.

Another pause. Softer this time.

“Hey,” he says, a little clearer now, like he’s forcing himself properly awake, “it’s fine. Seriously.”

You’re not convinced.

If he was napping in the middle of the afternoon, then he was off shift, which meant this was probably one of the only quiet hours he got to himself all week. With the kind of hours he worked at the hospital, long shifts that seemed to blur into each other and never really end when they were supposed to, sleep wasn’t something he got nearly enough of.

The last thing you wanted was to be the reason he didn’t get it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumble, quieter now, eyes flicking back to the mess like it might suddenly resolve itself out of pity. “I can– I can figure it out, if you want. You don’t have to come.”

There’s a brief pause. “Too late.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I’m already up,” he says, there's something dry in his voice, something faintly amused, like he’s already decided that he’s going to come over and fix it whether you like it or not. “And I’d rather fix it once than come over later when it’s somehow worse.”

“That’s very optimistic of you,” you mutter.

“Experience,” he shoots back easily.

Despite yourself, your lips twitch.

“Don’t worry about it,” he adds, softer now, and you can practically hear him dragging a hand down his face, grabbing for a shirt or whatever’s closest. “You’re not the first person to lose a fight to flat-pack furniture.”

“That makes me feel worse, actually.”

“It shouldn’t,” he says, a beat passing before his tone shifts, something lighter threading through it. “What can I say? I guess I’ve got a way with my hands.”

You go completely still.

There’s a brief, dangerous pause where your brain tries to decide whether that was a joke, a joke, or something you’re definitely overthinking.

Because there’s no way he just said that.

Right?

Your eyes flick to nothing in particular, grip tightening slightly around your phone as the words replay in your head, slower this time, like that’s somehow going to help.

I’ve got a way with my hands.

Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re standing alone in your living room reacting like this over a sentence that may or may not have been completely innocent.

He probably didn’t mean it like that.

He definitely didn’t mean it like that.

…He absolutely meant it like that.

You press your lips together, inhaling through your nose like that’s going to reset your brain. It doesn’t.

“Right…” You clear your throat, dragging your attention back to the mess in front of you like it might ground you. It doesn’t. 

“Yeah. We’ll– we’ll see about that, Abbot. Just ring the bell when you get here.”

“Mm. Try not to make it worse before I arrive.”

“Oh, shut up–”

You hang up before he can say anything else, your mouth still slightly parted. You stand there for a good five seconds, just blinking at nothing. Then you look back at the broken bookshelf.

God help you.

A good ten minutes go by, and you still don’t listen to him.

Because of course you don’t.

You’re crouched in front of the bookshelf again, one knee pressed into the floor, the screwdriver clutched a little too tight in your hand as you try, for the third time now, to get the top shelf to sit properly. Your head is half inside the frame, eyes narrowed as you angle the screw just right, tongue pressing lightly against your cheek in concentration.

“Okay just– stay,” you mutter under your breath, like the thing might actually cooperate if you asked nicely.

It doesn’t.

The doorbell rings.

And in the exact same second, the shelf gives way.

It comes straight down, catching the top of your head with a dull thud that makes your whole body jolt forward, the screwdriver slipping from your fingers as a sharp sting spreads instantly.

“Ow, shit,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut as your hand flies up to your head, pressing against the spot like that’s somehow going to undo it.

For a second you just stay there, hunched over, breathing through it, before letting out a quiet, annoyed exhale. “Perfect,” you mumble to yourself, pushing yourself up slowly, still a little dazed. “That’s just perfect.”

The bell rings again, longer this time.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” you call out, your voice slightly strained as you make your way to the door, your hand still resting on top of your head, your face caught somewhere between a grimace and irritation.

You open it, and there he is.

You take him in for a second without meaning to. The faint grey stubble along his jaw, his hair still slightly out of place like he didn’t bother fixing it before leaving, the simple black shirt and pants thrown on in a rush. There’s a look on his face already, caught between amusement and expectation, like he knew exactly what he was walking into before you even opened the door.

His eyes move over you quickly, taking in the hand on your head, your hair out of place, the look on your face, and you can see the moment it clicks to him.

You drop your hand a little too late to make it subtle.

A small smile threatens at his lips as he adjusts the toolbox in his hand, stepping forward when you shift to the side to let him in. You hold your breath for half a second as he passes you, the space between you just close enough to make you aware of it, before you shut the door behind him.

“Do I need to guess what happened,” he says, glancing down at you as he steps further inside, his voice still a little rough but clearer now.

You scoff softly, already turning to follow him. “Don’t start. I was trying to take matters into my own hands again, and apparently this shelf is harder to build than it looks.”

He hums like he’s not convinced, already walking into your living room, and he’s done it enough times to know exactly where he’s going. His eyes land on the mess almost immediately, taking in the scattered pieces, the half-built frame, the screw you’d dropped on the floor.

“Right,” he says after a second, one brow lifting slightly. “You tried.”

“I did try,” you shoot back instantly, crossing your arms, even though there’s still a faint sting at the top of your head reminding you how that went.

His gaze flicks back to you, slower this time, settling on your face, then your hair, then the spot your hand had been covering.

“What did you do.”

“Nothing,” you answer quickly, a little too quickly.

“That didn’t sound like nothing.”

“It’s fine,” you insist, waving it off like it’s nothing even as you avoid looking at him properly. “It just hit my head a little, it’s not a big deal.”

He doesn’t say anything straight away, and that’s almost worse.

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine, Jack–”

“Let me see,” he repeats, already stepping closer, his tone not harsh but not really leaving you much room to argue either. It’s something about the way he says it, like he’s already decided and that’s that, and then there’s the way he’s looking at you — his eyes settling on your face, focused so intently that it makes your chest feel a little too warm all of a sudden, like you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.

You hesitate for a second before letting your hand fall away, tilting your head slightly despite yourself. “It’s not even that bad,” you mumble, though it comes out weaker than you meant it to.

He doesn’t respond, just lifts his hand and brushes your hair aside, fingers careful as he checks the spot. There’s a brief pause while he looks at it properly, his expression shifting as the earlier amusement fades.

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself. “That’s gonna be a bump.”

You let out a small, unimpressed breath. “Great. Love that for me.”

His hand drops away, but instead of saying anything else, he turns and heads toward your kitchen. You watch him go for a second, still standing where he left you, a little thrown off by how quickly he just takes over your space (not that you're complaining about it).

You hear the fridge door open, the low hum getting louder for a second, then the scrape of the freezer compartment, things shifting around as he moves stuff aside.

“Of course you’ve got nothing useful in here,” he mutters.

“There should be peas or something.”

“There are,” he says after a second. “Miraculously.”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you.

A moment later, he’s back, a bag of frozen peas in his hand as he stops in front of you. He doesn’t hand it to you.

Instead, he steps in closer, lifting it straight to your head before you can react.

You flinch slightly at the cold. “Oh–”

“Hold it,” he says, already reaching for your hand and bringing it up, pressing your fingers around the bag so you keep it in place. His touch lingers for half a second before he lets go.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and walks back over to where he dropped his toolbox, crouching down and flipping it open like he’s done this a hundred times before (he has.)

You don’t move.

For a second, you just stand there, hand pressed to your head, watching him. Or more specifically — You’re watching the way his back shifts under the black shirt as he bends slightly over the frame, the fabric pulling just enough across his shoulders, his arms moving as he starts sorting through the pieces, he makes it look so easy.

You blink, forcing your eyes away for a second, adjusting the peas against your head like that’s what you were focused on the whole time.

It doesn’t really work because you look back.

He’s still crouched there, focused on the shelf, completely unaware, and you’re suddenly very aware of how long you’ve just been standing there doing absolutely nothing.

You clear your throat, shifting your weight as you take a small step forward, still holding the peas to your head as you glance between him and the mess. “Do you– need help, or something, or are you just gonna do the whole thing yourself?”

He doesn’t even look up, already moving pieces back into place like he knows exactly what he’s doing, fingers working easily as he adjusts the frame. “No, you’re alright,” he says, like it’s obvious, like you asking was almost unnecessary.

And then, after a second, like it’s nothing, “Just sit and look pretty.”

You just stand there, your brain going completely fuzzy for a second as it registers what he just said, your grip tightening slightly around the bag of peas while your mouth opens a little before you can stop it.

You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that he can’t see your face right now, because if he could, you’re pretty sure he’d notice it instantly.

So you don’t say anything.

You just stand there, holding the peas to your head, trying to act like that didn’t just completely throw you off, even though it absolutely did.

He keeps going like nothing happened, adjusting the frame, tightening something into place before leaning back slightly to look at it, checking his own work.

You shift slightly, lifting the peas just a little off your head, your fingers moving to press lightly against the spot instead, testing it to see if it still hurts. The second you do, his head turns slightly over his shoulder.

“Don’t touch it,” he adds after a second, almost as an afterthought, still focused on the shelf. “Just leave it for a minute.”

You freeze for half a second before putting the peas back where they were, pressing them properly against your head doing exactly as he said.

“Okay,” you say, softer this time, a lot more normal than whatever you would’ve said earlier.

He keeps going like nothing happened, adjusting the frame, tightening something into place before leaning back slightly to look at it, like he’s checking his own work.

You watch him for a second longer than you should, adjusting the peas again just so you have something to do.

“Thank you,” you add after a moment. He pauses briefly at that, just for a second, before continuing like it didn’t affect him at all.

“Yeah of course,” he says easily.

It was an awkward predicament you found yourself in, one that seemed to happen so quickly you couldn’t even properly process how you got there in the first place. One second you were standing on the sidewalk after getting out of the sports bar you had gone to with a few friends you hadn’t seen in a while, still half caught up in the lingering conversation, your eyes scanning the street for a taxi that could take you home.

And then the next second, without even looking properly, you didn’t realise a bike was coming straight toward you along the sidewalk.

There was barely any time to react before the impact happened, the force of it knocking straight into you and sending both you and the rider crashing down onto the concrete. Your body hit the ground hard, but it was your head that took most of it, smacking sharply against the pavement that made everything jolt at once.

A loud groan leaves you instantly, the pain spreading so suddenly and so intensely that you don’t even think before running your tongue over your teeth in your mouth, checking them one by one to make sure they were still intact, still where they were supposed to be. The sensation was so overwhelming, that it made it hard for you to focus on anything else. 

You don’t even register that people have started gathering around you, their voices overlapping, questions being thrown at you all at once as they hover nearby.

“Shit– I’m so, so sorry,” the man says quickly, the one who had collided with you.

You blink up at him through the blur, trying to focus your eyes enough to actually see him properly. He looks young, around your age, crouched close by, clearly shaken, his hands hovering like he doesn’t know whether to help you up or not. He looks completely fine in comparison, his helmet still strapped on, knee and elbow pads in place, protected in a way you clearly weren’t.

You try to sit yourself up from the ground, pushing against the concrete with your hands, but the second you do, a sharp sting spreads across your palms and arms. You hadn’t even noticed how badly you’d scraped yourself up until now. It barely registers though, not properly, not compared to the pounding in your head that only seems to get worse the more you try to move.

Your vision doesn’t clear either. It stays unfocused, everything still slightly out of place, and no matter how much you blink, it doesn’t quite fix itself.

You’d always been a little clumsy, always the type to trip over nothing or drop things at the worst possible time, but this was different. This wasn’t something you could laugh off later or brush away like it didn’t matter. It was worse.

“I’m okay, I think,” you mumble, the words coming out slower than you intended, your voice lacking any real certainty behind it.

The people around you don’t seem convinced.

There’s a shift in the air around you, a sudden stillness that you can’t fully understand, not when your head is still pounding and your vision refuses to cooperate.

“What?” you ask, more confused now, your brows pulling together as you try to make sense of their reactions.

You lift your hand to your head without thinking, fingers brushing against your temple as if to check it, and that’s when you feel it.

Something wet.

Sticky.

More than there should be.

Your hand comes back down into your line of sight, your eyes struggling to focus on it properly through the blur, and it takes longer than it should for your brain to catch up with what you’re seeing.

Blood.

A noticeable amount of it, smeared across your fingers and it doesn’t feel so minor anymore.

“Well, shit,” you mumble under your breath, the words barely leaving your mouth before everything around you starts to feel off again.

The noise of the crowd dulls, their voices becoming distant, like they’re being pulled further and further away from you. The ground beneath you feels unsteady, your vision darkening at the edges as the pounding in your head overtakes everything else.

Somewhere through the haze, you can hear the urgency in their voices shift. “Call an ambulance, quick—” But it all feels far away.

And then, just like that, everything goe s completely black as you fall back against the concrete.

Jack can’t quite take you off his mind.

Ever since you moved into the house next to his a couple months back, ever since that first day when you were tripping over the stairs trying to help the movers carry boxes into your place like you weren’t about to take yourself out before even settling in, he’d clocked you as someone he wouldn’t forget easily.

And it should’ve stopped there, it really should’ve, because it’s not like he doesn’t have other things to focus on, not like his job doesn’t take up most of his time anyway, but it didn’t, it just stuck. He never realised how often he was thinking about you until he caught himself doing it multiple times a day.

Robby would’ve absolutely lost it if he knew. Like actually laugh in his face, not even try to hide it.

Which is exactly why Jack never said anything.

Because it sounds ridiculous. It feels ridiculous.

At least it did, up until the moment he sees you being wheeled into the E.R.

And for a second it doesn’t even register properly, because it’s just another stretcher, another patient coming in too fast, paramedics talking over each other, the usual noise that never really stops around here, until his eyes land on you and everything’s stopped in Jack’s world.

Your head’s turned to the side, there’s blood at your temple, too much of it, dried and fresh mixed together, your hair stuck where it shouldn’t be, and you’re not moving, not even a little, and that’s what gets him the most because you’re never still.

Robby’s saying something, holding something out to him, but Jack doesn’t take it, doesn’t even look, because his focus is completely gone, locked on you in a way that makes everything else feel like background noise.

“You alright, brother?” Robby asks, and there’s something in his voice this time, not just casual, not just checking in, because he’s clocked it straight away, the way Jack’s just stopped responding, like he’s not even there for a second.

Jack doesn’t answer him.

He’s already moving before anything else can catch up, already at your side, falling into step with the stretcher as they push you through, his eyes running over you quickly, trying to take in as much as he can at once, trying to piece it together in real time without letting it slow him down, even with that tight feeling sitting heavy in his chest.

“What happened?” he asks, already reaching for gloves, his voice coming out like it normally would, like this is routine, like it’s just another patient even when it very clearly isn’t.

“Bike collision,” one of the paramedics says, not missing a step. “She hit her head pretty hard on the pavement, was talking when we got there but not making much sense, kept drifting in and out, then stopped responding on the way here.”

Jack nods once, already there as they move you across, his hand coming up without thinking, steadying your head like it’s instinct, like muscle memory has kicked in before anything else could.

Which it has. He’s done this a thousand times before. Just not with you.

“Alright, get her on the monitor, let’s check her properly, and I want a scan ready,” he says, more to the room now, more to himself, slipping into it because that’s what he does, that’s what he knows, even if everything in him feels slightly off.

Robby’s there beside him again, quick like always, but there’s a look he gives Jack, brief but there, like he’s noticed more than he’s saying.

Jack doesn’t acknowledge it. He doesn’t have the space for that right now.

Because his attention is already back on you, and this time it lingers a second longer than it should, taking you in properly, the way you look like this, the way you look too still for his liking.

He preferred you up and clumsy. Not like this.

As you’re laid down, somewhere between conscious and not, everything comes in pieces, sound first, then light, then shapes that don’t quite make sense straight away. You turn your head slightly, slower than you mean to, your mouth parting a little as your eyes try to focus, landing on him.

Jack.

He’s right there, by your side, talking to someone just out of your view, his voice low and quick, but you can’t really make out what he’s saying, it all kind of blends together in a way that makes your head feel heavier.

“Fancy seeing you here, doc,” you mumble, the words coming out a little off but still there, like you’re trying to make it sound normal even though nothing about this feels normal.

They move you properly onto the bed, and your brows pinch together almost immediately, a quiet wince slipping through as someone shines a light into your eye, then the other, the brightness too sharp for how your head already feels.

Jack’s attention shifts straight back to you the second you speak, his focus settling on your face properly now.

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that, hm?” he replies, but it doesn’t sound like him, not really.

There’s no humour in it this time. And you notice that.

Despite everything, you still smile at him, all teeth, like none of this is as serious as it probably should be, even with people moving around you, checking things, definitely listening even if they’re pretending not to.

“You know,” you start, your words coming out a little uneven but still very much you, “I think because of whatever they’ve pumped into me… I should probably confess my undying crush on you, Mr Abbot.”

You let out a small laugh to yourself, like the thought genuinely amuses you, your head shifting slightly against the pillow before immediately regretting it.

“I feel like this is a very good time for that,” you add, softer now, like you’ve convinced yourself it makes perfect sense. “You know… just in case I die or something.”

Jack just looks at you for a second, properly this time, like he’s trying to decide whether to humour you or shut it down completely.

“…You’re not dying,” he says, and it comes out more firm than anything else, like he’s not even entertaining that part of what you said.

You squint at him slightly. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he answers straight away.

You hum softly, like you’re weighing that up, even though you’re not really.

“Okay… but if I did,” you continue, still looking at him, “that would’ve been a really good confession. Like you would’ve thought about it for the rest of your life.”

There’s the smallest shift in his expression at that, something that almost looks like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite let himself.

“Yeah,” he says after a second, quieter now, “I’ll make sure to keep that in mind.”

You nod slightly, like that’s settled.

“Good.”

He exhales through his nose, then glances over his shoulder toward one of the residents, his focus snapping back into place.

“Keep checking her pupils,” he says, his tone shifting without effort. “She’s been in and out, so keep talking to her, make sure she’s tracking, and get her ready for a CT. I don’t want to miss anything.”

There’s a quick nod, movement picking up again around you.

When you wake up, it takes you a second to properly come to, your head feeling heavy as confusion settles in before anything else does. You blink a few times, trying to clear the haze from your eyes as you stare up at the ceiling, not fully registering where you are at first.

The room is quiet.

Not completely silent, but quiet enough that it feels strange, especially compared to the E.R. you only faintly remember being brought through, the noise and movement and voices that never seemed to stop. It’s different here, and it throws you off more than it should, like you’re expecting something else to happen even though nothing would.

You know what led you here. You remember the bike, the impact, the way everything happened too quickly for you to even react properly before you both went down onto the concrete. But after that it’s blank. Completely fuzzy. Like your brain just cut everything off. You don’t remember getting here. You don’t remember being brought in, or what anyone said to you, or how long you’ve even been here. Just bits and pieces that don’t quite connect, like you were in and out of it the whole time and your mind never fully caught up, which was what exactly happened. 

The hospital bed beneath you feels stiff, uncomfortably so, and it only makes everything worse as you shift slightly, trying to sit up more properly. It’s not helping. If anything, it just makes you more aware of how off your body feels, like nothing is sitting right.

You move again, slower this time, trying to find some kind of position that doesn’t make you feel like you’re about to tip sideways or sink straight back into the mattress. The bed doesn’t cooperate, obviously.

“They really need to invest in better beds,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than anything, your voice still a little thick as it comes out. “People are gonna leave here with more problems than they came in with.”

You adjust again, one hand pressing lightly against the mattress to steady yourself as you sit up just a little more, even though it doesn’t actually make it any more comfortable. It just makes you more aware of everything — your head, your body, the fact that you’re here and not entirely sure how you got to this exact point.

And that part bothers you more than anything.

You don’t even realise when someone enters the room, only properly registering it when you hear the door shut. It makes you turn your head, slower than you mean to, and that’s when you see him.

Jack’s standing by the door, not fully inside yet, like he stopped himself halfway through walking in and couldn’t move himself further into the room. You don’t really understand why, but you don’t point it out.

What you do notice is the relief that crosses his face the second his eyes land on you. It’s quick, but it’s there, clear as anything, easing some of the tension that had been sitting in his expression. Like seeing you awake, sitting up, actually aware, settles something in him that had been building since you were brought in.

“Fancy seeing you here, doc,” you say repeating what you said hours ago (even though you didn’t remember saying it), a small smile pulling at your lips as you try to ease the tension that had filled the room the second you saw him.

He doesn’t answer straight away, and it gives you a second longer than you should have to actually look at him properly. His arms are crossed over his chest, his shirt pulling across his shoulders and biceps just enough that you have to stop yourself from staring any longer than you already are.

You drag your eyes back up, a little too late, and the second you meet his gaze again you can feel the heat surge through your body, because he’s already looking at you, not even pretending he wasn’t. His expression is still controlled, still holding onto composure, but there’s concern sitting there underneath it, clear in the way his hazel eyes stay on you.

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that,” he says finally, his voice even, but not as light as it usually is with you, “I work here. You’re the one turning up as a patient.”

You don’t really know how to take that, and that’s what throws you off more than anything, because normally with him it’s easy, you know where you stand in the conversation, you know when he’s joking and when he’s not, but right now you can’t tell which one this is supposed to be.

You shift slightly against the bed, like you’re about to say something back, something quick or sarcastic just to ease it, but nothing actually comes out, and instead you just end up looking at him, the silence stretching a little longer than it should between you.

“You gave me quite the scare,” he adds after a second, and there’s no humour in it now, none of that usual back-and-forth you’re used to, just something honest that makes your expression shift without you meaning it to.

“I didn’t know you cared.” You say vulnerably.

“Of course I care,” he says, and now there’s something more familiar in his tone, something that actually sounds like him again, even if the concern hasn’t fully left his face. “Who else is going to call me every time something in your house decides to fall apart, hm.”

Your lips twitch at that despite yourself, a small breath leaving you as some of that tension in your chest eases, even if it doesn’t fully go away. “So that’s the only reason you care?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, your voice lighter than it probably should be for what you’re actually asking.

Even as the words leave your mouth, there’s a part of you that pauses, because you don’t really know where that came from. A week ago you could barely hold a normal conversation with him without overthinking every little thing he said, without second guessing the way you stood or where you looked whenever he was over fixing something in your house, and now you’re sitting here in a hospital bed questioning him like this without even hesitating.

It throws you off more than anything.

Maybe it’s the medication they’d given you earlier, still sitting somewhere in your system, loosening whatever filter you usually had, making it easier to say things you’d normally keep to yourself. That’s the only explanation you can come up with, because there’s no way you’d be this forward otherwise, especially not with him.

He watches you for a second after that, like he’s caught onto the shift just as much as you have, his gaze settling on you in a way that makes your chest feel warmer than it should.

“That’s not what I said,” he replies, his tone quieter now, but there’s something in it that makes it clear he’s not brushing you off, not really.

You watch as he finally moves fully into the room, like he’s done holding himself back, his hand reaching down to pull a chair from the wall beside the door before dragging it over and sitting right next to your bed. It’s close, closer than he needs to be, but neither of you say anything about it.

And now he’s right here, close enough that you don’t really have anywhere else to look.

His attention doesn’t leave you once.

It makes you want to look away, break it somehow, but you can’t bring yourself to. You just lay there, holding his gaze, even as it makes something in your chest tighten in a way you don’t want to think about too much.

“Do you remember anything?” he asks.

You let out a small breath, glancing down for a second like that might help you find something you missed. “I can remember the crash,” you say slowly, trying to piece it together as you speak, “like I remember the bike and hitting the ground and everything, but after that it just cuts off.”

You shift slightly against the bed, your brows pulling together. “Which I’m actually kind of thankful for, because if my head still feels like this now, I don’t even want to know how bad it was when I got brought in.”

He watches you the whole time, his gaze fixed on your face like he’s taking in every little detail, every shift in your expression, and it does something to him he doesn’t really want to sit with.

Because he remembers it.

He remembers it clearly, not in bits the way you do. He remembers the way you looked, the way you kept drifting in and out, the way you said it like it didn’t even cost you anything to say.

And he remembers exactly what you said.

“You don’t remember anything after that?” he asks again, and this time it’s not just a question, there’s something behind it, like he’s checking before he says anything else.

You shake your head, a little more sure this time even though it’s frustrating, like you should be able to remember and you just can’t. “No. Nothing. It’s just blank.”

You look at him properly then, and it’s the way he reacts that makes you pause. Not what he says, but what he doesn’t. He just nods once, like he expected that, but there’s a look on his face that says otherwise, one that you couldn’t name properly.

It doesn’t sit right with you.

“Why,” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, “did I do something?”

He huffs out a breath through his nose, like he almost laughs but doesn’t fully commit to it. “You always do something.”

“That’s not helpful,” you mutter, shifting a little on the bed as you look at him again, more serious now. “What did I say?”

He doesn’t answer straight away, which makes your stomach drop. Because if it was simply nothing, he would’ve said something, but it was as if he was holding himself back from doing so. It surely couldn’t be that bad, whatever you may have said.

“Jack,” you pressed, panic in your voice, “what did I say.”

He looks at you then.

“You told me you’re in love with me,” he says, like it’s a normal thing to say, like it didn’t just completely shift everything between you in the span of a second, “in front of half the room.”

For a second, you just look at him.

Properly look at him, like maybe if you stare long enough the words will rearrange themselves into something else, something less insane, something that actually makes sense coming out of your own mouth. Your brain lags behind, struggling to catch up, like it’s still stuck somewhere before the crash while everything else has moved forward without it.

“I what?”

“You heard me.”

Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out straight away, because it’s hitting you in pieces now, slow and heavy, each part worse than the last as it actually starts to settle.

“Oh my God,” you say, sounding utterly horrified.

“Oh my God,” you say again, louder now, your hand lifting instinctively before dropping again when your head protests the movement, the dull ache making everything feel that much more real. “No, I didn’t– I wouldn’t–”

You stop yourself.

Because you would.

“I am so sorry,” you rush out, the words picking up pace before you can even think about slowing them down, like if you don’t get them out now he’s going to look at you differently. “I didn’t mean to say it like that, or out loud, or in front of people– especially not your coworkers, like that is actually the worst possible place that could’ve happened, I literally could not have picked a worse moment for that if I tried–”

You drag a hand down your face, pressing your palm against your cheek for a second, your thoughts already running ahead of you before you can even catch them.

“I don’t even remember saying it, which somehow makes it worse, because now I’m hearing it from you and I don’t even get to know how it came out or what I said before it or after it, and that just makes me look even more insane–”

You glance at him quickly before looking away again, your voice getting faster the longer you keep going. “Did I say anything else? Actually don’t tell me, I don’t think I can deal with that right now, like genuinely I think I’d rather not know if it gets worse than that–”

A breath leaves you, somewhere between a laugh and something closer to a groan, your head tipping back slightly against the bed.

“This is so bad,” you continue, the words tumbling over each other now, your brain refusing to slow down. “Like I’ve completely ruined it, haven’t I? I’ve made it weird now, and you’re not even gonna come over anymore, and every time something breaks in my house I’m just gonna have to deal with it myself because I decided to confess my feelings in front of an entire hospital like that’s a normal thing to do–”

You barely paused to breathe, your thoughts running ahead of you faster than you can catch them, too caught up in defending yourself, in trying to explain it away, to even realise what you’ve just done again.

Because you’ve said it again.

Just as easily.

Right in front of him.

And you don’t even notice it but Jack does.

He doesn’t interrupt you though, doesn’t point it out, doesn’t say anything at all. He just sits there, watching you, one brow lifting slightly, amusement settling into his expression the longer you keep going, like he can’t quite believe you’re doing this without even realising it.

“And now you’re just sitting there,” you add, your voice still rushing out, “like I haven’t just made everything ten times worse, and I don’t even blame you if you don’t want to come near me after this because I wouldn’t either, I’d actually avoid me at all costs–”

You stop just enough to breathe, your chest rising a little quicker, your eyes finally landing back on him properly. There’s a small shift in his expression, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly, his brows lifting just a bit like he’s watching something you haven’t caught onto yet.

It doesn’t make sense to you, the way he’s acting like this, like you didn’t just make everything awkward between you, like you didn’t just ruin whatever this was supposed to be.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice softer now, more confused than anything.

What you didn’t expect was for him to suddenly lean forward, closing the short distance between you, and before you can even fully process what he’s doing, his hand comes up to your face, fingers settling along your jaw as he kisses you.

It shuts you up instantly.

Completely.

One second you were still mid-rant, the next you’re just there, kissing him, your brain trying and failing to catch up with what’s happening. Your breath catches slightly against him, your eyes fluttering shut as you lean into it without even thinking, your hand coming up to grip lightly at the fabric of his shirt like you need something to ground you.

His hand stays where it is, steady against your face, his thumb brushing just slightly against your skin as he deepens it, slow enough to make you feel it properly, like he’s been waiting to do this and finally decided to stop holding back.

And you respond just as easily to the kiss, like all that overthinking you usually do just isn’t there right now.

He tastes like coffee and mint, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to him from the hospital mixed with his cologne, and it settles into you in a way that makes your chest tighten, your fingers curling a little tighter into his shirt as you lean into him just a bit more.

You don’t even realise how long it lasts.

It’s only when he finally pulls back, slow and unhurried, that your head starts catching up, your breath still uneven as your eyes open and find his straight away.

You can feel it then, the heat you feel, the way everything feels just slightly off in the best way, and you’re pretty sure it shows, because there’s no way you look normal right now. A small smile pulls at your lips before you can stop it, and you try to turn your head, instinct kicking in like you suddenly remember how to be self-conscious again.

He doesn’t let you.

His hand stays where it is, steady against your face, and he dips his head just enough to keep your attention on him, his expression shifting into something that looks a little too pleased with himself, like he got exactly the reaction he wanted.

Jack Abbot who was having a terrible shift. Who was going through the motions of pushing the pain from his leg down and trying to find a place to rest when he hears a soft cry, a whimper even- coming from behind the door of the supply closet. Opening it and expecting maybe the intern who got yelled at by the radiologist but it’s a nurse- and a baby. A baby who’s barely a few months old- sleeping in your arms while you cry and try to not wake the baby up after working so hard to get her to sleep. “I’m sorry Dr. Abbot, I was just-” you sob but stop when he holds his hand up- as if to say it’s okay, grunting softly when he slides down the wall next to you before sighing in relief. “Who’s this?” He asks, nodding towards the little pink bundle that your husband deposited in your arms a few hours ago- grumbling about her wanting you and won’t take the bottle and how he needed sleep while you were trying to chart on your patients.

Jack Abbot who holds your daughter for the first time that night- taking her in his big arms while you chart next to him. It was cathartic for you both- Jack hasn’t held a baby in years and she somehow made him forget about the shooting pain in his leg and heart and you haven’t had someone else hold her without her screaming or feeling anxious. She settles in his arms- doesn’t struggle the way she does with your husband. There’s silence in the supply room that night- the soft, sweet sounds of your daughter cooing or sighing in her sleep that you’ve fallen in love with while Jack rests against the wall and lets the weight of her ground him. He hasn’t felt this relaxed since his wife passed- hasn’t been able to let his mind be silent and for a minute he thinks he’s able to do this again. He’s able to live- even if she’s not there anymore with him. Who doesn’t dread going home that morning.

Jack Abbot who watches you nearly every shift- exhausted and struggling with a newborn because your husband refused to be a father. The hospital child care center won’t take infants until they’re 6 months old- you’d bring her if you could because you knew your husband didn’t love her. It became painfully obvious when you both found out it was a girl- his smile dropped, his face told you everything- he didn’t want this baby. He didn’t want your daughter. Her father rejected her- he went through the motions when you told him you were pregnant. Your husband smiled and nodded when they asked if he was excited- but he was still detached. Completely different uninterested, didn’t even help you postpartum- left you bleeding and sore and mentally exhausted but said women do it all them time. His mom did it three times- you’re fine.

Jack Abbot who sees the exhaustion on your face- who sees the way you fight to stay awake because you’ve spent all day tending to your daughter and now you’re trying to work and tend to patients now. He can’t coddle you- he doesn’t. Who knows you’re competent but he can tell you to sit down- he can tell you to eat something because you need to keep your energy up. Who slides you a coffee at 3 am, perfect temperature and made exactly how you like because he pays attention to you. Who slips protein bars in your pocket- offers you some of his dinner because he makes way too much and won’t even get to eat it all so it shouldn’t go to waste. Who trusts you- immediately finding a bond with you because you’re both passionate about what you do and- you’re both lonely.

Jack Abbot who recognizes your daughters cries now- who smiles softly when he sees her in her carrier at the nurses station with your after your husband left her there without even a text or so much as a warning. “She’s teething,” you apologize- attempting to gently shove a pacifier in her mouth but she won’t stop and her little face is scrunched up in anger and tiny fists balled up to let the entire pit know she’s upset. “C’mere- no none of that,” Jack fake chastises the baby when she whimpers- taking her out of her carrier and asking if it’s okay to take her for a moment. Who takes in your exhausted look and messy hair and the tears pooling in the corners of your eyes. Who you find 15 minutes later in the break room with your daughter in his lap- gumming on his gloved fingers and drooling all over his hand while he reads a case study out loud.

Jack Abbot who doesn’t shame you for having your daughter- who helps you in those few months until she’s able to go to the hospital’s daycare. When he’s not busy he’ll take her in his big arms and call her a baby bunny because of the way she kicks in frustration when someone takes her from him- little angry thumps that endear him. Who lets you cry on his shoulder when you find out your husband was having an affair- “you’re just not the same anymore,” his excuse when you when you confronted him about it. But you didn’t cry for your marriage- you wept for your baby. Sweet little girl with big eyes and a gummy smile- “I don’t think he ever loved her,” a confession to Jack, while wiping your face and sighing before Jack tells you “you love her- that’s enough.” Who helps you through the divorce process- even arguing on the phone with the expensive lawyer your husband hired because they were trying to leave you with nothing.

Jack Abbot who is there for all your daughter’s firsts. Her first tooth- poking out like little fangs and going “ow!” dramatically when she bites him for the first time. Her first solids- baby sat in his lap while you push a spoon of puréed veggies at her and says it looks disgusting- when you try to scold him because now the baby is making a face and- “I’m just being honest.” Who gets excited when she takes her first steps- chunky legs tentatively taking a step forward while the nurses encourage her and the only person she wants to walk towards is him. Catching her before she falls and throwing her up in the air with a laugh and a “good job baby bunny!” Who is actually her first word- not mama or dada but “ACK!” trying to mimic you saying Jack. Repeating it over and over when he says “no- Abbot,” “ACK” “Dr. Abbot,” “ACK.”

Jack Abbot who stays by her bedside when she gets sick- when you bring her into the ER because something is wrong and you know this isn’t normal. Who watches you stumble over your words while you try to take control of triage but- this isn’t someone else’s child- she’s yours. You know her breathing is off, you’ve been watching her fever and it refuses to budge, she hasn’t had an appetite or wanted water- you even tried to bribe her with popsicles or soda and she didn’t even react. Who watched you force back tears while you rattle off her vitals and didn’t stop until his heavy hand landed in your shoulder- “hey, we got her okay? I got her.” Who goes up to the peds floor to check on you both after his shift was over- leans against the doorframe when he sees you asleep with your head right next to her on the bed. Who smiles when he hears her little “rabbit?” because she still can’t say Abbot- “hey baby bunny,” with a whisper so he doesn’t wake you up. Who promises you he’s not tired- he’ll watch her while you go change and take a shower- he’ll watch her while you work that night because you can’t afford to miss a day of work since the divorce. Who spends the night reading to her- checking her vitals and monitors and coloring with her. Who gives her as many popsicles as she wants- both their mouths purple when you come in during your lunch and ask if they’ve had actual food yet.

Jack Abbot who watches her little face crumple every time she gets disappointed when her sperm donor bails on her- when he doesn’t show up to his scheduled visits because he’s busy with his new girlfriend and her son. Her son that he’s devoted to- a boy who can play catch and run around and who he can be proud of. And maybe that hurts you more than anything because his absence is purposeful- his lack of love was a choice. And Jack can’t understand how this little girl’s father can willingly leave her life. She’s so bright and sweet- has your eyes and smile and the little scrunch of her nose when he tells her she needs to do her homework- “I didn’t do my homework- that’s how I lost my leg.” Who sits her at the break room table to help her- basic math or reading but he’s encouraging her and smiling and wondering what this would have felt like if he and his wife would have had any kids.

Jack Abbot who falls for you so easily. Who’s watched you struggle for 5 years alone with your daughter. Who loves your laugh- because you still have a sense of humor and will make snide comments that have him doubled over some times. Who still has little supply room breaks with you- sitting on the floor with your backs to the wall like when you first met. Sharing a protein bar between you both and taking a minute to just breathe. Who reminds you that you’re a good mom- that you’re doing the best you can and your daughter is happy and that’s what’s important. Who makes sure you get approved off for holidays or her birthday or any little dance recital that she has- who also buys her flowers for said dance recital and watches with a smile when she demands he see her practice. Who loves your smile- soft and sweet and even amid the chaos of the ER it’s like a breath of fresh air for him. Who sits on the roof with you after a tough shift- sharing pizza and beer and watching the sunrise together with your hands dangerously close and brushing together.

Jack Abbot who knows your daughter’s favorite color is purple, that her favorite ice cream flavor is strawberry, that she hates math but loves reading so he buys her books, that she loves to color and sing and he knows her favorite song and knows the characters in her favorite movie. Who listens to you argue on the phone again when her dad says he can’t make it to the zoo date that he promised- all while she sits at the nurses hub with her backpack and a sad face and- “he’s not coming- is he?” But Jack says he’ll take her- he’ll take her to the zoo instead. Asking if she’d like that and if you would mind and the three of you spend the day together- like a family would. Where she sits on his shoulders and points out the elephants or where he helps her lean over to feed the giraffe or when he buys her as many stuffed animals as her little arms can carry. Who passes her to you- when she’s asleep and dozed off in his arms and when she settles back against you she whispers- “goodnight daddy.”

➻ taglist (click to join!):

boots! that’s my ego boost! | @targaryenluvs

javadi and santos whine about the seemingly never ending pairs of heels you have. is it your fault your boyfriend loves to see your ego boosted?

kissed and made up | @/targaryenluvs

after pissing off your boyfriend in the late hours of night before his shift, you decide to bring him a nice big lunch during said shift. except not one of his coworkers knew you were actually real, let alone oh so gorgeous and sweet!

beyond infatuation | @rizbert

jack abbot is obsessed with you and he’s going to make it everybody else’s problem

menace!jack | masterlist | @yournamesnob

Two idiots in love being absolutely fucking annoying with each other and making it everyone's problem

Visiting Jack at work | @dixonlvr

Secret relationship | @/dixonlvr

3 times The Pitt suspected your relationship with Jack and 1 time you revealed it.

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 | @springtyme

The night takes a turn when Jack finds you in the ER hallway with two little girls who look unmistakably like you. He realizes there’s a whole part of your life he never knew about. But maybe, if you let him, he’d really like to understand it.

You better think about your next words carefully, or they will be your last ones | @savemefromanepicoftimewasted

Babies, and older children alike had always gravitated towards you, it’s why you’d chosen pediatrics. Jack had been all for it, wanting you to be happy with your choice and not end up regretting it down the line.

husband jack abbot  | @satcrns

…for I am the Lord who heals you | @mercury-retrogay

Tragedy often forces action. After Jack Abbot lost his wife, he tried to raise his kid the best he could, now as a single father. And he got damn lucky with the one he got. So when you're invited to go to Pitt Fest with your friends, he isn't overly worried about you making bad choices. But it was never your choices he should have worried about.

The Pitt’s Baby | @xreader1989

My Girl | @fleurrain

The PITT didn’t expect to ever meet the girl that had changed Abbot’s mood for the better, much less under the conditions you arrived in. After a quick thinking move saves a patient’s life, Abbot can’t withhold the pride he has for you and your work.

boyfriend!jack abbot x reader fluff  | @abbottini

Aces | @somethingeh

you know jack isn't looking for anything serious, so what do you do when you find yourself with a very permanent problem?

you are in love | @cowboylikemillie

Walking HR Violations | @neo-nomatrix

The Pitt knows you and Jack Abbot as two of the best emergency medicine doctors they have. They tend to see a different side when the clock hits 7:00 am. A side in which, HR should likely be involved.

a coparenting blurb | @det-loki

Staring Problem | @gemmawritess

You can’t take your eyes off your boyfriend but he can’t take his eyes off of you either

a little bit of sunshine [masterlist] | @mayfieldss

over a series of night shifts you become acquainted with your coworker Jack Abbot. He's a stranger to you more than a coworker, but as work pushes you closer together, tensions rise and what is supposed to be a friendly relationship becomes something more. Slow burn Jack abbot x sunshine!reader fem!reader

worth every penny | @euon111a

the best kind of company

Thirty Minutes to Tell the Truth | @adisillusionedauthor

My hand was the one you reached for (all throughout the great war) | @teamhappyme

nightmares, part two | @bunnywritesfanfic

i bet on losing dogs | @leviathanspain

old habits die hard

jack abbot during cuffing season | @i9chicago

Does Your Mother Know? | @punkgeekcryptid

First day [1], pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5 | @tedmustache

What was supposed to be a simple first day, turns into the kind of dramatic entrance people tend to remember… especially Dr. Jack Abbot.

Jack Abbot x Robinavitch!Reader

Your Move, Abbot | @jrabbott

Jack and reader are in a situationship, but readers ready for a relationship. Jack isnt but Liam Johnson the neonatologist is.

Embarrassed? | @/jrabbott

Reader thinks Abbot's embarrassed of her

PUPPY | @xobiggs

falling for the older guy at work.

The Bet | @alexandritte80

With Mrs. Abbot heavily pregnant, the hospital makes a bet. Who will win?

You Should’ve Asked | @deliciousangelfestival

You keep your personal life private at your new job. Until one day, your son’s innocent answers spark wild office gossip about your “mysterious” husband. Everyone thinks they’ve figured him out.

The Neighborhood Doctor | @/deliciousangelfestival

Dr. Jack Abbott can handle anything in the ER. Gunshot wounds, nonstop chaos, and barely any sleep are all part of his routine. That is his world, and he manages it just fine. What he cannot stand is something as simple as a neighborhood BBQ. But when his wife asks him to go, he shows up anyway. His plan is simple. Say a few unsettling ER stories, make his exit early, and get through the night. The outcome, however, does not go the way he expects.

No Excuses, Part 2 | @/deliciousangelfestival

Dr. Jack Abbott walks into his night shift expecting another case, until he steps into the trauma room and finds the patient isn’t a stranger, but someone from his past.

In Sickness and in Health | @moondustfairies

You didn't want to worry Jack and his overprotective nature, but when you started to feel ill, all you wanted was your husband.

Baby Blues | @/moondustfairies

Jack comes to visit you at work on his day off, bringing with him your little baby girl.

Eulogy | @porchlightfairy

while jack is at work, reader experiences undescribable pain. come to find out she was suffering from an ectopic pregnancy and is rushed into the hospital during shift.

Over It | @saccharinespring

Jack Abbot broke your heart without rhyme or reason. Now you’re just trying to get over it, despite his constant attempts in not letting you.

It Had To Be You | @munsonpetal

you and jack abbot have known each other for five years. over those five years, feelings on both ends began to bloom. will one failed date finally give one of you the courage to admit your feelings?

chain of command | @hearts4hughes

3 + 1 | @/hearts4hughes

three times jack abbot flirted with you without you realizing, and the one time you realized

casual !! | @/hearts4hughes

Burnt Toast | @bitchinbarzal

jack is on school drop off duty.

The Edge | @/bitchinbarzal

jack realises he has little eyes on him now.

my old guy | @/bitchinbarzal

jack can face a lot but your four year old is something that scares him.

Rumors | @girlmeetsworld2005

Love Burns | @lostinmyownwaves

Reader is a firefighter who is married to THE Jack Abbot. You and your team respond to a call that goes side ways. Jack comforts you through it all. Basically just Jack Abbot fluff with a smidge of angst. Also Robby acts like a big brother to you.

Emergency Cinnamon Roll | @/lostinmyownwaves

Reader meets Jack Abbot when her neighbor is in peril and sent to the ER. After he helps them out, reader wants to show her appreciation and bring him a sweet treat.

Staying Overtime | @pellucid-constellations

You and Jack had been dancing around each other for months, playing a game that neither of you would label. But then you took that leap, pushed the boundaries, and Jack had to confront just how much he cared about you. He just wished it hadn’t been like this.

secret baby with jack abbot… | @soulluvrrr

adjustment period | @whatif-ialreadydid

growing pains from your switch to the night shift with your attending come to a head

“Pearls” | @/whatif-ialreadydid

a missing earring sends you down a spiral

meet me at our spot | @/whatif-ialreadydid

after a month of meeting jack after your shifts, you finally resolve to do something about the pesky little crush on your boss

Dad jack | @richeeduvie

Jack struggles to keep his cool as he watches the chubby, perfect baby you’ve given him get her shots…

Jelly Little Baby | @/richeeduvie

Jack attempts to be kiss the love of his life, his obsession, his everything, the mother of his child, you. He attempts this in front of said chubby child. Which…was a big, big mistake.

birthday blues | @/richeeduvie

You can barely handle your excitement to give Jack his birthday cake...until you overhear him complaining about your all too peppy behavior to Robby.

cry into him | @/richeeduvie

A cruel patient has you in tears in the supply closet, and when Jack is the one to find you, the need to comfort is only made up of instinct.

SPRING INTO SUMMER MASTERLIST | @avidplutofan

first loves always come and go as the years of life ebb and flow. but one thing is constant in your life. one person, really, that refuses to leave your life completely. because no matter where you goes, jack abbot is there to remind you that he’s always there to stay.

ᴍʏ ᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴀɴ | @daehosunshine

You’re always teasing Jack about being older, but when the hospital faces a potential cyber attack and you’re the one who don't know how to use a fax machine, the tables turn.

Oblivious to Him | @mabel-777

jack likes his younger resident, but, you are completely oblivious to it, thinking he’s just a nice attending.

Keep It Secret | @/mabel-777

trying to keep a secret relationship around your coworkers.

Nothing More | @/mabel-777

jack thought you were nothing more than a casual relationship, but when he lost you, he realized how badly much he screwed up.

tick tock, biological clock | @mariasont

you’re proactively planning your fertility like a responsible med student. dr. abbot, however, would greatly prefer you planned literally anything else.

hostile work environment | @/whatif-ialreadydid

jack pushes your boundaries at work, then finds a way to make it up to you

Nightshift!sunshine!reader | @/whatif-ialreadydid

say please | @/euon111a

he can’t help that he likes you more than others

Just Tipsy | @/gemmawritess

Sleepy and totally ‘just tipsy’, your boyfriend is happy to look after you.

Leggy! | @/richeeduvie

a collection of fics where the beautiful, oddball daughter you gave Jack becomes attached to his prosthetic as much as she is attached to him…

Speaking In Plurals | @/pellucid-constellations

When Jack met you, his world shifted. He began to speak in plurals, in groups of three. It was him, and then it was you, and then it was Penny. He’d do anything for his girls, and he wanted to make that clear. Official. Concrete with titles and questions and the ring he kept mulling over. And then life happened.

Someone Noticed, Part 2, Part 3 | @/deliciousangelfestival

Jack Abbott chose the night shift for the quiet. Fewer voices. Less panic. Easier to control. He didn’t need recognition. Never asked for it. So it threw him off when someone started noticing him.

Private Patient, Part  2 | @/deliciousangelfestival

What if Jack Abbott ends up with a rich wife instead of being the provider?

Jack shakes his head stiffly; it’s more like one slight jolt to snap him out of it because thinking of you while he’s on his way to work with you is as ridiculous as you are. It’s uncharacteristically pathetic of him, maybe. There. Maybe that’s something he can blame you for. 

“Nice use of your blinker, bmw-bastard-bitch.” 

Jack nearly whispers it, but that asshole of a driver is what gets his mind to slip away from you, so…thank them for that. Traffic’s slow, and he begins flipping through mental protocol for the night. Staffing numbers, open beds, that critical case that might get transferred down from Fox Chapel–

“Dr. Abbot, there is no need to dryly sass me when all I’ve been doing is assisting you like a champ.” 

“...You are. You are assisting me very well, which is why I need to sass you. With all the praise Dr. Robby’s been giving you, I can’t have your ego building on me. 

Jack’s mouth twitches widely before he jolts his head once again to slap whatever was gonna decorate his face. 

Just leave him alone, kid. 

…He hopes you’re still wearing your pink shoes after he teased you about them for the fortieth time. Jack likes them. They’re…visual stimulation for the slow shifts. 

Okay. Traffic? Traffic’s slow. Staffing’s short on him. Of course, but there seemed to be an endless number of open beds last night. That critical case is definitely getting transferred down from Fox Chapel, poor, bare-budget fucks–

“What the fuck?” 

And there. He sees her. 

You. 

Across the street. Walking alone. Head down, coat zipped tight, tote bag slung over one shoulder and a thermos at your hip. But then…Jack’s focus locks in. 

You’re wearing your pink sneakers and a wool beanie with little specks of glitter. Your badge is clipped to your coat, which bounces with every hurried step. You’re tugging your scarf higher, cheeks are flushed from the cold…because, of course, they are. It’s 30 fucking degrees. Your fingers–they’re bare. What the hell? Do you not own gloves?

Jack’s jaw locks. His foot eases off the gas before his eyes narrow like he’s tracking a threat. Because this, sleepy? 

This isn’t cute. It isn’t quaint. It isn’t you not knowing what’s good for you because you believe the world is perfect and kind, and everything Jack could roll his eyes at you for thinking in the first place, only to let up and realize that, eventually, that’s what makes you you. That’s what been prodding at his fucking heart like a badly held needle to skin in all the months he’s known you. 

This? This is dangerous.

Jack slows the truck. Stops. His fingers flex around the steering wheel, because seriously. What the hell are you doing walking alone?

He watches, heartbeat climbing—not from the initial surprise, but from…a casual, dry rage. Hey, if he weren’t in therapy, he probably wouldn’t know how to name that feeling. But you–you’re so damn feminine in the way you move, the bounce in your step, the shiny pastel accessories clipped to your grey scrubs. Even the ridiculous pink thermos swinging at your hip looks out of place in the darkening, frozen street.

“What the hell are you doing?” 

He mutters his question before making the next turn hard and quick, looping the block with what’s probably muscle memory before pulling up to the curb just ahead of your path. He flashes his lights once. 

If you keep walking cause you think he’s some creep, he’s going to drag you into this truck. 

You’re blinking in surprise, and Jack knows you’re hesitating when you don’t recognize the truck just yet. But when you do, you smile as you pick up your pace, jogging the last few steps to him. 

Jack rolls the passenger window down. 

“Hey, Dr. Abbot! What are you doing out here so early? Trying to beat me agai–”

“Get in.” 

Jack says it flatly. Eyes unblinking. He doesn’t care for or about your face wearing confused, slight hurt when he does. 

You flutter those eyelashes quickly, and this time…isn’t gonna work on him, sleepy. Again. Not this time. 

“Wait–what? Jack, I’m only five minutes from the hospital. Ain’t a big deal.”

Jack doesn’t take his eyes off you, because what is wrong with you? Why are you…out here alone, putting yourself in danger? Whether that be the cold or something–someone else. And you don’t accept his first offer? 

His first order. 

His voice goes sharper. 

“It’s below freezing. It’s already dark. You’re walking alone. I said get in. 

Jack doesn’t know there’s something in his voice that silences any further teasing from you, but his eyes flicker to the way there’s hesitation in your hands, and then he uses his to grip the wheel of his truck. 

“Jack, I’m not a baby bird. It’s Pittsburgh. People walk.” 

“Not women alone. Not at night. Not in that. 

Jack gestures to your coat, which is too thin. Your shoes, too pink. 

You frown. “What’s wrong with my coat? And…how are you still finding a moment to get on me for my shoes?” 

“What’s wrong with it? Jesus,–” Your name comes out of his mouth in a near groan, and he doesn’t understand why your mouth parts slightly at that. “You dress like a candy striper in an alleyway. You ever heard of blending in? That maybe, if you’re gonna walk alone in the fucking dark, then try not wear something that screams “I’m the bubbliest woman on earth?" Seriously, sleepy.” 

Your frown deepens, and maybe Jack will feel guilt over that later. But not now. He needs you to understand. 

“Wow. Rude.” 

You’ve never seen him like this before. Sure, he forced you to report that flirtatious old man, whom you swore was just a victim of dementia, who thought you were his wife, to HR. Sure, sometimes you catch the dry snark in his quips whenever you get “too” smiley with your Mel or Dr. Langdon. But this…this confuses you as much as it hurts you. 

“You don’t get to be oblivious. Not out here. You walk like nothing can touch you, like no one’s watching. You’re you. You? You're all…pink shoes and wide eyes, and you talk to strangers like they’re already friends.” 

He breathes in sharply through his nose before he’s not breathing at all.

“And that’s exactly the kind of person who doesn’t come home one night.”

The wind picks up. You stare at him. He doesn’t look away. Not now, but it’s the way there’s difficulty in that, difficulty where there never was with anyone else.

What are you doing to him?

“Jack...you think I’m that careless? I'd never...”

Jack blinks. No. Because you’re fucking perfect. 

It’s nearly gritted. 

“No. I think." Jack's head shifts stiffly. He swallows. "I just...think the world doesn’t deserve someone like you walking through it alone believing in it.”

You’re quiet, and Jack ignores that feeling that he purposefully doesn’t name…because it’s almost something like fear. That he went too far, which he couldn’t possibly have because you need to understand what you’re doing to him–

To yourself.

You’re quiet. Then, almost shyly–something so unlike you unless he’s confident enough to want to make your cheeks flush. “You always this dramatic?”

Jack reaches the other seat to open the passenger door. 

“Get in. You need a ride, you call me.” 

His eyes flicker to the hesitation in your hands, but he can tell you see there’s no point in arguing, which is good. 

Because something in his voice says this isn’t up for debate. 

“Thank you.” 

“Do not worry about that, kid.” 

Jack waits until you're buckled before he pulls back into the lane. His jaw’s still set. His shoulders are still stiff. But when he glances at you, really looks at you, there’s something in his eyes that’s closer to fear than frustration. But you don’t know that. He hopes you...or he never will. 

He rolls up the passenger and driver windows. He turns on the heat with a tense grip on the wheel. His prosthetic aches—not that he feels it under the rush of adrenaline simmering through him just because he found you taking a solo stroll.

“I’ve walked that street a hundred times, Jack. I’m fine.” 

“You ever hear a woman say that when we wheel her into the Pitt with a stab wound? With—”

Jack stops himself. No breath. No sigh. Just a slight head shake.

With severe injuries from sexual assault?

The rest of his question is said dryly. You falter, looking down at your hands. And quietly, almost to himself—

“You don’t get to be 'fine' when it’s dark and cold and you look like you’ve got a target on your back.”

Silence settles between them.

You don’t argue this time. You just sit beside him, small in the passenger seat, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

Jack stares straight ahead...cause he’s realizing something.

This isn’t just about attraction getting the best of his character, or admiration that’s shot in the head when he realizes the perfect, smartest nurse has the bright idea to walk in the cold streets of Pittsburgh after dark. It’s not even that reckless flutter he feels every time you brush past him in the trauma bay.

This is deeper. Sharper. Something dangerous in its own right.

Because you don’t even realize how vulnerable you are. How trusting. How bright in a world that eats people like you alive.

And Jack…he shouldn’t be at the point where he’d burn down the city if it meant keeping you safe, because that’s fucking weird. At most, he should feel…entitlement in his romantics. But this is not romantic. This is protective.

Too protective.

And that realization fucking punches him almost more than seeing you walking alone ever could.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

The hallway’s warmth fogs Mel’s glasses as you see her on her way out. She nods before she greets you and Jack brightly.  The way of her adorable nature is almost enough to forget where you just came from.

But when her smile drops at Jack's inability to really greet her back, it all comes seeping through.

"Don't tell me you forgot how to smile--"

"I'm betting my other leg that that case from Fox Chapel is being transferred down. I heard it's psych-central, and that's your house. You'll be the front nurse on that, I'm sure."

You unwrap your scarf, cheeks still flushed from the cold, while Jack shrugs off his jacket without saying much. You keep glancing sideways at him. 

You still carry the weight of his earlier tone, how surprised you are by how…rattled he got. 

It’s usually not hard for you to make your voice sit light, but here, you push it through your smile. 

“Sooo…you yell at all our nurses for walking to work?”

“No. I would if I caught them.”

You raise your brows, but he doesn’t elaborate when you do. He just fishes through his coat pocket, pulling out gloves. His. 

Worn black leather, and his hands…they’re big. The gloves are too big for you by a mile. He holds them out. 

You smile. 

What is your doctor doing?

“Is this an apology? Or some sort of peace offering?”

You watch his eyes focus on the gloves before they flicker up into yours. And the intensity of his brown eyes is telling you he’s still serious, and you can’t have that. Not after the way he thought you were deserving of…whatever the moment on the street was. 

Maybe he’s just having a bad start to his shift, and you’re receiving the brunt of it, because he cannot be this worried over you, because you’re worth Jack Abbot’s worry. 

You don't deserve his worry, or his casual, dry genius. You don't, and you can't have him pretending that you do.

So, you laugh softly, but Jack doesn’t crack. He just pushes the gloves into your hands more firmly. 

“Keep them.” 

He says it quietly. You blink. Your voice goes startled. 

“Jack, you don’t have to–” 

“I said keep them.”

Your eyes lock for a heartbeat too long. You can feel it in the way yours speeds up. 

You hold the gloves now, your smile gentling. Now? You’re less amused, you guess. More touched and blushed, but Jack’s already looking away, pulling open his locker and putting away his backpack like it’s just another shift, like he didn’t just nearly yell at you on the sidewalk for doing something you’ve done a thousand times before, only to then gift you with something you don’t think he’s ever lent out to anyone. 

“You know, for someone who’s probably the fortieth most dramatic person in the E.R, this is kinda…reactive. Possessive, doc. Where's H.R. when I need them?” 

Truly. You mean it as a tease. Just a soft joke. Not even as something to test the waters, but Jack only crosses his arms against his chest. 

“Just wear them, sleepy. If you paid attention, maybe you'd see that you don't live in the Bahamas."

There. You think he's over it with his dry joke along the slight smirk on his lips.

You slip the gloves on.

"Not now, we are literally about to start our shift-"

"I know, I'm just trying them on."

They hang a little over your fingers. Loose around your palms. You flex both hands. You study the way his warmth feels on your hands.

God. You try not to blush.

What is wrong with this man? What is wrong with you?

...Nothing, really, because who wouldn't feel their heart leap out of their chest when Jack Abbot is like this in his concern? In the slight lines and strong jaw of his face.

You try not to shudder when his hands take yours, casually slipping the gloves to fold them. He shoves them in your tote bag, nothing but the word nothing on his face.

"Does it bother you?"

"What bothers me?"

Jack doesn't blink at your question.

"The reaction." His eyes take a half-second glance at someone passing by, only to face back to you, his head shifted, and his voice is slightly quieter. "Would you rather me not care about you?"

The word not is nearly dragged out in the back of Jack's throat. The entire question is joking. Not teasing. Just asked like it’s nothing.

His mouth twitches when you do end up shuddering, because how can you actually not?

"...I could take it or leave it."

Jack nods with sarcasm in his thinning lips and narrowing eyes. He crosses his arms.

"Yeah. Okay, sleepy."

And Jack doesn’t say another word—he just heads for the trauma bay with that stiff walk, the one that comes when he’s thinking too much, when the limp you wouldn't know was there if you weren't paying attention disappears because he's focused.

You watch him go before you tug out his gloves from your bag. You don't laugh. You don't roll your eyes or come up with an internal quip to lessen whatever's at the pit of your stomach now.

You just put on his gloves to feel the warmth of them.

Of him.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Two days later. Sun is setting, but there is a resentful solace that doesn’t exist in the dark. Jack doesn’t think there’s anything about you he could call dark. He’d kill himself before betting on it. 

Robby’s half-dressed in street clothes, which is pretty unusual for Jack to see. The sweat’s still clinging to the back of his neck from the shift that just ended for him. Jack leans against the lockers, arms crossed, watching his friend shove his scrub bottoms into his bag with a little too much force.

Jack’s not feeling all too swell at a quip from his friend, the friend who’s obviously in a rush to go somewhere, still had time to make. 

“Didn’t know you were on hall patrol now, Abbot.” 

“I’m not?” 

Robby grins stupidly for a second or so. “You sure, brother? Cause I heard…what? A day? Two days ago, Dana saw you with sunshine. Thought you were gonna drag her in by the scarf.” 

Jack doesn’t take to the bait, even though and because it’s fucking stupid. He just picks something off his scrub top and mutters–

“She was walking alone.” 

“I know, that’s what Dana said she told her. And the scarf thing? Her words. Not mine. But uh–” Robby’s head shifts, tilting slightly with his eyes looking to the tile. He zips up his bag. “Walking alone as an adult. I know we don’t usually talk about things like this–I’m in no place to say anything–” 

“And here we are.” 

Jack finally takes himself away from the lockers to put his backpack in his. The pause sits for a minute, and there he thinks about it. 

Justification and defensiveness comes way too easy to him.

“If it was just you peeved enough to make her roll her eyes, that would’ve been that. But with what Dana was saying, just about the way you were acting when you came in…people walk in cities. Like, millions of people do. Every day, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t turn to Robby. He stares at the bottom of his locker. 

Jesus Christ, he wishes he could make this about his disbelief. He wishes how his inability to find this conversation funny and not targeted would be the result of the frustration over why everyone is questioning his frustration–his frustration over an E.R nurse who would know the dangers of walking alone at night as a woman found walking alone at night as a woman.

And sure. Yeah. It’s still there in his usual, casual confidence, but–

He knows what this is. He’s known it from the day he found you out in the street. He knows that you could’ve been walking in the middle of the day, sun down upon you and…whatever. You could’ve been with someone. 

And he’d still feel this heaviness in his chest telling him to go after you. 

He’d question if it’s smart for you to walk to work in the heat with scrubs and a sleeved shirt underneath. He’d question who it was you were walking with. He’d lecture you for riding with a stranger if you took an uber. 

It would be easier to not feel so damn guilty about it if he knew you weren’t so damn capable and compentent. That would make his possession over you valid. But…here they are. 

“You wouldn’t stop if you saw one of our nurses or residents taking a thirty minute stroll in the dark while they’re trudging through the snow? That you wouldn’t question their judgement, Robby?”

“...No. No. I would. I’d stop, I’d offer a ride. And walking by yourself when it’s dark out in the cold isn’t the best or most logical situation. Maybe I’d tell her that…I don’t know.”

Jack finally turns around, looking Robby in the eyes when he lets him. They stand under that familiar mechanical humming. The walls of the Pitt at work.

“For her sake, I’d bring up that I’d rather see her come into work in a cab and not an ambulance that had to have been called because she was robbed and hurt.” 

“There. That is what I am saying. That is–” Jack crosses his arms before sitting down on the bench. “It’s freezing. And dark. And she’s...look, she’s not street-sharp. You know her. Not cautious. Not really. She probably talks to every cab driver like they’re her therapist.” 

“Wouldn’t this not be a situation if she took a cab instead?” 

Jack stops his breath. Smartass. 

“And what about us or the place she’s dedicated her life to scream caution, brother?” 

Jack shakes his head before focusing in on Robby’s face, because as much as this isn’t the most valid anger, it’s also the most valid anger and why can’t Robby see this? 

“...She had no gloves.” 

Jack says it curtly, only going lower and louder on the word had. 

The closest he gets to turning away first is when Robby’s brows raise. 

“...No gloves? That’s your breaking point?” 

No. It’s the point where he realizes you matter more to him than you should, cause you have to matter to him a whole fucking lot–cause he shouldn’t feel like this and the only possible explanation as to why his heart is gonna jump out of his fucking chest at the sight of you is because you made it so he finds himself too worried at every step and too proud at every accomplishment you make with a needle or IV.

Because you’re too pretty and competent and bright and everything he can’t handle. So…the most you can do is allow him is worry. 

Even when that worry scares the shit out of him. 

“I am saying, statistically, women alone at night are more likely to–” 

“I know, Abbot. We know. But–” Robby looks up to the ceiling before crossing his arms. Jack laxes his cross to rest his palms on his knees. 

“You were worked up.” 

“How could you know? I didn’t monologue in front of Dana or anyone–” Jack blinks in his breaking. His head tilts before he glances a glare at the door. “...It wasn’t just Evans who mentioned it, was it?” 

Robby doesn’t nod, but his narrowing eyes give way. 

And Jesus Christ, it has to be a good thing. The usual thing of his character–the guilt in the first question Jack asks in his head. The question that’s aided by his hands turning into fists for a second or so. 

It’s not ‘Why would you tell Robby?’. Not ‘Did what he did bother you that much that you brought it up a day or two later?’ 

It’s ‘Why the fuck were you talking to Robby in the first place?’. 

…The guilt makes him aware, right?

“Concern, that’s warranted, Jack. More than. Also, don’t think I’m in a place to care but…I think it’s safe with the way you two act around each other to say that you wouldn’t have reacted like that if it were anyone else. And the way you reacted was a bit…for you, for you–it was just a little over the top. I mean...with the way you've been reacting to her more aggressive patients have been...a lot."

Jack's words come out defensive, fast. And there goes the fucking guilt. 

The patients? Why is he bringing up your slew of sleezy overdoses and drunks?

“You’re right, we’re good with each other, but we don’t usually talk about things like this. But if you’d like to know, I wasn’t that worked up, and even if I was, you are also right on how we don’t need our nurses hitching rides by gurnies.” 

“...You’re worked up right now.” 

…Is he?

Jack gives Robby a look, dry as desert from forever ago. 

“She had no gloves, Robby.” 

He couldn’t know that his fellow attending makes the decision to smile smally, it’s not natural, it’s a choice he makes in chance to have Jack get more worked up. 

What are you exactly doing to this guy?

Maybe the smile becomes more genuine with the question popping into Robby’s head. 

“This interrogation is stopping you from wherever you need to go. Go.” 

It’s definitely more genuine when Jack decides he wants the previous conversation to end. Robby nods his head. 

“...Date?” 

Robby scoffs. “No.” 

“Something with Jake?”

“...Nah–just taking the new bike out. Just got her from a guy upstate. Jack, you gotta see this thing. I’m trying to be casual about it, but I guess, uh, sly biker isn’t my style.” 

…Oh God, Robby.

Jack knows this isn’t a mid-life crisis. Not really, probably. What he knows is that E.R doctors tend to be adrenaline junkies, and sometimes they tend to be adrenaline junkies with the habit of suicidal ideation. Sometimes you get MDs turning into gamblers, sex addicts, drug addicts. Sometimes they put themselves somewhere dangerous. 

Sometimes they buy a motorcycle. 

He watches Robby scratch the back of his neck. His own expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s a delay—just enough time for a beat of concern to flicker behind his eyes because…yeah. A motorcycle.

“You get a helmet too, or just the death wish?”

He tries to say it casually. Robby laughs with a slow blink. “You used to jump out of helicopters. Don’t come for me.”

“Yeah, with a parachute. And orders. And a med evac team on standby. And I’m not exactly bragging about my military resume–” 

Not now. Jack swallows. He pretends Robby doesn’t for the sake of keeping the conversation light. 

“You jealous, man?” 

Jack snorts, lips twitching in something that might be a smile.

“Jealous of bugs in my teeth? No thanks.”

“You’re not invited anyway…” Robby swings his bag over his shoulder. “Grandpa.”

Jack’s head jolts back before he turns his palms up to the ceiling. 

“One, you on every technicality is closer to being a papa more than me. Two, you told me I have to see it. That’s an invitation. I am welcome. Three, I’m saying–you know better. You’ve been in the trauma bay long enough to know that.” 

He knows this conversation won’t exactly go anywhere, because Robby’s stubborn as shit. And that’s okay. He’s an adult. Jack’s sure he won’t be doing any BMX tricks around the block. But still, the reasoning for a sudden motorbike is obvious, and he can’t help but question. But the questions turn into quips, and he’ll…his friend will be okay. 

Robby simply shrugs before grabbing his keys from the locker.

“I need something, Jack. Maybe it’s good to find an outlet that isn’t running laps around the hospital. Like you. And me. And everyone else in here. Just, gotta get the edge of somehow.”

That’s the first time Jack’s posture falters. 

“The edge off what, exactly?”

He sees it quietly and again, Robby gives him a vague, dismissive shrug as he makes his way out. Doesn’t answer. Jack doesn’t push. But he watches.

We don’t need to find each other on the rooftop again. 

“Just–don’t go looking for chaos. You know how it wins. Often. And usually.”

Robby pauses at the door.

“Yeah.” His voice is softer. “I know.”

Then he’s gone. Jack keeps himself there for a bit, standing up to stare at Robby’s empty locker that he never actually locks, his reflection faint in the metal, its decorations of scratches. 

He’s not judging. Seriously. He just knows the feeling too well, and sometimes the feeling takes you over, promises you you deserve to feel it while telling you all the shitty ways you can get rid of it. Some of them get addicted to adrenaline. Some to noise. Some to numbness. Jack isn’t perfect in that department, he can’t be when he finds being co-dependent with his work and the Pitt ideal. That’s not healthy, right? No. It’s not. And he doesn’t care. Still, the guy’s trying to keep his addictions to minimum. 

His head snaps at the sound of a familiar voice trailing past the locker room. Jack makes his way out quickly, ignoring the ache of prosthetic when his does. 

He calls you out by your last name before he turns into the hall.

“When did you start gossiping with Robby–”

He stops when all he finds is Santos. A very confused looking Santos. 

His mouth parts. He grips the door frame before pulling on both ends of his stethoscope.

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else. You can…continue to go wherever you were going.” 

“...You thought I was sunshine?”

“Santos, I am apologizing. Do not push it.” 

“You heard me and you thought I was her? I sound nothing like her...I mean, I feel complimented–” 

“Go. Now. Thank you.” 

Santos leaves with what Jack thinks is a smile. He blinks once. 

He is trying. 

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

The trauma bay smells a little more like antiseptic than usual. An overhead light flickers. The night, as much as it started with Robby’s confrontation, is good. It’s been a long night, but the kind that Jack thrives in. Thrives in exhaustedly, but thrives none-the-hell-less. 

And sure, even with you as his little snitch, it’s easy to stay sharp when you’re across the room. 

“I think I’m having heart palpitations, Dr. Abbot. The means it’s been a good shift, right?” 

You pull off a pair of blood-streaked gloves. You’re breathing a little harder than usual, but of course, you’re smiling that smile of yours that’s somehow more energizing than cocaine. He’s guessing. Whatever the comparison, it’s resentfully more energizing. 

He watches you. As always nowadays. Screw you.

“I’m not saying our nurses fumble their way through central lines. But you? You, sleepy, are like a damn sniper. Solid work tonight.” 

He says it dryly. You raise a brow. 

“A sniper?”

“One shot. Clean. No mess. I blinked and you already had it taped.”

You snort as you toss your gloves and it’s streaky red into a bin. “I know what a sniper is. Just...that is probably the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.” 

Jack shrugs, eyes still on you. 

It’s a compliment. His compliment. Just take it. 

“I meant it as high praise. Snipers are efficient. Focused. Lethal.” He cocks his head to the side. “But unlike you, they’re usually the silent type.” 

You obviously don’t get his little jab is specific to you talking about him with Robby, but he lets that go when you let out a half laugh. 

In the end, he’s sure it’s good that he’d rather have you laughing that tucked away in the corner of his truck. 

“Okay. Doc, you are either flirting with me or insulting me and I genuinely can’t tell which one it is.” 

Jack’s mouth twitches. “That is the beauty of it. I keep you guessing.” 

He doesn’t answer your quip along your grin after. There’s only something quieter in his smirk–something he’s probably not gonna name because tonight was mostly good despite everything and he doesn’t want to ruin them. 

“You are definitely flirting. So, no–I’m not finishing off your charts for you.” 

…Whatever’s the quiet thing in the lines of his face must against his better judgement. It’s what got him flirting with you in the first place, what makes him softly slip up and find confident justification for said slip up later. 

He pretends to focus on a chart that, no, you will not finish. You are bullshitting him. He’s always finishing your ends of a chart. 

“You belong on the night shift.”

It’s an efficient thing inside of him, Jack guesses. It’s really quick to make him confident in his dry, low blurtings. 

You blink. He looks into your eyes. 

“What?” 

“You’re good. Too fast. Again, you’re from a more than capable bunch, but even the best nurses trip over themselves when they get assigned to night. You…adjusted like you didn’t have to.” 

Jack won’t notice the way your smile falters just a little. If he did, there goes his chance of staying confident. But he watches you shrug with folding arms, your soft voice slipping away from him. 

“I learned how to survive in chaos a long time ago.” 

…Yeah. He can tell. It’s why it’s unfortunate that it takes one moment of you out in the dark to know that doesn’t make a difference. 

Beautiful, capable girl. 

His eyes hold yours. He’d thank you for letting him if he didn’t realize the both of you are already post-shift. The morning sky is that bruised purple…like. Lavender. Lavender-grey. There’s headlights blinking down wet, frosted streets. 

“Walking again, sleepy?” 

“Just to the bus station. It’s not far.”

“Still dark out.”

“Thanks for the update, Weatherman. Jack, I promise–I’ll be fine. I’m not walking home, just making my way for the bus.”

He doesn’t smile as the both of you make your way down the hall to find the nurses’s station where you tucked your bag underneath a desk. You always leave him– 

The Pitt so quickly. He watches you tie your scarf with practiced hands. 

He feels himself press something more firm to the bottom of his throat. “I can pick you up. Drop you off. We work the same shifts most nights anyway. It’s just convenient.”

You look at him, and he’s beginning to accept the way your gentle expressions make him…falter’s a weak word. Ew. But also, it would be you, wouldn’t it? 

“Jack–” 

Get in his car. Let him take you home. 

“It’s not a big deal. I’m offering. That’s all.”

It’s obvious you’re hesitating on a reply, but Jack isn’t exactly sure it’s because you don’t believe the concern or…that you can see it all too well. 

“I’m suggesting, really. But–so you know. You don’t need to be out like that again. Not when I’m...when you have people willing to help you out.”

The latter is a bit more heavy on his chest, because that’s more likely to scare you away from him, right? 

“...Okay, Jack. If I need it. I promise.”

Jack nods once, briskly. Like it’s settled. But there’s something tight in his jaw, something he doesn’t say. Another unnameable thing.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Another evening stroll home.

You should’ve called a car.

You’re bundled up, yes–but your pace is one of a slowpoke. You’re tired. You’ve just finished a double, and it’s cold enough to bite at the tip of your nose. That damp Pittsburgh chill that’s seeping through your coat no matter how tightly you wrap it is almost as lovable as Whitaker, or the way Jack smells. 

Golly, you’re smart, aren’t you? 

But you needed the walk, the quiet. The feeling, however temporary, that you can move through the world on your terms. Even if it’s just ten blocks. Even if the reason why you first walked to the Pitt and then home isn’t as poetic. You just missed the bus twice that day. 

You pull your scarf higher over your mouth, hugging yourself as you pass the bar on the corner, one Heather and Co. promised they would take you out to when you first started working in the E.R. You watch a man stumble out, so you’re obviously missing all the fun.

You try not to flinch when he shouts something you can’t catch. You don’t really look up, even. It’s just a man being loud, as drunk men are. 

But what’s louder is that rumble of an engine slowing behind you. You can’t help the way your heart skips with a cold spike of adrenaline. That sound–there’s no way you don’t flinch at its rumble. 

…Of course. 

You sigh shakily, watching your breath managing to go cool against your scarf. It’s only a strange mix of relief and frustration tightening at your chest. 

You doesn’t even have to look to know who it is.

“Jeez.”

You steel yourself when Jack’s truck crawls up beside you, the window sliding down with that creaky, mechanical whine. 

Quick, what’s the quickest way you can settle your doctor? 

“Hey…” You look down to your bundled hands. “At least I’m wearing your gloves this time.”

Jack’s pale face wears nothing. Not even a blink. 

“I–” 

“I thought you said if you needed a ride, you’d tell me.” 

You close your eyes for a beat at how sharp Jack’s voice is. You count to three before you look at him. 

Quick, what’s the quickest way you can settle yourself? 

You watch your breath fog the air, scoffing light. “Are you, like, following me now?” 

Inside of you is a wanting you want to berate. That thing–that stupid, anxious flutter it always does around Jack, the thing that almost kills your quips and banter and births blushing and a shyness you can barely handle. It’s still here now. When he’s berating you. For being a grown adult, making the decision to walk home. 

“I just finished a double, you’re on your way to the Pitt…wh-why would I call you? That would make me some…l-leechy asshole. And you're gonna be late for work.” 

Jack nods sharply. Blinks once. Your heart speed up. 

“Leechy asshole. You made a good choice becoming an E.R nurse and not a poet, sleepy. Good choice.” You watch him press a button and faintly hear something like air start to blow. Heat. “Get in.” 

That thing. The flutter. As much as it infuriates you, it’s a small, pathetic part of you that makes you feel safer seeing him here. And if this was any other situation–flirtations in a trauma bay, watching him go stern when a patient hits on you and such, you wouldn’t hate that part of yourself. You usually don’t. 

But that part of you is what makes you almost immediately listen to him. It’s what makes you want to please him, satisfy whatever this is. And that? As much as you like him, you can’t let that happen when it’s not right, right? The way he worries isn’t…normal, right? 

And you’re almost to the point of not caring, of getting in the car, and that can’t happen. 

“You walked past a drunkard stumbling around with a bottle like it’s a damn .47.” 

His voice goes low, irritated. Your jaw tightens. 

You’re already at the point of feeling more embarrassed he caught you walking alone than angry at how he thinks he can act this way with you. And that’s…you’re 90 percent sure that’s not right either. So. 

“That guy from the bar? You noticed tha…” You shake your head. “He didn’t even look at me, Jack.” 

It’s obvious Jack isn’t satisfied with your defensiveness, because his voice lifts just enough that you know this is as close as he gets to raising it. 

“That is not the point. He could’ve. Or–not him, but the next night you decide to play with hypothermia, you find someone who takes advantage of the situation you put yourself in.” 

And there, with Jack’s lowering eyes and stern jaw, you feel your frustration curl into something meaner. Something tired. And you think he can see that, and that he can see why. 

You feel satisfaction swell against the fatigue of having to justify every step you take, of denying any justification of why Jack can act like this. 

“I’m not saying it would be your fault–I will…I am going to backtrack on that.” 

“Yeah, Jack. You better if you want me to get in your truck.” 

You couldn’t know how he takes that as an immediate challenge, even when he cocks his head lower and stiffly. 

“You’re don’t have to assume that every single being on the sidewalk is a threat. I’m just saying I’d rather…I’d rather have someone be there for you if there is.” 

You watch his jaw clench, and for second, you think you see something you’ll ignore. 

An actual raw, ugly fear in his eyes. That, if it’s there, it doesn’t matter how unjustified it is, you think you might have to let Jack have it. 

“I’ve told you this already. You know doctors don’t like to repeat lectures.” The wind gusts between you and the truck. “Get in.”

You look down at your shoes, fighting the way your throat aches, but when you begin to speak, you already know that your voice is gonna be smaller than it wants to be. 

“I said I’d ask when I needed you.”

…You know this can’t just be about tonight, or about the last time he found you one the street. It’s never just one moment about tonight. 

It’s every moment and shift and look you decided to find endearing–the times where Jack is waiting for something to go wrong so he can be the one to fix it. 

And with his soft curls and demanding eyes, you can’t ignore how you feel more grateful than furious. 

“And I said I didn’t want you waiting to you do.”

..It’s why you get in the truck with spite and cause all at once, why you buckle your seatbelt with stiff, careful hands before Jack pulls away from the curb without a word. 

“You’re freezing.”

“...You’re dramatic.” 

Jack pushes the passenger vent towards you, and the other passing car’s headlights catch the faint lines around his mouth, the one’s that appear when he’s close to a smile.

“You wanna talk about dramatic? You catch Robby's ride before he left?”

Both of you. Settled.

You stifle a giggle. "Yep. It’s…nice."

You have to stifle another when Jack’s head snaps at you. 

“Do not tell me you’re a biker girl. Absolutely not–” 

“No. Absolutely not. They are death traps…not that I’m judging your friend!”

The headlights pass, it’s nothing but the dark. You don’t see how Jack’s mouth falters, the way the lines disappear. 

“Well. He’s your friend, too.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

He is definitely late for his shift, like you said. But hey…it’s not exactly your fault. The heater hums low, pushing warm air towards you, and with that, the exhaustion you garnered from your double, and your strolling through snow, Jack assumes it’s why you ended up curled into the passenger seat, head tilted against the window, lips parted in a dream or whatever. He doesn’t say a word, he drives.

One hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh near where his prosthetic makes him whole. The radio is off, the scanner is off, and both his phone and pager’s been buzzing on the dashboard. Both are ignored. The hospital is long behind both of you. 

And he passed your street ten minutes ago. Hence, his being late isn’t your fault. 

He’ll claim that it isn’t your fault, cause that means the reason as to why he’s not at the job he needs to feel like breathing matters isn’t you. It can’t be. There can’t be any more chances to let you be the one to ruin him. That’s not really fair to you. 

“Sleepy?” 

You’re only stirring. Jack doesn’t sigh, and he doesn’t remember when he decided to keep going…but he did. You’re here. You’re safe. You’re asleep. And Jack…Jack can’t remember when the hell was the last time someone trusted him like this. Outside of the Pitt and off of a gurney, away from charts and recommendation letters. 

He watches your chest rise and fall with every breath, watches as your hair shifts as the truck bumps along a quiet neighborhood road. And really, he’ll tell himself it’s just about the peace in the way he tells him it’s not your fault. It’s cause of the stillness, the calm before a shift full of bleeders and chaos. But shit, when the hell has he ever been one to enjoy that calm?

No. Jack deserves the truth…most of the time. So. He knows it’s not the bullshit stillness or the calm. 

It’s the way you look right now. 

The prettiest, most unguarded thing curled up in his truck. You’re beautiful when you’re too competent for everyone’s good and when you’re the most vulnerable thing on earth. How dare you, kid? 

The realization finds that it isn’t just admiration. It’s not just protectiveness. It’s…oh. God. Fuck him. It’s in the way that says…that says–

You’re mine. And if the world’s too loud, I’ll drive us through the quiet until morning just to prove it, as if the light is where I’ve found solace all along. Crazy. 

He exhales slowly. Looks at the clock. 9:38 P.M.

Yeah, he’s miles past your apartment, nearly at that overlook where he sometimes parks when the weight of the world and past won’t lift. He’ll listen to his police scanner. Eat a ham sandwich.

He lets the truck roll to a gentle stop and puts it in park. He just…sits. He watches you. 

…He lets himself need you, as if it’ll only be this one, unspoken moment he’s indulging in. He lets his chest feel warm and his shoulders roll with what might be a shudder without guilt. Without denial. 

How can someone so beautiful make him feel ugly things?

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

You stir faintly, nose scrunching. You don’t wake. He doesn’t really move. 

He promises he’ll drive you home soon, but not yet. Not while the world still lets you sleep beside him, and not while he’ll let himself feel good about it.

"...You know nothing. How impossible is that?"

His hand flexes. His head cocks as he closes his eyes at a little noise you make. Something like a rumble.

...Not while he feels this good.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

You blink awake on your couch. Not in Jack’s truck or in your bed as if you made it there by yourself. Your couch. A blanket is tucked over yours, and it’s not the one you usually fold on your chair. It’s heavy. Wool and worn. 

Like it’s from Military surplus. 

You realize it has to be Jack. It smells like him–sanitizer and cedar and whatever soap you keep trying to figure out the brand of. The thing that gets Jack to call you a freak. You shift. 

Your shoes at next to the door, and your scarf is folder on the coffee table with your bag and thermos. It’s the pisces your brain has to pull together through the soft haze of the morning sun.

Jack didn’t drop you off at the curb. He didn’t nudge you awake with that gruff, but not unkind efficiency you and others know. You may not remember the ride, and you certainly don’t remember being carried inside, but clearly…you were. 

He took off your shoes. Placed the blanket over you. Tucked you in. 

Jeez, Jack. Why, why, why?

You can’t deny him when he does shit like this, and how can you think it when you end sniffing his blanket as end up wrapping it tighter around yourself, heart pounding quietly in the hush of your apartment. 

“Jack…”

If you end up wrapping yourself in his warmth again, not because he orders you to, but because you want to, then how can you deny both of you?

"Jack."

You breathe in cedar.

"Sleepy, what in the hell is this?"

The next shift is a good shift. The kind that runs smooth and quiet, and Jack feels need in his throat. What, you may ask? Good question. He doesn’t know. But he won’t go looking for an answer. It’s been a good shift. 

Jack, as usual, is dry-witted, and you’ve been laughing in a way that makes Dana more than once, smiling faintly at the inside jokes and medically-based flirtations between the two of you. You bump your shoulder into his when he grumbles at your handwriting on a chart. He tries not to smile and pretends not to watch you when you turn. 

The ease of it all sits under the night he dropped you off and carried you inside, where he had to press his hand against your scrub top to find your keys.

Neither of you dares to lift said ease. You both assume it’s because the other doesn’t care to. Both of you are right. So, there’s that usual, perfect rhythm of nurse and doctor, that trust, and now that quiet, dangerous acceptance of whatever the hell you two are seeping through. 

“Your notes are in all caps. Again.”

“That’s just passion. You should try it sometime.”

“If I have passion, it comes in black ink. Not red or pink.” 

“Pity.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

You swear you’re not breaking bad. 

You were really planning to get to work with anything that wasn’t your two feet, this time. But for the first time ever, your luck would have you, the bus ends up being twenty minutes early, before you can catch it after you were called in.

You had to make a choice. Jack…you guess he’d be satisfied with the way you thought of his offers (demands) first, but you knew today was his one day off. You would think he appreciates the way you thought about him with consideration. 

An uber would’ve taken twenty minutes to get to you when it would take you twenty or so minutes to find yourself just in time for work. You made a choice, and really, it’s not the worst when you’re walking with the sun coming up instead of going down. It’s beautiful, honestly. You nearly forget what Jack would say, and you definitely can’t focus on the ache in your feet with how the glow of golden rises over Pittsburgh’s steel and brick bones. 

You almost collapse from pure frustration when you hear the rumble pull up to the curb just behind you. 

How? Possibly how? 

You turn, ready to find another excuse for Jack, but you don’t find him, and the slighter engine purr makes sense–because it’s Robby with his motorcycle. He kills the engine. 

…His choice in transport is really something. 

“Hey.” Finding him at your side is less with anxiousness and more with a pleasant, friendly curiosity. More with something casual and less with the need to grasp for what makes you feel…safe. 

“Hey, Robby.”

You smile when Robby does, even though his is slight. 

“Listen, I know Abbot probably sounds like a broken record by now, but I’ll have to agree with him. I don’t know how you find this sort of stroll…suitable. You good?”

“Yep, just got roped into picking up an morning half-shift. I was gonna grab a bus ride and missed it, because I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”

Robby nods, then his noses scrunches under a blink or two. 

“Well, didn’t know I was gonna pick up trouble today. Come on. If you want, but I’ve already found you.” 

You laugh. “You’re a menace.” 

Robby’s smile grows thinner. You watch his hands on his handlebars tighten. 

“You’re flattering.” He says it with a quiet, casual sarcasm before pulling out–oh. Oh no. “We’re both heading to work, and you were lucky enough to not let Pittsburgh Transit devour you up. C’mon, I’ll take you…if you’d like.” 

He holds out his spare helmet. Your hand tightens over the strap of your tote. 

“It hasn’t been used by anyone…so. If you’re, you know, worried about headlice. I’d, uh, hope any future person I’d potentially ride with wouldn’t be likely to have them.” 

Your smile falters. 

“I’ve actually never been on one of those.” 

“Damn, you are a good girl.”

You roll your eyes to the point you can’t see Robby already regretting his own quip, eyes closing shut for a half-second. 

“No, I get it. I’m kinda surprised by how many people at work haven’t ridden one at least once before.” 

“I mean, it is a motorcycle, Robby. And they just always seemed... dangerous.” 

You think Robby’s listening to you in the way he keeps a slight nod before tilting his head from side to side, but if he’s anything like Jack, which God, you know the both of them are like each other more than they want to admit, you know he won’t let it go. He probably won’t end up berating you onto his motorcycle or end up carrying into the Pitt, but you just know he’s gonna push, and it might work, because you’re you and Robby’s Robby. 

Your friend whom you trust.

“I will go slow. Take no unnecessary journeys. And I…drive like I suture.” 

“Jagged?” 

You let yourself laugh when Robby scoffs. “Hey.”

When he hands you the helmet, you study it in your hold before looking at the sidewalk ahead. 

You hear his voice in the back of your head–gruff, dry, concerned and knowing, but you push it down. 

You’ve accepted whatever Jack is to you, and you’ve done more than accept whatever he makes you feel, but the fact his voice is the first to pop in your head at the fear of riding a motorcycle instead swallows you with something overwhelming. 

And also, Robby’s your friend. And to deny him is to deny exceptional E.R skills, or his occasional kindness and constant sharp sarcasm, or the fact you want to get closer to him. Something like that. 

“Okay. Just this once. I better not owe you anymore lemon bars."

Robby’s brows raise when you take the helmet and try to buckle it, and despite everything you just thought to justify this, you nearly regret taking up his offer at the way you’re definitely buckling this thing up wrong. 

“Oh. She trusts me. Let’s not tell Abbot.” 

“I won’t if you won’t.” 

You can tell he’s close to sighing and you know why when his hand is hesitant to reach out. 

“Help me out here, attending.” 

You watch Robby smile the way one does at a stranger they accidentally make eye contact with before dropping it when he gently fixes the buckle. You climb carefully on the back–arms hesitating, then wrapping around his waist, and it’s not so awkward when you can feel his body through the layers of jackets and scrubs and long sleeves over. 

You don’t feel the weight of him, really, and your mind automatically drifts to a question: How did the weight of you feel in Jack’s arms? 

That swallows you too.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

There’s nothing else like spending your night off at work. Jack will feel less about it later, knowing that…what? Therapy sessions and lying at home reading or sleeping isn’t this.

Still, he’s thankful for the shift to end, at least lying at home means he can take off his prosthetic for more than ten minutes. He took a guilty twenty in pedes when it was empty. 

He walks out of the entrance with Dana, who’s mid-sentence concerning something ridiculous Whitaker did with charting, because Whitaker on nightshift rotation is hilarious. Whatever the mistake, it was slight enough to go without attending reprimand and humorous enough to make Jack smirk. 

That’s when his eyes flicker toward the far end of the lot. 

Robby’s parking with someone pressed up against his back. 

You.

You pull off a black helmet, your hair tumbling out as you laugh with cheeks flushed from the wind. Robby follows you just after. Also helmeted as he grins slight. He kicks the stand. 

What in the actual fuck?

Jack takes in a breath he doesn’t let go. He slows mid-step. 

“You good, Abbot?” 

When his jaw locks, it almost aches as much as his leg, but he doesn’t even blink as Dana follows his gaze. Jack thinks she’s wincing dramatically in his peripheral. 

“Oh. Oh…no.” Dana puts her hands on her hips. “Calling Nurse and Doctor Sunshine to trauma one, leave the ride behind. Jesus Christ, how’d he get sunbeam on that thing? 

What the fuck are you doing? Why would you do this?

“He wants to die? Okay. That’s unfortunate. He does that?”

His near-casual, throaty spat comes out easier that it would’ve been keeping it in, and maybe there’s something opposite to the external telling Jack what he said was too much, because his shoulders roll, and deep down he knows he’s just being mean as hell to be mean as hell. 

 “Jesus, Jack.”

Evans is the external something. Jack lifts his head back. “It’s the truth. That is…absolute insanity. Dana?”

“...I think I left something inside.” 

Dana disappears back into the E.R and it’s nothing but Jack’s chance to start walking towards the both of you.

For the sake of keeping his anger high, he pretends that this is solely about you getting on a fucking motorcycle. Because it is. Why are you getting on a motorcycle? You. Fucking you. 

Why are you doing this to him. 

“What is this, a midlife crisis field trip?” 

Again. Being mean for the sake of being mean, cause Jack knows it isn’t that, but it’s what gets you to look up at him surprised with Robby sighing something low. 

“Robby, what the hell, man?” His voice goes nearly high. 

“Oh, c’mon, Abbot. She needed a ride–” 

“No. Yeah. As she usually does. But a motorcycle? You–” His head snaps towards you. “Robby, you want to risk your own neck for a Harley, fine–but bringing someone else on that suicide ride? Why the hell would you agree to that?

The words thrown towards both you cut harder than he means it to, but it’s what he feels in his gut, because why?

He keeps himself sturdy when Robby scoffs. 

“Sunshine, help me out here. She is…we’re adults.” Robby crosses his arms. “She needed a ride, Jack. It was either that or be late waiting for a cab or walking again. Which is what you were worked up about. Sooo…don’t really understand the fucking issue. This? This right here is what we talked about–” 

“You talked about this?”

Robby’s reply is what Jack would expect, maybe what he deserves, that voice that’s tingy and knowing, not loud–but definite in a bite. Still. Fuck him. 

His head tilts towards you, voice towards you–

“Why didn’t you call me? Seriously?”

You shift. He watches your arms cross over your chest. “I didn’t know you were working tonight, and again, wouldn’t make sense to make you pick me up to drive to the place you came from. Seriously, you’re not supposed to be working–and we were…safe, Jack. Helmets. He went slow, I held on, I–” 

Just took the first chance to wrap yourself around Robby?

That thought scares Jack as much as it makes his fist clench. 

“You think that matters when a car cuts you off and you skid thirty feet into a curb?” He doesn’t stop eyeing your focus when he hears Robby scoff again. “And hey, okay. You hitched a ride on the back on what you called a deathtrap because you thought you wouldn’t be caught by me?” 

Robby nods shakily. It’s not from nerves, it’s from that growing, steady impatience that’ll probably make his voice go sharp. 

“...Being caught? Jack, what is this? You sound like an aggressive PSA and a dad and it’s as offensive as it is confusing. Definitely wouldn’t have guessed this reaction from the first time I talked to you about my bike. Which. I do prefer honesty. But…you wanted her off the street. We were safe. You shouldn’t even be entitled to my justifications right now. I’m surprised that I even care enough to feel offended, because this conversation should be treated as bullshit…but because I wanted you settled, man–I…she did exactly what you wanted—she took help–”

His eyes don’t leave you, even when bits of Robby’s rant shakes him, triggers him. 

He couldn’t know that you see something feral flickering behind them—something you can’t shake or he can’t help. 

Something he wouldn’t want to help if he could. 

“You think this is help?” He jabs a finger at the motorcycle like it’s something obscene. “You think putting her on the back of that thing is better than a cab? Or the bus?” 

“It was explained. There was no chance for a bus or cab or uber or fucking…you, man.” Robby lifts his hands in what’s probably exasperation. 

Not him. No chance for him, huh? 

“I figured—”

“You figured what?” Jack cuts in, voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “That it’d be fun? That she’d enjoy it? That–” 

“That she’d get to fucking work!” 

Robby’s arms go up as his yell booms across the lot. Jack’s not scared by it. 

…But yeah, even in his stone rage that he’s sure he’s right to have, Jack knows that was warranted. 

What’s warranted to is the feeling of hot coals in his stomach when you grab Robby’s arm, comforting him–like he’s not the one that convinced you to go on a death trap. 

Like Jack’s not the one who’s vision when black when the motorcycle came speeding in. Like it’s not his heart that’s slamming against his fucking ribs for you right now. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? What are you doing to him?

“Robby–” 

Your mutter is barely heard when Robby shifts the weight of his legs, looking up at the sky. “Nothing happened.” 

Robby knows there’s more to say, that really, this shouldn’t matter in the first place, that he should not be on trial and it’s already ridiculous he’s letting himself sit in the face of Jack’s fucking jury, but that’s not gonna do any good, is it? 

“Nothing. Happened.” 

“...That’s not the point, Robby.” 

“The point doesn’t matter, but…I’m gonna ask you what it is anyway. Just so we can get it out of the way.”

Jack opens his mouth. Closes it. 

He sees the real point in the way you keep your hand, which manages to stay soft somehow even though you scrub your palms to shit with antiseptic and sanitizer like everyone else, on Robby’s bicep. 

It’s not that fact something could’ve happened. 

It’s the fact he can’t see you with someone else like this. Even if it’s just a ride. Even if it’s just a ride he’d rather you have than needing to walk alone in the fucking dark. 

Even if it’s Robby. Especially because it’s Robby. And the guy gave you a ride. A thrill–even if he’s just taking you to work as he so humbly did today. 

Something primal and ugly claws up his throat, looking at where you touch him.

“I don’t give a damn what you ride, Robby. But if you convince others to get thrown in what is a statistically dangerous hobby, try remembering they might be worth more intact.”

Robby goes still before he runs a hand down his face. 

And for the first time, Jack doesn’t want to look at you. 

“...Jack–” 

So. He turns away, stalking back to his truck before he can say something worse and learn how to find it the right thing to say later. He climbs in, slams the door.

And when he looks in the mirror, he sees you two standing together—your hand on Robby’s arm? He finds a realization sliding sharp under his ribs. 

He’s not gonna stop wanting you, even if it turns him into a fucking asshole.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

It's the next day. Or the next. Apologies are in order. Are they given? No. Jack will claim this is how men are. But shit, for men? He and Robby do a pretty good job of communicating.

The night shift has finally slowed to a manageable hum, which is not that surprising, even when Robby ended up having to share it with Abbot. They’re mature enough, yeah? Still, he’d be impressed if he found it important. 

God. He’s never seen Jack like that before. Ever. There have been points of time of snappy, semi-quiet bouts of professional frustration, towards him and others, but what happened the other day was…something else. And it’s taking a hold on him. 

Because Robby catches Jack in a supply closet. He’s organizing, settling a neatness between surgical gloves and IV kits–and it’s the 12th weirdest thing he’s ever seen in his life. 

“We good, Abbot? You good?” 

Obviously not, because one of the busiest men on earth, a man who craves chaos as much as it eats at him on occasion, is alphabetizing medical supplies. But Robby has to ask anyway.

He could pretend he’s better than the ache in his chest rising at the sight–the one that creeped in when you climbed off the back of his bike, hair tangled from the ride, cheeks flushed and alive in a way that could’ve been funny to look at.

That ache that he felt ridiculous for having in the first place when that moment was ruined with the look on Jack’s face. 

Like someone had pulled a pin from a grenade he’d been holding inside. That someone being Robby when he just offered you a fucking ride. 

Robby steps into the supply room, letting the door swing shut behind him before crossing his arms. He can tell Jack’s already tense in the shoulders, his back set like concrete as he rummages in the cabinet. 

“I’m fine, Robby. We’re fine.” 

…Robby’s gonna try for humor first. Try to pretend the knot in his own chest isn’t there and that he’s not expecting an apology. 

“If organizing the supply closets was added onto attending responsibilities, I missed the memo. And I’m also fucked.” 

…No answer. Jack doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. Robby leans one shoulder against the doorframe. 

He should just walk away, because this will die. And it’s not important. 

But he can still see your face when you thanked him for the ride. That sorta…soft and tired and relieved look. And then you looked up at Jack when he came striding across the street. 

Like you knew exactly how bad you were gonna get it for accepting a ride from a person you trusted. 

That can’t happen again. Not just because it’s uncharacteristically unprofessional as shit concerning Jack Abbot, but you don’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that. 

“You came at me like I put her on a live grenade, man. And I know we’ll get over this without dragging it back up, but if she’s gonna get lectured like she’s 12 years old every time she comes into the parking on a ride that isn’t yours–” 

Jack closes the cabinet shut. Not hard enough to be a slam, but loud enough to make a point. He turns to do what he does so well, focus his eyes on anothers. Robby sighs. 

He doesn’t have time for this. But he’s making time for his friend. And you. 

“You put her on a machine with two wheels and no shell. Don’t act like I overreacted. I–”

…Heat crawls up his neck. It’s annoyance, yeah. Maybe, but it’s something that really doesn’t need to be as deep at it is right now. 

But Jack’s a good guy, he owes Robby this much–the ability to see just how fucking annoyed his is. 

“...There were parts of what I was saying that other day that were aggressively…unneeded. I’m not oblivious. The suicide ride quip, that was…” 

“That kinda fucked me up, Jack.” 

“I know. I know–” Jack looks to the ground, eyes straightening out on the tile. “...It’s a motorcycle, Robby. You have every right to ride one. And yeah, she has every right to accept a ride from you or from anyone…but it’s a motorcycle.”

Robby doesn’t nod or shift. He blinks once. “I know.” 

Jack shakes his head stiffly as it lifts back in slight. “...And I just can’t fucking stand it. And I end up overreacting. I give a wonderful performance in our trauma center parking lot because I can’t stand it.” 

“I know.”

“And…you know–” For a rare moment, Jack almost looks uncertain in what he’s gonna say. Crazy stuff, but Robby can make that…it’s not him being unsure in his words, it’s him unsure in if he should say them. 

“...You know how I am with her. You know.” 

Robby’s eyes narrow to the shelf beside them in an instant. He pushes himself off the doorfame, hands in his pockets. 

“No, brother. I don’t.” 

Jack’s brow furrows, the confusion is too obvious flickering across his face. 

“Do not bullshit me, Robby. You, unfortunately, have known me longer than anyone here and it’d be you to pick out what’s exactly going on with me and her–” 

“Yeah. I have. I have, man.” 

He’s known Jack long enough to care about the guy. He’s known him long enough to really, really wish that whatever is going on between you and him is something he couldn’t bother to acknowledge, but it’s something else, something that he and others are gonna be able to ignore anymore. 

Something that Jack stopped ignoring a long time ago, to hold it in his fists. Long, long time ago. 

“I’ve known you long enough to see the way you look at her. Act around her. Sometimes it’s endearing, sometimes it’s concerning! It’s…” 

Robby’s voice is flat, tired. Cause he’s really, really tired. “It’s every patient of hers you deem too aggressive when you don’t even have to be there. It’s that very, very obvious jealousy when she laughs with Whitaker or King.”

He counts it off on his fingers. Yeah. Like it’s something he’s rehearsed in his head.

“But then you’ll have dry flirtations–” He gestures vaguely to…something. “The little gifts, the dumb as shit nicknames, and it’s almost like something people can ignore.”

He pauses, he sits in what he’s just spat out in something that’s nearly facetious, but mostly something that’s making Robby realize what this is. His hands drop, his head drifts to the tile before he remembers he’s an adult, and he should look at the person he’s talking to. 

Jack’s wearing the blankest expression he’s ever seen. 

“...And you get at me in the parking lot because I picked her off the street, something you berated her for. And I could tell you over and over again that I rode safe. Slow, that I wouldn’t have her or anyone else in danger, but I also know that it doesn’t matter to you, because it’s not the fact she took up a ride, it’s because she held onto me. That’s what you saw? That’s what you can’t stand–” 

“Robby.” 

Robby stills in his breath before focusing on how his and Jack’s gaze lock. He’s obviously tired, cornered, but still sharp. 

Desperate to justify something he knows he shouldn’t. 

Robby blinks, his mouth thins. 

“And then you look at her like you’ve already decided something for both of you.” 

Jack closes his eyes. Robby regrets nothing and everyone. 

You wish not to be bothered with acknowledging him and her, but you notice every bit. You are hilarious. 

Jack's voice is ragged when it crawls out of his throat. 

“So you do know.” 

“No.” Robby drops his hands to his sides. “I know what it looks like. But I…I don’t know what to call it, Jack.”

He watches Jack search his face as he runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. 

“I don’t know the name for this because it’s not normal.” He can already feel his voice gentling without a softness Robby doesn’t think he can muster if he tried. “And even if I did know the name, it wouldn’t matter.”

Jack blinks once. 

“Why?”

…Jesus fucking Christ. 

Robby tries to make his gaze steady and unflinching, exhaling with every other way. 

“Because the way you’re starting to act is unacceptable.”

He doesn’t catch it. 

The way Jack flinches. 

“You have to care about that. I’m telling you this as your friend.” He gestures between them, helpless. “This thing you’re doing—hovering over her, cutting off every exit, lashing out at anyone who gets near—”

His jaw tightens. 

“It doesn’t matter what you call it. It doesn’t matter that you know how you are with her. You can’t keep going like this.”

They stand in between the humming of the walls. And yeah. Robby doesn’t feel any better with what he’s said. But hey. It’s communication. 

Jack’s hand comes up on the metal shelf beside him. It flexes. 

“I didn’t ask for this.” 

Robby’s chest goes tight. 

He thinks about the first week he met you, when your skills rivaled those of a 2nd year resident, when you put him under a load of disbelief. 

He thinks about you in his kitchen for five minutes when you dropped off lemon bars just because, as if that’s an actual fucking reason. How you caught him when his loneliness was less casual and more pathetic looking, where his lone microwave was still steaming on the kitchen table, but you smile like you weren’t thinking how fucking alone he was. 

It had been easy it had been to let you in, even when Robby knew he shouldn’t.

When he remembers the feel of your arms around him, your cheek resting against his back. How natural it had felt…how much he’d liked it.

Robby told himself–tells himself it didn’t mean anything. Whatever he felt. 

Doesn’t have to mean anything, no matter what he feels. 

But standing here, watching Jack come apart. God, kid, he’s not so sure anymore.

Yeah. None of us did.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

It’s past midnight, and in the fluorescent glow of every floor, the Pitt feels like it always does at this hour–too bright with man-made sunlight. But earlier, you were laughing with Mel in the hallway, a giddy and awkward rush of shared jokes about a patient who swore the candlestick up his ass got there by accident. 

It’s almost a normal shift, like you’re just another nurse in a chaotic E.R that you wouldn’t choose to escape. You hope your shaking hands don’t look as obvious as they feel. 

But now it’s just you and Jack. And the airy silence, of course. Yippee. 

You know it would’ve had to have been confronted at some point, that you would’ve had to find enough courage in you to make your anger about what happened with him and Robby known. You’re impressed, really. You didn’t think your doctor would beat you to it. 

“ I wasn’t fair. About the bike. About Robby.”

He’s standing by the lockers, arms folded tight across the chest with a scratch to his elbow. He doesn’t look right away, but when he does, you feel it like always. 

His stare goes straight through you. A shiver shoots down your spine. 

You press your thighs together. 

“No, not really.” 

“I shouldn’t have…acted the way I did in the parking out. It wasn’t just unprofessional, it was…mean. See? I know enough to use a juvenile word to describe what an asshole I was.” 

“And why the sudden realization?” 

“...It was brought to my attention, and denial is pointless.” 

You shift your weight, clutching the strap of your bag. 

You feel it–the words you should say pressing down on the pink of your tongue. Something rightfully rational and grown-up. 

Yes. You overreacted. You made me feel like a child. You were awful to Robby in a way I couldn’t think was possible. It isn’t fair. You were an asshole. And I know it’s coming from a place I was to crawl into, but you can’t act like this. 

But no, you step closer instead, because the truth is…

You know now that that part of you is small and shameful. 

It’s what makes you like how much he cares. Even if it comes out wrong or feels too big. 

It’s why you’ve been sleeping with his blanket for the past week. 

“Well…you were just being you.” 

Your throat tightens around the softness of your words. 

“It’s just another end of the gruff, quietly concerned cowboy.” 

And even though you could buckle under his stare, you watch Jack blink in startle. Like he wasn’t expecting her to tease him as she always does. 

Settle. Loosen. 

And even when he’s the one in the wrong, find yourself wanting to make him smirk down at you. 

“Cowboy again?” 

Jack says it dryly. Your mouth curves. 

“Big ol’ boots and an unrelenting stare. Tell me I’m wrong.” 

And you’ll leave it at that, because you don’t think you’ll ever tell him that it’s that stare and the worry and that entitled, raw possession that makes you feel…seen, even when it shouldn’t. 

When it makes you feel wanted. 

Protected. Claimed. 

God, you know–that’s not healthy. You’re not supposed to feel any of it, but hey. At least you can name that part of you now. And you know exactly all the reasons as to why you shouldn’t tell Jack about them. 

Except for one, you couldn’t know. You couldn’t know that if you told him, that’d only fuel him more. 

Jack’s expression softens, and you can tell that he’s trying not to smile. 

He fails. 

“It still doesn’t excuse how I spoke to you. Or Robby. It won’t happen again.”

The locket room hums around the both of you. 

“...Unless you knowingly get on a bike you called a death trap. That, I’ll have to report your lapse in judgement to…someone.”

When he stretches his hand out to pull you up from the bench, you take the moment to study Jack’s face. The lines around his eyes, the tired and chiseled slope of his jaw and shoulders, and the way you don’t think he’ll ever not meet your gaze. 

It’s all that and then some as to why you can’t help but feel warmed at everything he does–everything that should be named a mistake but isn’t. 

It’s why you’ll never waste a moment to see if Jack Abbot can blush–why this moment of bravery exists. 

Why you kiss the back of his hand when you take it. 

His fingers are scarred and strong–and they clench when you press your lips to the soft hairs at his knuckles. 

Cedar. Sweat. And everything nice. 

When you realize how harshly your heart is pounding against your ears, you realize just how stupid this might’ve been. Your eyes widen. 

This assurance in stupidity is especially true when Jack jerks suddenly. Smoothly, but in a second where you’re thinking–

Oh, fuck me. 

You're already pressing fumbled apologies to the back of your teeth, but before you can pull away from the moment where you think it’s like your lips burned him–

Jack’s fingers wrap around your wrist. 

It’s not exactly a grip, but he squeezes. 

Your eyes are already locked on his, and you think they’re darker under the dim light. They have to be. 

You want to collapse. There’s nothing but the feeling of fire against the pit of your belly, and your hands, and your thighs–

“Jack? I–”

Whatever you were going to say, which couldn’t have been anything at all, is broken in the air when Jack begins pulling. Not to stop you. 

…But to turn your palm upward, exposing the soft center of your palm.

Your breath hitches. 

He lowers his mouth to your skin. 

His lips brush the base of your fingers, firm and unshaking, then trail gently to the center of your hand. 

He’s returning your kiss. 

“...I’m working a double. I-I know you’re not–” 

“No.” 

Jack’s eyes close when his mouth presses deeper, like he’s savouring something, and it takes everything in you not to slip a soft moan against this moment. 

And it takes everything in you not to think about the way his voice went high and cracked when he found you on the back of Robby’s bike. How his words hadn’t sounded like anger so much as terror. As both, and how that should’ve made you mad. Maybe it did. 

But it’s so easy to remember that white-hot, belly need to close the distance between the two of you. Say…

It’s okay, Jack. I’m here. And I like that you’re here for me. 

“But we’re coming and leaving at the same time on Tuesday. Right?”

His eyes are unblinking against yours when he opens them again. You nod so quickly that it’ll embarrass you when you think about it before bed. But with the way his mouth feels about your flesh, his dry, deepening lips? The ends justify the means. 

“Well.” 

It’s only fire along every crevice of yours when his nose presses into your knuckles. 

“Thank God for that.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

My girl, my girl, my girl.

Jack’s running late. Again. This time, it’s on account of you, sleepy. 

You know him, if there’s anything he takes a sick pride in, it’s his punctuality–but tonight…he lingered in the front of his apartment complex. Just tapping away at the wheel at his other hand rested on the edge of his phone. 

You make him feel like a little boy who can’t sit still. Absolutely ridiculous. He’s nervous. The last time he went to work nervous was…never. Not even on his first day, it’s so expected of Jack that he’s sure he doesn’t take sick pride in that. 

You make him not quite brave enough to text you. Something. Anything. Anything that’ll give him more of you. 

Sleepy, sleepy. 

The way you looked at him yesterday, kid. Smiling in that soft, resigned way when you called him your cowboy, finding your way back to the light or something like it, letting go of his…okay. He’ll call them mistakes. For now. For your sake. 

But the memory and your kiss are what makes him, for the time ever, very sure that he’s allowed to think of you on his way to work. 

“Can afford those rims, but not new headlights? Right. On.” 

…He’s telling himself he’ll do better. So there’s that. 

He’ll stop snapping every time you step out of line when it comes to your safety. He’ll make sure there is no line. That’s weird. He’ll stop you from watching the back of your head across the trauma bay like you’re the only thing tethering him to the fucking floor.

That’s weird too, especially when he had his teaching and the good days and his crew and every slight good thing about him tethering him to the floor first. 

He would do better. He will. 

Jack’s not gonna risk whatever you gave me yesterday. Not any way in hell. He owes you that. 

…And with the way you touched him, with the way you didn’t leave after an apology he had to burn out of him–maybe he owes himself that too. 

Jack merges onto the main drag. His hand flexes. When did his hand get so hairy? And scarred?

If I can. 

If I want to– 

“Oh. Very nice on that turn.” He nearly whispers his road rage. “Asshat.”

…He’s not gonna look under the rug of promises. What’s that gonna do?

Under the I’ll be better’s, under the I’ll let you breathe, he’s gonna find some useless truth. 

Something like the idea that he’s not going to want to stop. 

That Jack…likes how it feels to be the one you look to when things get ugly. Because you do, right? You accepted his bare-bones apologies with your lips on his hand. You wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t. 

His eyes glance to the passenger seat, where your hair clip from the night he drove you home lies next to a folder and his ham sandwich. 

He did mean to give it back. 

Maybe I can still be her cowboy. 

It’s a wry thought. 

Just a little less fucking unhinged. 

He doesn’t blink when the scanner crackles dispatch static. It’s something he’s trained himself to tune out unless it catches wind of the worst disasters.

So. Jack doesn’t know why tonight’s words cut through the air. 

“Unit 14, be advised: Motor vehicle accident. Motorcycle involved. Two confirmed. Severe trauma inflicted on female passenger. EMS has arrived on scene.”

Jack’s head cocks to the side as he stares straight forward. It’s his body’s own doing, a reaction he doesn’t understand. 

Because this is Pittsburgh. There’s already been a fire, a stabbing. A car flipped over on 28. It’s a city that never runs out of ways to bleed people dry and keep the beds at the Pitt full. 

“Repeat: Motorcycle collision. Female passenger is unresponsive. Male rider attempting to interfere with EMS. Confirm blocking lanes and priority traffic.”

He knows better, which is why he doesn’t understand how the blood from his knuckles ends up disappearing. He doesn’t understand that until he realizes he’s been gripping the wheel. 

It’s nothing. It is absolutely fucking nothing. Stop the internal panic. Stop acting like you’re gonna fucking collapse. 

…Jack knows better. 

“Confirm accident is at intersection of Carson and 22nd.” 

And on cue, he hears the sirens four blocks away. 

Jack lowers his head in one curt nod as feels his muscles tense in the way they do when he realizes a patient is gonna be more of a challenge than he first thought. That useful, nerved feeling that only gets in the way of logic and ability. 

Anxiety. He can name that. You’ll be proud of him when he sees you in the Pitt. 

Because you will be there, curled up at the nurses station, complaining about the cold as if you didn’t trudge the small of you through it because you’re too good. You will be there. Jack will see you. 

He will see Robby there too, and he’ll pass that sorry sight of a motorcycle crash–one that he’s probably gonna be in charge of by the time he gets to work. 

Yeah. This is it. A ridiculous and unneeded point of anxiety in his chest. One he’s gonna regret by the time he pulls into the Pitt because it is his fault. He shouldn’t be feeling it. 

Jack presses the gas pedal. He runs a red light. He pulls out his phone, eyes flickering up at the window and down at his thigh as he types with a stiff, hot hand. His hand shouldn’t be this hot. 

‘On my way. can meet me at the front ent rance?’

You’re already at the Pitt. Or hell, he’ll catch you walking the streets again. That’s fine too. That’s perfect. 

‘I know this is an od d requst but can you just call me?’

‘Sleepy’ 

And like that, Jack doesn’t even realize he turned onto Carson until he sees the flashing lights. Two ambulances. 

No. God. 

He throws the truck into park. His tires scream as he does. 

It’s like someone put a bomb under Robby’s motorcycle. 

It’s in pieces–half crumbled against a lamppost, the other half smoking in the gutter. Glass and blood make the asphalt glitter. 

The paramedics crouch over two bodies.

Jack shoves the door open as he storms forward. A red haze–red as the road, swims behind his eyes. 

There’s so much blood. 

More blood than he’s seen in his worst cases. Splashed up the curbs, smeared in arcs and black cracks. 

How the hell is it everywhere?

Jack chokes on his own breath as he walks in a stiffened pace that’s telling the ache in his prosthetic to go fuck itself. As he does, he realizes what that cracked-open black half-moon thing is. It’s thirty feet away from the scene. 

The helmet. The helmet you wore. 

There’s a chunk of your hair stuck to the visor.

He shouts out your name. He doesn’t register that it’s almost a cry. 

He crosses the last few feet at a run, not because he recognizes the first body to be Robby. 

“Just le-let me help her, man! I promise…I-I’m a doctor, I work at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center–” 

His face is ash-gray, a strip of skin peeling off his cheekbone. His scrub top is soaked near-black at the shoulder. He’s fighting the medics as they try to pull him onto a gurney. But he’s fighting none-the-fucking-less, streaky gash on the hairline and all. 

The blood on the road can’t possibly all be from him. Why the fuck is there so much of it?

What did he let happen to you?

“We know who you are, Dr. Robinavitch. We’ve met a few times, remember? You need to let them help her and us help you, okay?” 

No. Jack runs with his vision tunneling in and out towards the scene, because the next body he recognizes is you. 

His girl. In all his failure. 

You’re sprawled on your side, crumpled like someone folded you in half and dropped you to watch you spread. Your hair’s soaked red. It streaks your throat. 

He can’t remember if you had your hair in a braid or ponytail yesterday. 

You’re glistening and caked with blood and broken bits in the way he’s only seen patients he ends up coding for hours. You. Sunshine. Sunbeam. Sleepy. 

Oh God. God. Why would you expect him to believe in you when you let this happen to her? 

Why would Jack let this happen to you? 

He stands over you at your right leg–right where it’s twisted at an impossible angle under your hip. Your left leg, your tibia, has snapped against your skin. Not enough to make bone jut out, but enough. 

And your face, your face–

“...I could care that you’re unusually pretty.” 

“No?” 

“Not here. By the end of shift, that face will be covered in blood, vomit, or some other fluid you’d be better off not naming. It doesn’t matter.” 

“...So you’re saying I’d trigger the senses if you took me out of here?” 

“...Can you finish your chart?”

One cheek’s caked in road grime, the other’s split from eyebrow to chin with your eye swollen shut. 

Jack’s focus goes black around the edges, but he catches a drop of water falling to the ground. 

“...Sir?” 

Your abdomen’s rising unevenly and too shallow, and Jack knows without touching you that your lung’s collapsing already. 

But you’re breathing. You’re alive. His girl’s alive. 

“...Dr. Abbot?”

“BP?” 

He doesn’t catch the way the medic startles at the bark. He just drops to his knees to do what he does best. 

“Gloves.” 

“...Dr. Abbot–” 

“Gloves. Now!”

If these medics were any older or more experienced enough to fight Jack’s protocol breach, they’d have a problem on their hands. 

He’s given gloves in a second and putting them on in the next. 

He ignores the cold under his gloves when he presses two fingers to your carotid. Rapid. Thready. He ignores anything that could make him pause or remember just how fucked this situation, because you don’t deserve that. He was already pushing it by standing over you for more than five seconds. 

“Hey…Jack?” 

Robby’s voice is made up of glassy shock. 

And suddenly…Jack feels like his own skull is going to split. 

“She–she was behind me, okay? They ran the light. She–”

It’s slurry and desperate from the throat, and Jack doesn’t look at him. 

Really, he can’t even know how he doesn’t trust what he’d do if he did. 

“Jack. I’m sorry–s-she–”

He can see out of the corner of his eye that Robby’s gesturing at the medic trying to staunch the blood at your scalp. 

“I tried–God, I was trying to…to tell them, they need a thor–”

“Thoracostomy kit. Now.” 

The medic’s blanching. Jack narrows his eyes at them. 

Are you really making me take my eyes off her? 

“Dr. Abbot–” 

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

Jack says it low in his throat, unblinking with a tilted head forward. 

He takes the oxygen mask he’s handed before the kit’s thrust into his palm.

He fits it over your mouth. Rasps out your name. 

Your lashes flutter. Your eyes roll in the back of your back.

No. He’s wrong. 

“Look at me.” 

Jack’s not ignoring the things that could make him collapse, he’s just not collapsing. 

Jack rips the kit open as your blood soaks the knees of his pants. His gloved fingers map your ribs. He counts the intercostal spaces. 

He finds the fifth. He plants his palm. 

He closes his eyes for a second. Then three. 

For the next ten seconds, you’re waiting for him at the Pitt. You walked from your apartment. Your hair is braided. 

You’ll come home with him by the end of the night, but for now, you’re where he can always find you. 

Where you’ll always be able to find him. 

“On my count, pressure release.” 

One. Two. Three. 

Jack makes the incision in a clean, practiced motion. He can hear the blood hissing around his fingers. 

The chest rises a fraction deeper. 

He hunches over before he can hear the medic swallow their spit. 

“We’re gonna load her.”

Nine, ten. 

Jack doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m coming.” 

“Dr. Abbot–

Jack looks up. The ambulance radio crackles. 

When the medic nods, he has to try his hardest not to let his prosthetic disconnect when he rises with no groan. 

“I’m fine, man. I ca-can help her. Everyth-everything on me’s a clean break or a slow bleeder–”

“Dr. Robby, we’re gonna load you in too–”

“We’re going the same way–” 

“Robby.” 

When Robby looks up with glassy eyes and glassed skin, he sees Jack looking at him. 

…Not now, because the pity and worry for Robby that evaporated at the sight of you? 

Every ounce of it finds its way back to Jack when he sees his brother. Still slumped, blinking dully at the wreckage. 

“Shut up and let them help you.”

…Nearly all of it.

He turns back before he can see Robby trying to peek over at where you’re being lifted, and Jack has to flex his hands not to grab onto you. But as they lift you, your limp hand falls against his chest. 

Your little sniper fingers leave a smear of blood over his scrub top. And a second…he’s gotta be allowed to close his hand around yours. Just for a second, kid. 

“...Dr. Abbot, please don’t touch her cheek unless it’s medically needed.”

In the second, he’ll allow a thought, too. And maybe he’ll kill it with his hands. Maybe he won’t. He’s not really thinking about that when he has to make sure you’re alive. And with what Jack saw on the street…

Oh. He’s allowed. 

It’s a clear thought, clear as the sirens screaming in his ears. 

He’s not going to stop. He’s not going to let go. He’s not going to make himself less for the sake of anyone. Because he’d been right. Jack had always been right.

This is what happens when you pretend someone else can keep you safe. And he’s not going to stop needing to be the only one who can keep you safe. 

Because…well. Look. 

There was no point in trying to cover the massive bruise on your face, it would only make things more suspicious. You dont exactly remember what make your fiancé Charlie snap, but before you knew it, you were on the floor of the kitchen, his fist making contact with your face. The air escaped your lungs as you felt a blunt force against your abdomen, your fingers sprawled out on the floor, trying to hold onto anything you could as you gasped for breath. You didnt move from the cold tile for a while, it bringing comfort to your burning flesh.

As you strode into The Pitt the next evening, you did so hesitantly, keeping your head down. It was shift change, Dana was still at the nurses station, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and Robby was stuck in a trauma. Jack was at the computer, reading over the shift change reports.

"Evening." you said casually, setting your water bottle down on the desk. Dana was the first to glance up.

"Eve- what the fuck?"

Jacks head shot up, and without hesitation he rounded the desk, taking your face into his hands, inspecting the damage.

"What the fuck happened?" you avoided his gaze as he gently cupped your cheeks, brushing his thumb across the black and blue skin.

"I'm fine. I was playing baseball with my nephew, and he has a really good swing." you tried to chuckle through your lie. He studied your face, his jaw clenched and brow serious.

"Did you get an X-ray?"

"I'm fine. Really." you shook your head, but when he delicately pressed his fingers on your nose you jerked your head backwards with a wince.

"Bullshit you're fine, you're next for X-ray." he grabbed your wrist and started leading you towards radiology as you protested.

"I know we have other patients, but you cant treat them with a broken face. If its broken, you're going home."

"No!" you called out too eagerly, almost in a panic. Jack stopped in his tracks with a screeching halt, twisting around to look at you. His demeanor instantly changed, his gaze burned into your flesh as he studied you: your eyes, your shallow breathing, and your posture that seemed to be recoiling with each passing second. His jaw was clenched, but the grip on your wrist began to loosen, and he slowly let go. You looked down as his fingerprints began to fade away.

"I'm ordering a CT" he deadpanned with a quick turn, continuing your walk to X-ray. His pace speeding up over so slightly and you struggled to keep up. The air was heavy; the silence hung high in the air- only the hum of the hospital’s harsh artificial lights filled the uncomfortable void.

"For a broken nose?" you called out, confused.

"Just a precaution."

"We don't order CTs for a broken nose, Jack. I dont ne-"

"Will you just fucking listen for once?" he hissed through clenched teeth as you jerked backwards. Jack was known for his tough exterior, but he wasn't short, not with his patients, and especially not with you. You knew there was a soft side to him, one he rarely showed. You’ve seen him sit bedside with a young girl explaining to process of a medical abortion, you’ve watched him show his prosthetic leg to a terrified little boy with a broken arm, and you’ve watched him talk a fellow vet through a PTSD episode.

He pulled a gown down from the shelf in the waiting room and pressed it firmly against your chest. "Get dressed, when you're all done I'll come get you." Before you could respond he walked away, his fists balled by his sides. You had never seen Jack like this, what happened? It's like a flip switched. His body was tense, his eyes full of anger.

You look at your bruised face in the changing room as you took off your engagement ring and other jewelry. You did your best to cover your bruised body despite the gown being open all the way down the back. The radiology tech was the seasoned Maxine, having worked at PTMC for almost 40 years, and having pet names for everyone at the hospital.

“I’m not sure why he’s making such a fuss over a broke nose. He’s not my dad.” You kept the conversation going as she positioned you on the bed.

“What about your daddy?.” Maxine winked.

“Jesus Christ Maxine!” You blushed.

“I’m just teasing honey, he just cares about you that’s all. Some may say smitten.” the smell of cigarettes emanating from her Snoopy scrubs.

“You said you were gonna quit.” You tried to change the subject as you began to blush even harder.

“They haven’t killed me yet. Besides, talk to me when you’ve been working here as long as I have. How long have you been working here?”

“5 years.”

“See, you’re just a baby, baby.” She patted you shoulder and left the room to start the scan. “Just stay still for me doll and it’ll be done soon.” After CT you hurried to change out of your gown and back into your black scrubs. You were seething with anger and shock by how Jack had spoken to you earlier. You waltzed back down to the ER despite his orders and looked up at the patient board. 10 more in the waiting room since you went down to radiology? What the fuck?

“When you’re all done I’ll come and get you…” you began speaking to yourself in a mocking tone as your scanned your badge to pick up a new case, “who the fuck does he think he’s talking to?”

“What are you doing?” You spun to find Jack barreling toward the nurses station from curtain 3. “I told you I’d come get you when the CT was over.”

“And I’m not a child Jack. I’m a big girl, I can walk myself back to work. I don’t need you to hold my hand the whole way in case I get lost. Now if you’ll excusing me, I have a vomiting toddler in 12.” You tried to push past but he stepped in front of you, blocking your direction.

“Not until I see your scan results.” You were livid at how infantilizing he was being at the moment. You always thought he viewed you at incredibly capable. You searched his eyes, looking for at least something that would explain this sudden strange behavior. What did he know? What did he suspect?

“Step aside Dr. Abbot.” You squared up to him. Arms resting on your hips. He took a step forward, his chest almost pressed up against yours. You could feel the heat emanating from his body and your breath hitched in your throat.

“Uh Abbot,” Nurse Lena uncomfortably walked into whatever the hell this was. “CT and X-ray results are back.”

Jack backed up slowly, not taking his eye off you as he opened the files on his computer. He began to read, his hands resting on the desk in front of him.

“Why don’t we go over these somewhere a little bit quieter.” He asked, faking a smile and trying to find a private room. You followed in suit.

“You don’t have to take me aside to tell me I have a broken nose, Dr. Abbot.” You were almost 2 hours into your shift and hadn’t touched a patient yet. This was ridiculous.

“You’re right,” he answered back, closing the curtain behind you as you both ducked into Room 7. “I’d like you to tell me where these rib fractures came from”. He didn’t looked at you, just typed away at the computer pulling up your CT results.

“What are you talking about, Jack?” Your mouth instantly began to water as you were hit a wave of nausea. He turned the computer to face you, pulling up your imaging.

“Non displaced rib fracture of the left T6 and hairline fracture of your T7.” He pointed to each rib on the screen, as if it weren’t clear as day to you as well. Your hands tangled in your lap as you tried to come up with some sort of explanation. “Or did your nephew do that too?” Your eyes shot up at his sarcastic remark. Jack regretted those words the second they left his lips. Looking down at his shoes, he inched his way towards the edge of the bed where you were sitting, hands in his scrub pockets.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered, putting his hand on your shoulder, giving it a squeeze. You winced slightly as he hit a particularly tender spot and his face fell. "Whats wrong with your shoulder?"

"I'm fine." you just shook your head, fiddling with your engagement ring like you were unintentionally trying to tell him something. He took a seat next to you, looking down at the floor.

"How long has he been hurting you." he finally asked, nervously rubbing the scruff on his face, trying to calm the pit in his stomach. You shook your head again and stood, turning towards the door. He grabbed your hand, stopping you from leaving, unknowingly tracing his thumb back and forth on the back of your hand. Avoiding his gaze, you struggled to hold back the tears that were burning your eyes. You felt a gentle tug on your arm, Jack pulling you closer to him, grabbing on to your other free hand.

There was so much you wanted to say, so much you wanted to tell him. About all the nights you spent locked in the bathroom, hiding from your fiancés hurling words and fists. About the bruises that covered your body. About the control. The isolation. The terror.

"I dont know." was all you could muster, however. You felt his body stiffen, his grip tighten on your wrists. A sob caught in your chest, the lump growing larger and larger in your throat. You couldn’t look up, you couldn’t face him, though you felt his hazel eyes burning into your flesh. Before you either of you could speak again, you were saved by a trauma.

It wasn’t until hours later, as the Pittsburgh sun because to poke out from under the horizon, did you hear the door creak and the sound of his uneven gate coming up behind you. Without a word, he handed you your usual, a cup of vanilla chai tea. The both of you would meet up here on occasion, after a particularly tough shift, just to talk. It was a chilly morning, the tip of your nose rosy as another cold Pittsburgh fall and winter began to creep in. You caught chill as the wind whipped through the buildings beside you. As you shivered, Jack instinctively stepped towards you, letting his radiating body heat warm yours.

“It wasn’t always this bad,” you finally admitted. “The first time he hit me… he said he’d never do it again. I was stupid enough to believe him. But then his drinking got worse and, you get the rest of the story.” You motion to your face, the cold air stinging your eyes. He stared at you without a word, you could tell he was thinking. You saw the gears moving in his head. Jack Abbot, thinking? That was never good sign.

“You drive or take The T?” He asked, pushing off the railing.

“The T…?” You were confused as he started walking toward the door, motioning you to follow suit. “Grab your stuff, I’ll take you home.” “Jack, that’s kind of you, but if Charlie saw some strange man dropping me o-“