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summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.
You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.
contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, arguments, assaults, blood, physical violence.
a/n : Little reminder that I’m using some events from the show and twist/mix them to fit them in my story ! So that’s why I used a particular scene in this chapter hehe (I actually rewatched the scene a few times to write the exact same dialogue lol)
archiveofourown link
Spotify playlist link
Chapter 10 : Long day
The automatic ER doors slid open in front of you as you stepped back into County General after almost two full days away from it.
One day off. One night off. Which, in emergency medicine terms, practically counted as a vacation.
Your coffee was still warm in your hand, backpack hanging off one shoulder, exhaustion not fully gone but manageable now. The early morning light filtered through the front entrance windows, painting pale gold reflections across the polished floor while the day shift slowly came alive around you.
Nurses changing over. Phones already ringing. Stretchers moving through the halls. Normal chaos. You should’ve felt rested. Instead, the second you walked deeper into the ER, something tight settled quietly in your chest.
Because this was your first full day shift since the assault.
And apparently your body remembered that before your brain wanted to.
Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the waiting room entrance while you walked. Just a glance. Quick. Automatic. But enough for you to notice it yourself.
You tightened your grip slightly around the coffee cup and kept moving before your thoughts could linger there too long. Nobody else seemed to notice.
At least until—
“Well, look who finally decided to come back.”
You looked up instantly.
Abbot.
Of course.
Standing near the nurses station with charts in hand already fully dressed for shift, coffee abandoned beside the computer like he’d been here for hours. Which honestly he probably had.
You raised an eyebrow slightly while approaching. “Missed me?”
“No.” Too fast.
You almost smiled. “Cute.”
Abbot rolled his eyes lightly before handing you a chart without even greeting you properly. “We’re understaffed again.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“Trauma rooms are already full.”
“There it is.”
You took the chart from him anyway, your fingers brushing his briefly in the process. Tiny contact. Barely anything. Still enough that both of you paused for half a second longer than necessary before letting go.
Neither acknowledged it. Naturally.
“You’re on with me today,” he added while turning back toward the board.
You sighed dramatically.
“My condolences.”
“I say that every shift.”
And somehow, despite the sarcasm the last fight, the familiar rhythm between you settled back into place almost immediately.
You had barely finished scanning the first chart when another voice cut through the morning ER noise.
“Why the hell are the usual night shifters here before me?” Dana appeared from the main hallway still carrying her coffee and bag, looking deeply offended by the situation already.
Her hair was slightly messy from the early hour, jacket half slipping off one shoulder while she stopped in front of the nurses station and stared at both of you suspiciously.
“You two are ruining my routine.” You leaned casually against the counter.
“Some of us are hardworking professionals.” Dana pointed immediately at Abbot.
“Him maybe.” Then she pointed at you. “You? Absolutely not.” You gasped softly in fake offense.
Abbot snorted quietly beside you before pretending it never happened the second Dana looked at him.
Too late. You noticed. Again. Dana narrowed her eyes slightly between both of you. There it is. That little look she had now whenever you and Abbot interacted.
Like she was trying not to smile at a secret. You ignored it immediately. “You’re late anyway,” you told her while taking another sip of coffee.
Dana looked scandalized. “I am three minutes early.”
“Which for you is medically concerning.”
“That’s because I stopped for coffee.”
“You already have coffee.”
Dana lifted a second cup from behind her back triumphantly. “One for me. One for emotional support.”
Abbot looked at the second cup flatly. “That explains a lot actually.” Dana pointed at him dramatically. “See? This is why I need support coffee.”
You laughed softly under your breath while opening the chart again. And for a brief second, just a brief second, the morning felt almost normal again.
Dana suddenly looked down at something on her phone before sighing dramatically. Then she pointed at you. “You. Come with me.”
You frowned immediately. “…Why?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Dana was already turning away toward the locker room hallway. “Confidential woman business.”
You blinked once. “That sounds threatening.”
And just like that, she kept walking without waiting for you at all. You stood there for a second holding your coffee and chart, completely unsure if this was serious, dramatic, or just Dana being Dana.
Honestly, with her, it could be any of the three. Slowly, you turned your head toward Abbot beside you with a questioning expression like:
do you know what this is about?
Abbot glanced between you and Dana disappearing down the hallway. Then shrugged once. “No idea.”
A beat. Then dryly, “If she murders you, I’m not finishing your charts.”
You stared at him flatly. “That’s your concern?”
“I have priorities.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly at him before finally starting after Dana. “Heartless.”
Behind you, Abbot called without looking up from his paperwork, “You’ll still be back in ten minutes.” And annoyingly, he sounded very confident about it.
You followed Dana down the hallway toward the locker rooms, already suspicious from the way she kept glancing back at you with barely concealed amusement.
The second the doors swung shut behind you, cutting off most of the ER noise, you stopped and looked at her expectantly.
“…Well?” Dana slowly turned toward you. And there it was. That smirk. Oh no. “What?” you asked immediately.
Dana crossed her arms. “So,” she started casually, “is it true what happened the other night?” You blinked once.
Then immediately sighed, long and exhausted already. “Oh no. No no no, Dana, we are not doing this.”
You instantly turned to leave. Dana grabbed your arm before you could even reach the door. “Oh yes we are.”
“Dana.”
“What happened outside ?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not what Lena said.”
You groaned softly. “Lena needs hobbies.”
Dana physically pulled you back toward the benches like an overexcited teenager desperate for gossip.
“You and Abbot disappeared outside for like fifteen minutes.”
“We talked.” Dana gasped dramatically.
“You TALKED?” You gave her a deadpan look. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m being invested.”
“You’re being terrifying.”
Dana ignored that completely. “Did he finally admit he’s obsessed with you?”
You nearly choked. “Oh my god.”
“That’s a yes.”
“That is absolutely not a yes.”
Dana narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Y/N.”
You rubbed a tired hand over your face already. “It was nothing, okay? We argued.”
“Mhmm.”
“And then we talked.”
“Mhmm.”
“And then an ambulance arrived.”
Dana froze slightly. Then slowly, “…And?”
You frowned. “And what?”
Dana stared at you like you were the most frustrating person alive. “Did something happen before the ambulance?”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Because technically, no. Nothing happened. But somehow the silence before that interruption still felt dangerously close to something. Dana noticed your hesitation instantly.
Her eyes widened. “Oh my god something almost happened.”
“Nothing happened!” you said immediately. Too quickly.
“Nothing happened,” you repeated more firmly while trying to pull your arm free from her grip. “And nothing is going to happen.”
Dana looked unconvinced in the most offensive way possible. “You hesitated.”
“I did not.”
“You literally buffered before answering.”
You pointed at her accusingly. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
You groaned dramatically, already exhausted and your shift hadn’t even properly started yet.
“Dana, seriously. Nothing happened.”
She crossed her arms tighter. “But something almost happened.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“No.”
“The ambulance interrupted you.”
“It interrupted a conversation.”
Dana stared at you flatly. “A very intense conversation apparently.”
You shook your head immediately. “No. Absolutely not. Nothing weird is happening between me and Abbot.”
Dana raised one eyebrow slowly. “You almost killed him three weeks ago.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“And now you’re staring dramatically at each other outside the ER.”
“We were arguing.”
“You were flirting.”
“We were not flirting.”
Dana looked at you with genuine pity now. “Oh sweetheart.”
You threw your hands up. “Oh my god.”
“Everyone sees it.”
“There is nothing to see.”
“Abbot discharged a patient because he flirted with you.”
“He was stable.”
Dana burst out laughing. “You are unbelievable.”
You rubbed your forehead tiredly. “Dana. Listen to me carefully.” She immediately leaned closer like she was receiving classified information.
“Nothing,” you said slowly, “is ever happening between me and Abbot.”
Dana tilted her head slightly. “Ever ever?”
“Yes.”
“Like ever ever ever?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” You narrowed your eyes. “Why did you say it like that?”
Dana suddenly smiled in the most suspicious way possible. “No reason.” Which absolutely meant she had a reason. You stared at Dana for one long second. Dana burst out laughing immediately. You shook your head, already completely done with this conversation. “I’m leaving.”
“Oh come on, admit it was at least a little romantic.”
“It was literally an argument outside the ambulance bay.”
Dana followed behind you while you headed toward the door. “You stared at each other, didn’t you?”
You opened the locker room door. “No.”
“You totally did.”
“We were discussing.”
“Mhmm.”
“You’re unbearable.” Dana grinned proudly. “And yet you love me.” You paused dramatically before looking back at her. “This relationship is becoming increasingly difficult.”
Dana laughed louder while you finally escaped into the hallway again before she could continue interrogating you. The second the ER noise hit your ears again, you exhaled deeply in relief. Honestly, dealing with trauma cases was sometimes easier than dealing with Dana after she smelled emotional tension.
You escaped the locker room interrogation still hearing Dana laugh behind you as the ER swallowed you back into its usual noise and movement. Honestly, you needed actual patients now.
Something medically complicated. Anything except relationship investigations at seven in the morning.
You made your way toward ambulance reception, coffee still in hand, when you spotted Ahmad near the wall beside the paramedic entrance talking with one of the EMTs.
Ahmad noticed you immediately. “Well look who survived Dana.” You pointed at him tiredly. “She’s becoming a threat to society.”
“Too late for that.” The paramedic beside him laughed softly while Ahmad leaned back against the wall. They were standing beside the infamous bet board.
The board every shift somehow used to place stupid predictions, bets, challenges, or inside jokes on sticky notes. You honestly never paid much attention to it.
Mostly because it was usually filled with nonsense like:
who would cry first during a trauma
how many coffees Dana would drink
whether Robby would lose another pen
Complete chaos. Ahmad was apparently reading one now while shaking his head. You stepped closer absentmindedly, finally curious enough to glance at the board yourself while sipping your coffee. Colored sticky notes covered almost the entire thing.
Some old. Some new. Some definitely inappropriate. Then suddenly, one note caught your attention immediately. Bright yellow. Written in thick black marker.
“How long before Y/N and Abbot finally hook up?”
You nearly inhaled your own coffee. Underneath it were multiple answers.
• “Two weeks.”
• “After one near death experience.”
• “Already happened. They’re just dramatic.”
• “Robby owes me 20 bucks if they kiss before Christmas.”
Your jaw dropped slowly. “…What the hell?”
You stepped toward the board so fast your coffee nearly spilled. “What the hell—”
Your hand ripped the sticky note off immediately while your eyes scanned it again in disbelief like maybe you had hallucinated the entire thing. Nope. Still there. Still horrifying.
You looked back at the board and suddenly realized there were way more notes referencing both of you than there should’ve been. Way more.
Your expression flattened slowly into something dangerous. Then you turned toward Ahmad holding the sticky note between your fingers like evidence in a crime investigation.
“What,” you asked very seriously, “is this?”
Ahmad tried very hard to keep a straight face. Failed a little. “You never saw it before?”
“No??”
He exchanged a quick look with the paramedic beside him before looking back at you. “It’s been there for a while now.”
“A while?”
“Couple months maybe.”
Your jaw dropped slightly. “A couple MONTHS?”
“Well…” Ahmad scratched the back of his neck carefully. “It evolved over time.” You stared at him in complete disbelief. “Evolved?”
“At first people just thought you hated each other.”
“We do.”
Ahmad made a face that clearly said : sure. Then continued. “But then you kept arguing like a divorced couple every shift and people started noticing things.”
You pointed aggressively at the board. “THINGS?”
“Chemistry.” You looked personally offended. “There is no chemistry!” The paramedic beside him physically turned away trying not to laugh.
Ahmad stayed impressively composed.
“Y/N, last week you two sang ABBA together in front of half the hospital.”
“That was alcohol.”
“And the other day where he discharged your patient because the guy flirted with you.” You opened your mouth. Then paused. “…You know about that?” Ahmad looked at you flatly. “The entire ER knows about that.”
“Oh my god.”
You rubbed your forehead in horror while staring at the board again. One sticky note near the bottom suddenly caught your eye too: “Sexual tension level: catastrophic.”
You looked like you wanted to die. Ahmad finally lost the battle against his own amusement and laughed quietly. “To be fair,” he admitted, “most people are very invested now.”
You stared at the board another second in complete disbelief. Then immediately started ripping every single sticky note involving you and Abbot off the wall.
Fast. Violently. “What are you doing?!” Ahmad protested instantly. You ignored him completely.
One by one, the notes disappeared into your hands.
• “enemies to lovers speedrun”
• “they’re one supply closet away from kissing”
• “Abbot folds first”
Gone. Gone. Absolutely gone.
The paramedic beside Ahmad was openly laughing now while you shredded the pile dramatically into tiny pieces and threw them straight into the nearby trash bin.
“This is insane,” you muttered while destroying evidence like a woman possessed. “You people need actual hobbies.”
Ahmad looked genuinely distressed watching the notes disappear.
“Y/N, no— come on, I spent time organizing those.”
“You WHAT?”
“It had categories.”
You looked at him in horror. “There were categories??”
“Obviously.”
You pointed at him threateningly now. “Do not rewrite those.”
Ahmad tried to stay serious. Really tried. But the grin was already coming back. “…You know I’m gonna rewrite them, right?”
You closed your eyes briefly like you were physically fighting for patience.
Then turned and started walking away before you actually committed workplace violence.
“This ER is gonna be the death of me,” you muttered tiredly while disappearing back down the hallway.
Behind you, Ahmad called loudly: “I’m adding this reaction to the board too!” You didn’t even turn around. Just lifted one hand blindly behind you in warning while continuing toward the trauma rooms.
————————
The ER had settled into its usual morning rhythm—phones ringing, monitors beeping, stretchers rolling through the hallways in a steady stream of controlled chaos. On the surface, everything was fine. Busy, but manageable. On paper: a normal shift.
But in your head, it was anything but calm. Sticky notes. Ahmad laughing. Dana interrogating you. Abbot standing too close outside the ER. That stupid almost-moment at the ambulance bay. The bet board.
All of it kept looping back like background noise you couldn’t turn off. You tightened your gloves as you stepped into Trauma 3, forcing your focus back where it belonged.
Patient first. Always. Langdon was already there, scanning the chart while the patient lay on the trauma bed—a middle-aged man in his late fifties, brought in after a construction site accident.
Collapsed scaffolding. A steel beam had struck him across the torso before he fell roughly two meters onto concrete. Now he was pale, sweating, and struggling to stay still despite obvious pain.
“Possible rib fractures,” Langdon said quickly as you entered. “Maybe flail segment on the left side. He’s got decreased breath sounds there.”
You nodded, moving immediately to the bedside. The man groaned as you gently palpated his chest wall, stopping the moment he flinched hard. “Pain here?”
“Yes… god—yes.”
You exchanged a quick look with Langdon. Not good.
His breathing was shallow, uneven, guarded—like every inhale hurt too much to complete. You stepped back toward the ultrasound machine already being prepared. “Let’s get a FAST exam,” you said. “And chest X-ray stat.”
Langdon adjusted the oxygen while speaking calmly to the patient. “We’re going to take a look inside quickly, okay? You may have some broken ribs and possibly air or blood where it shouldn’t be, but we’re going to confirm and treat it fast.”
The man nodded weakly, clearly trying to stay composed. You pressed the probe against his abdomen and then up toward the chest area, eyes locked on the screen.
Fluid lines. Subtle, but there. Langdon leaned slightly closer. “Left side isn’t expanding properly,” he noted.
You nodded once. “Suspected hemothorax.”
The words settled into the room instantly, shifting everything into faster motion. “Prepare chest tube set,” you ordered without looking away from the screen.
The patient’s breathing hitched again. “Am I—am I going to be okay?”
You looked at him immediately, voice steady. “We’re catching it early. Right now we just need to help your lung expand again.”
Langdon was already positioning equipment while you focused entirely on the scan, your hands moving automatically through protocol. Clinical. Precise. Controlled. Even if your mind still wasn’t fully quiet.
Because somewhere under the focus, under the urgency, everything else was still there, waiting for the moment you stopped moving.
Langdon moved first, already opening the sterile chest tube kit as the rest of the team shifted the room into full procedural mode. “Scalpel, clamp, sutures ready,” he called out calmly.
You stepped to the side of the bed, eyes still flicking between the monitor and the patient’s breathing pattern. Oxygen saturation was holding—but barely. The left chest barely rose compared to the right, every inhale shallow and strained.
“Prep left lateral chest,” you said. A nurse swabbed the area quickly with antiseptic while the patient winced, jaw clenched in pain.
Langdon glanced at you. “Triangle of safety?”
You nodded once. “Fourth or fifth intercostal space, anterior to midaxillary line.”
He gave a small confirming nod and made the incision with practiced precision. The patient tensed immediately, letting out a sharp cry. “Deep breath,” you instructed him firmly but calmly. “I know it hurts, but don’t fight us.”
He tried, but it came out broken. Langdon carefully dissected down, then advanced the tube with steady control. For a second, the room stayed completely focused on the movement—no noise, no distraction, just procedure.
Then, a sudden rush of air. Followed by a darker fluid release into the tubing. “Got it,” Langdon said.
You watched the monitor immediately. The change wasn’t instant—but it started. Oxygen saturation creeping upward. Respiratory effort slightly easing. Heart rate slowing out of panic-driven tachycardia. “Good,” you said quietly. “Keep it secured.”
Langdon connected the drainage system and dressed the site while you adjusted the oxygen flow and rechecked lung sounds with the stethoscope.
Still diminished—but improved. Much improved. The patient’s shoulders slowly relaxed against the bed, tension easing out of his face as the worst of the pressure started to resolve.
“I… I can breathe a bit better,” he whispered. You nodded. “That’s what we wanted.”
Langdon looked at you briefly. “Chest tube is functioning. No active complications.”
You checked the vitals again. Stable. Not perfect—but stable. Enough.
“X-ray to confirm placement,” you said, straightening up. “And keep monitoring closely for re-accumulation.” The nurse moved to document everything while the patient was carefully repositioned more comfortably.
The room finally started to slow down again—the sharp edge of emergency easing into controlled recovery.
You stepped back slightly, pulling your gloves off as the immediate tension released from your shoulders.
Langdon glanced at the monitor once more, then back at you. “Good catch on the hemothorax,” he said.
You gave a small nod. “Good procedure.”
A beat passed. For a moment, the only sound was the steady beep of a now-stable monitor. Another patient not lost to time. Another shift survived.
Only once the monitor settled into a steadier rhythm did the tension finally start to drain out of the room. The patient was still pale, still in pain—but breathing was no longer a struggle that looked like it might win.
Langdon exhaled slowly, peeling his gloves off one finger at a time. You did the same, almost in sync, like your bodies had been holding the same breath through the entire procedure without realizing it.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Just that shared pause. The kind that only comes after you’ve dragged someone back from the edge and are finally allowed to feel your own lungs again.
You glanced at him briefly. He met your gaze, calm now in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline anymore.
“Good work,” he said simply.
You gave a small nod. “Same to you.” It wasn’t competitive. Not tense. Just… clean acknowledgment.
The patient shifted slightly on the bed, eyes flicking between you both. “So… what happens now?” he asked weakly.
You turned back immediately, professional mode snapping into place again. “Now,” you said gently, “we monitor you closely in trauma until imaging confirms everything’s stable. The chest tube will keep draining fluid and letting your lung re-expand.”
Langdon added smoothly, “You’ll likely go to observation after that. Pain management, repeat scans, and we’ll reassess the ribs once things settle.”
The man nodded slowly, looking a bit more reassured now. “Okay…”
You gave him a small, steady look. “You’re not out of the woods yet, but you’re no longer falling into it.”
A faint, tired breath left him—almost like relief. “Thank you,” he murmured. You offered a brief, professional nod.
Then you and Langdon stepped out of the room almost at the same time. Gloves off. Into the bin. Hand sanitizer immediately after. The cold gel spread across your palms as you rubbed it in quickly, the smell sharp and grounding in a way only hospital sanitizer could be.
When you and Langdon finally stepped fully away from Trauma 3, the pressure of the case had eased enough for conversation to come naturally again.
“You know,” Langdon said while walking beside you, “most people usually panic at least a little during chest tubes.”
You looked at him sideways. “I panicked internally.”
“Ah. Very convincing performance then.”
You laughed softly under your breath. “Thank you. I’ve spent years perfecting emotional repression.”
“That explains why you work here.”
You pointed at him briefly. “That sounded personal.”
“It was.” The two of you kept walking side by side down the hallway, still riding that strange post-emergency relief that made people either dead silent or unexpectedly talkative.
In your case: slightly sarcastic.
In Langdon’s: effortlessly charming.
And unfortunately for certain people, you were laughing. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But relaxed. Easy. Natural.
From the middle nurses station, Princess looked up from her computer slowly. Then immediately elbowed Perlah beside her. Perlah followed her gaze toward you and Langdon walking together. “Ohhh,” she whispered instantly.
Princess nodded dramatically. “Exactly.”
A second later Dana arrived carrying charts and coffee, looking exhausted already. Princess grabbed her sleeve immediately. “Look.”
Dana frowned. “At what?”
Perlah silently pointed toward the hallway. Dana looked over. Saw you laughing with Langdon.
Then her eyebrows lifted slowly in realization. “Oh no.”
Princess looked delighted. “Oh yes.”
Meanwhile, completely unaware of the live audience forming behind you, you leaned against the counter beside Langdon while finishing the discussion about the trauma case.
And then, from farther down the hallway, another pair of eyes noticed too.
Abbot stopped briefly near the board.
Saw you smiling. Saw Langdon smiling back.
And even from across the ER, Dana physically watched his expression change.
Abbot recovered quickly. Too quickly for most people to notice anything at all. His expression barely shifted—just a small tightening near the jaw, a flicker in his eyes before he looked back down at the board like nothing had happened. Controlled. Professional. Classic Abbot.
Honestly, if it had been anyone else watching him, they probably would’ve missed it entirely. But Dana had worked with him for years. She knew every version of his moods: irritated Abbot, tired Abbot, trauma-mode Abbot, emotionally constipated Abbot.
And this one? This one was painfully obvious to her.
Because for half a second, just half, he had looked bothered.
Not angry. Not annoyed at work. Personally bothered.
Dana slowly looked back toward Princess and Perlah with the expression of someone watching live television drama unfold in real time. “Oh he hates this,” she whispered.
Princess looked delighted. “He’s jealous again.”
Perlah nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Meanwhile Abbot calmly placed a chart down at the station like absolutely nothing was wrong, though the movement was just a little sharper than usual. Dana noticed that too. Of course she did.
Her eyes narrowed slightly with growing amusement while she watched him pretend not to look in your direction again.
Which naturally meant, he looked again. Quick. Subtle. Right as Langdon made you laugh another time. Abbot’s jaw tightened almost invisibly. Dana physically had to look away before she laughed directly in his face.
Dana watched Abbot glance toward you one more time before immediately pretending to focus on another chart again.
Pathetic. Honestly, deeply pathetic. And because she unfortunately cared about both of you more than she should, she decided to intervene.Again.
Before anyone could stop her, she suddenly grabbed a chart from the pile and raised her voice across the station. “Y/N!”
You turned immediately from beside Langdon. “Yeah?”
Dana waved the chart dramatically. “Come with me, I need help with the next patient.”
You frowned slightly. “…You’ve been a doctor for like thirty years.”
Dana pointed at you offensively. “Rude.” Then she started walking away already. “Come on.”
You exchanged a quick confused glance with Langdon before pushing yourself off the counter. “Duty calls apparently.”
Langdon smiled lightly. “Try not to insult any elderly physicians on the way.”
“No promises.” You walked off toward Dana while she tried very hard not to look suspiciously pleased with herself. The second you disappeared around the corner with her, Princess immediately looked toward Abbot. He was still pretending to read the exact same page for the third consecutive minute.
Princess leaned toward him innocently. “So…”
Abbot didn’t look up. “No.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.” Perlah snorted quietly behind her computer.
Dana kept walking beside you through the hallway, chart tucked under one arm while the other hand pointed vaguely toward the waiting area. “Okay,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just interrupted your conversation on purpose. “Who do you want next?”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at her.
“That sounded weirdly ominous.” Dana ignored you and opened the chart slightly. “We have a drunk guy who stapled his own thumb during a DIY project—”
“Absolutely not.”
“—or,” she continued dramatically, “a teenager with a possible nasal fracture after attempting a backflip off a vending machine.”
You blinked slowly. “…Why was he on the vending machine?”
Dana shrugged. “Apparently for love.”
You sighed. “Of course.”
Dana smirked slightly. “So. Choose your fighter.”
You crossed your arms while pretending to seriously think about it. “Hm…”
“The thumb guy also threw up in triage.”
“That information feels manipulative.”
“Correct.”
You were just opening your mouth to answer when—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
A violent noise slammed against one of the waiting room windows.
Both of you froze instantly. Then another round of hitting.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Not accidental. Not normal.
Every instinct in your body shifted immediately. The joking vanished. You and Dana turned at the exact same time toward the waiting area where muffled shouting suddenly erupted from behind the glass.
Another loud impact rattled the window.
People inside the waiting room started backing away. “Shit,” Dana muttered already moving. And both of you broke into motion immediately.
From down the hallway, the yelling became clearer. “HELLO?! Can you hear me?! Helloooo?!”
Another bang against the glass echoed through the waiting room.
You and Dana arrived quickly, slowing only once you reached the entrance. The man stood at the reception window, palm slamming hard against the glass separating him from Lupe.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Construction jacket half open. Dark blond hair messy like he’d been pulling his hands through it for hours. And the anger radiating off him filled the entire room. Not drunk.
Not out of control yet. But very close to becoming both. His jaw was clenched so tightly it visibly moved when he breathed, pacing one step before turning sharply back toward the desk again.
People in the waiting room had started staring now. Some moving farther away quietly.
Lupe herself stayed composed behind the glass, though you could tell she was getting tense too.
Dana immediately stepped forward first, lifting both hands slightly in a calming gesture.
“Whoa, whoa—sir, sir,” she said firmly but calmly. “What’s the issue here?”
The man turned sharply toward her, frustration written all over his face.
And behind Dana, you stopped instinctively. The waiting room. The yelling. The glass. The sudden aggression. Your chest tightened before you could stop it.
You stayed a little behind Dana automatically, shoulders tense despite yourself, eyes fixed carefully on the man while old memories crawled unpleasantly at the back of your mind.
“The issue?” the man snapped immediately, stepping closer to the glass again. “The issue is that I’ve been here all damn day and you people haven’t done a single fucking thing to help me!”
His voice boomed across the waiting room hard enough that several people visibly startled. The anger on his face was impossible to miss now. Red cheeks. Tight jaw. Eyes wide with frustration that had clearly been building for hours.
Dana kept her posture steady, calm voice carefully measured despite the tension climbing rapidly.
“Sir, we are doing everything we can to help you, but you need to calm down—”
“DON’T tell me to calm down!” he exploded instantly.
The sound made your shoulders tense automatically behind her. He pointed aggressively around the waiting room now, arm sweeping toward the other patients sitting silently nearby.
“I’m not like all these losers!” The room went completely still.
“I have insurance,” he yelled louder. “Good insurance! And I pay my taxes which pays for THEM not to have insurance!”
His voice echoed violently against the walls now, anger fully taking over while people looked away uncomfortably or shrank deeper into their seats.
Another sharp movement from him, another loud yell, and you flinched slightly before you could stop yourself.
Dana noticed. She noticed the slight flinch behind her without even turning around. And instantly, her posture changed. Still calm. Still controlled. But firmer now.
“Sir,” she said sharply, voice cutting through the room with authority this time, “you’ve got about five seconds to change your entire attitude before security gets involved.”
You could feel it immediately, Dana was getting irritated too. Not scared. Annoyed.
But she was trying hard not to let it fully show, probably knowing that if she pushed too hard, the man would only escalate more.
The guy stared at her breathing heavily, anger still written all over his face. Then suddenly he threw one hand up dismissively.
“Fuck it,” he muttered. “I’m leaving.”
His voice was calmer now—but not calmer emotionally. The anger was still there in his eyes as he started turning away from the desk, looking back at both of you with that same simmering frustration.
And then, from behind the reception glass— “HEY!”
The voice cut through the waiting room sharply. You turned immediately.
Langdon had appeared beside Lupe’s desk seemingly out of nowhere, one hand braced against the counter as he looked directly at the man.
The man turned sharply toward him, still visibly angry. Langdon didn’t move. Didn’t raise his voice either.
“You are absolutely free to go,” he said calmly through the glass, “but if you do, you’ll be leaving against our medical advice.”
He grabbed a paper from the desk beside Lupe and slapped it flat against the glass hard enough to get the man’s attention.
“This form states that I advised you to stay and complete your evaluation,” Langdon continued evenly, “but that you are choosing to leave anyway, understanding and accepting all risks of heart attack, stroke, disability, and death.”
The waiting room had gone almost completely silent now. Even the man’s anger seemed to hesitate slightly under Langdon’s tone. Professional. Cold. Unmoved. Then Langdon slid the paper calmly under the glass toward him.
The man stepped slowly back toward the desk, still breathing hard, and aggressively snatched the paper from under the glass.
He looked down at it briefly before scoffing bitterly. “Sounds like a CYA in case I drop dead on the curb.”
Langdon didn’t hesitate even a second. “That’s exactly what it is.”
The blunt honesty seemed to catch the man off guard more than anger would’ve. His shoulders lowered slightly now, some of the fight draining out of him as frustration slowly replaced rage. “I just wanted to be treated fairly,” he muttered, quieter this time.
Langdon’s expression softened just enough. “I assure you that is our intention,” he said calmly. “We’re not back here playing Go Fish.”
And before the silence could settle awkwardly, Dana stepped in smoothly right after him. “We are helping very sick people,” she said gently but firmly. “You will be seen, okay?”
Between the two of them, the tension in the waiting room slowly started easing down, the man no longer yelling now—just tired, frustrated, and finally listening.
The man finally backed away from the desk, the fight draining out of him as he sank down into one of the waiting chairs. His anger didn’t vanish completely—but it softened into something quieter, heavier. He sat there among the other patients, staring down at the form in his hands with a strained, almost embarrassed half-smile, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself anymore. The waiting room slowly exhaled with him.
Dana’s posture loosened just slightly as the immediate threat passed, but when she turned, her attention immediately landed on you. You were still standing near the glass. Still watching him. Still not fully back in the room.
Your grip on the edge of the counter was tighter than it should’ve been, knuckles faintly tense. Your breathing had changed without you even realizing it—shallower, faster, stuck somewhere between the present and something older your body remembered too well.
The noise in the waiting room dulled around you. The fluorescent lights felt too bright again. For a second, it wasn’t this man you were seeing anymore. It was another room. Another moment. Another version of a waiting area your mind didn’t want to return to.
Dana noticed immediately. Her expression shifted—subtle, but concerned now instead of focused on the situation. Dana didn’t wait for you to spiral further.
Your eyes stayed locked on the man, even though you weren’t really looking at him anymore. Your breathing hitched slightly. Just enough for it to show. And suddenly the ER felt too loud again.
She stepped in immediately, gentle but firm, and placed a steady hand on your shoulder. “Hey…” she said more softly.
You blinked once—like you were trying to refocus, to pull yourself back into the present—but your breathing was still slightly uneven.
Dana didn’t push. She just guided you, turning you away from the waiting room with careful pressure. “Come on,” she murmured. “Out here.” You let her move you without resistance.
The two of you stepped back into the ER hallway, the sound of monitors and voices washing over you again, grounding and sharp in the best possible way.
Only once you were fully out of sight of the waiting room did Dana stop. You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to drop. “I’m okay,” you said quickly. Too quickly.
Dana raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but not pressing immediately. You ran a hand over your face, trying to steady your breathing properly now. “I’m fine,” you repeated, more controlled this time. “It just—caught me off guard.”
Dana studied you for a second, then nodded slightly like she was choosing not to argue with you in public about it. “Okay,” she said gently. “But don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re fine and then disappear into your head for the rest of the shift.”
That almost made you let out a small breath of a laugh. Almost. You shook your head faintly. “I’m not disappearing.”
Dana tilted her head. “Good.” A pause. Then, a little softer, “You’re here with me, yeah?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
And even if your pulse was still a little off, you were back in the ER now. Not the waiting room. Not the memory. Just here.
————————
A few moments later, things had already moved on like they always did in the ER—no time to linger, no space to stay stuck. Dana had eventually steered you back into the flow of the shift, handing you the chart again with a quiet glance that said she was still keeping an eye on you without making it obvious.
And just like that, you made your choice. “The teenager,” you said, closing the chart decisively.
Dana smirked faintly. “Of course you picked chaos.”
“You gave me chaos options.”
“Fair.”
Now you were in one of the exam rooms with him—Room 6—standing across from a lanky teenage boy sitting on the bed, holding a makeshift ice pack against his nose like it was doing him any real good.
He looked embarrassed more than anything. Bruised nose. Slight swelling already starting. Eyes darting around like he was hoping this was all a misunderstanding.
You pulled on fresh gloves, voice calm and professional as you started your assessment. “Okay,” you said gently. “Tell me what happened.”
He hesitated. “…So. Hypothetically.”
You looked at him. “Not a great start.”
He winced. “Okay—no—so I tried a backflip.”
You paused slightly. “…On purpose?”
He nodded slowly. “On a vending machine.”
You stared at him for a second. Then exhaled through your nose. “Why.”
He shifted awkwardly. “…There was a girl.”
You didn’t even react at first. Just nodded like you had heard this exact sentence too many times in your career. “Of course there was.”
He rushed to explain.
“It was supposed to be impressive, like—cool, you know? I’ve done it before but not on a vending machine and—”
“Okay,” you cut in gently, already checking his nose and facial structure. “Let’s focus on the important part. Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“Any dizziness?”
“A bit, but I think that’s mostly embarrassment.”
A small breath of amusement slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Fair.”
You carefully palpated the bridge of his nose, watching for instability or severe deviation while continuing in a calm tone. You finished your exam calmly, moving with the same steady rhythm you always relied on when the ER felt too loud inside your head.
“Alright,” you said after a final quick check of his nose and facial bones. “Nothing feels unstable, which is good. We’re going to get imaging to confirm there’s no displacement or hidden fracture lines.”
The teenager nodded slowly, still holding the ice pack like it was doing emotional support more than medical work. “So I’m not dying from… vending machine karma?” he asked.
You gave him a flat look. “No.”
He visibly relaxed. “Nice.”
You let out a small breath through your nose, already reaching for the chart. “I’m going to give you something for the pain and swelling while we wait for imaging,” you added.
His eyes widened slightly. “Is it gonna knock me out?”
“No,” you said immediately. “It’s not a movie sedation situation. Just something to take the edge off.”
“Aw.” You paused. “…Why ‘aw’?”
“I thought I’d get to experience hospital naps.” You shook your head slightly as you wrote the order. “Unfortunately, you’re not that interesting of a case.”
He looked offended. “That’s rude.”
A nurse passed by outside as you signed off the medication order, then returned with the dose a few minutes later.
You checked it carefully, then handed it over. “Take this,” you instructed gently. “It’ll help with the pain and swelling until imaging.”
He swallowed it with a sip of water, watching you like he was still trying to process everything that had happened to him in the last hour.
“…So,” he said slowly, “if I had just walked normally to the vending machine, I wouldn’t be here right now?”
You looked at him for a beat. “Yes.”
He nodded. “…Noted.”
You capped your pen and glanced at him one last time. “You’re staying here until imaging clears you, understood?”
“Yes, doctor.”
You turned slightly toward the door, already stepping back into the flow of the ER. “Good,” you said. “Try not to invent any more hobbies while you wait.”
You stepped out of the exam room a few minutes later, still finishing your notes as you walked.
The teenager was stable, waiting for imaging, pain under control—straightforward enough to close out for now. You scribbled the last line of documentation while moving through the hallway, already shifting your attention to the next task without really thinking about it.
ER rhythm. Move, assess, move again. Just as you were about to pass the nurses’ station, Princess was on the phone, one hand covering the receiver while the other waved frantically at you.
“Y/N!” she called out sharply. You looked up immediately. She pointed down the hallway toward the emergency bay, eyes wide with urgency.
“Go find Dana—she’s been out there way too long and she’s not answering!”
You frowned slightly. “…Out where?” Princess mouthed emergency entrance while still half-listening to the call.
Your grip tightened a little around the charts in your hands. That was enough information. “Got it,” you said quickly.
No hesitation. You turned on your heel and headed straight for the emergency bay, already tucking your paperwork tighter against your chest as you walked faster, the noise of the ER fading slightly behind you with each step.
You pushed through the emergency bay doors quickly, barely glancing toward the infamous bet board as you passed it this time. Not now.
The second you stepped outside, the contrast hit immediately. Fresh air. Sunlight warming your skin. The faint city noise beyond the ambulance entrance.
After hours trapped under fluorescent lights, blood, noise, and tension, the outside air almost felt unreal for a second. You inhaled deeply automatically while scanning the area.
Empty ambulance bay. No Dana. Your brows pulled together immediately. “Dana?” you called out once, stepping farther outside. Nothing.
A small knot twisted instantly in your stomach. You walked farther toward the edge of the bay, eyes searching quickly—and then you saw her.
Down near the concrete beside the side wall. On the ground. Moving only slightly. Everything inside you dropped. The charts slipped from your hands and scattered across the pavement without you even noticing.
“DANA!” You broke into a run immediately.
You dropped to your knees beside her so fast it hurt against the concrete.
Dana was trying to push herself up weakly, one hand braced against the wall while the other stayed over part of her face like she was instinctively hiding it.
“Hey—hey, don’t move,” you said immediately, panic already rising in your throat. Your hands grabbed carefully at her shoulders and arm, helping steady her into a sitting position against the wall.
And then you saw it.
Blood. A dark smear on the concrete beside her. Your stomach twisted violently. “Oh my god…”
Your eyes darted over her quickly in automatic assessment mode now, adrenaline taking over hard. “Dana, look at me.”
She tried to turn away slightly instead. “Dana.” Your voice cracked sharper this time. Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered her hand just enough for you to finally see her properly.
And the sight made your chest tighten instantly.
Blood streamed heavily from Dana’s nose, running over her lips, down her chin and neck, staining the collar of her scrub top.
Too much blood. Your heartbeat spiked instantly. “Jesus—”
You grabbed gently at her wrist and shoulder, trying to keep her upright while quickly checking her responsiveness at the same time. “Dana, stay with me.”
“I’m fine,” she mumbled thickly through the blood, which immediately told you she was absolutely not fine.
“Don’t say that,” you snapped automatically, panic and adrenaline sharpening your voice. You grabbed gauze from the emergency wall kit beside the entrance and pressed it carefully toward her hand. “Hold this.”
Dana obeyed weakly, still looking dazed.
Your eyes scanned her rapidly now:
• bleeding nose
• possible facial trauma
• maybe a fall
• maybe worse
“Dana,” you said again, trying to steady your breathing enough to think clearly. “What happened?”
She swallowed painfully, blood still dripping between her fingers. Then finally muttered, “…I got dizzy.”
You stared at her for half a second. No. Absolutely not. Dana was many things, but she was not someone who casually “got dizzy” and ended up bleeding onto concrete outside the ER.
Your voice sharpened immediately. “Dana.”
She avoided your eyes. That alone told you enough. You adjusted your grip on her shoulder carefully, forcing yourself to stay medically calm even while panic and anger started twisting together inside your chest. “What happened?”
“I told you—”
“No,” you cut in firmly. “You lied to me.”
Dana closed her eyes briefly like she was already exhausted by the conversation. Blood still slipped slowly between her fingers onto the gauze. You leaned closer slightly. “Tell me.”
For a second she stayed silent. Then finally she let out a small, shaky breath. “…That guy from the waiting room.”
Your stomach dropped instantly. “What.” Dana swallowed hard before continuing quietly, “He followed me outside.” Every muscle in your body went rigid.
“He said he’ll take the risk,” she murmured.Your hands tightened unconsciously around the gauze pack. “And then?” Dana gave a humorless little laugh through the blood. “And then he hit me.”
The words slammed into you harder than you expected. You physically froze. Like your brain needed a second to catch up with what she had just said. “He what?”
Dana finally looked at you now, eyes tired more than emotional. “He swung at me once,” she admitted quietly. “Caught my nose. I fell.”
You stared at the blood on her face again. The concrete. The smear beside her. And suddenly your pulse was roaring in your ears. “Where is he?”
Dana immediately grabbed your wrist weakly before you could even fully stand. “Y/N.”
“Where is he?”
“He left.”
“I swear to god—”
“He left,” she repeated more firmly despite how exhausted she sounded. Your hands start shaking after the adrenaline hit. Dana noticed instantly. Even hurt, she still noticed you first.
“Hey,” she said softly. You looked back at her immediately. “I’m okay.” But the blood on her face made that impossible to believe.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself back into motion before panic fully took over. “Come on,” you said quickly.
Carefully, you slid one arm around Dana’s waist while guiding one of hers over your shoulders. She winced slightly as she pushed herself upright, blood still staining the front of her scrubs and your hands.
“Easy,” you murmured automatically. Dana leaned more weight against you than she probably wanted to admit. Together, slowly but quickly enough to matter, you started moving back toward the ER entrance.
Your heart was still pounding violently. Every step felt wrong. Too familiar.
The automatic doors slid open the second you crossed back inside. And immediately, everything stopped around you. People turned. Nurses froze.
Someone cursed quietly nearby. Because Dana looked bad. Blood down her face. On her neck. On her clothes.
And beside her, you looked furious.
Abbot saw you first from across the station. Then saw Dana. And he moved instantly. “Jesus Christ—”
Robby was right behind him before either of them had fully processed the situation. “What happened?” Robby asked sharply, already reaching for Dana’s arm to help support her.
Abbot’s eyes snapped between the blood and your face. His expression changed immediately. Not confusion. Not concern alone. Rage. Cold and immediate. “What happened?” he repeated harder this time.
You looked at him, breathing still uneven from adrenaline.
“That guy from the waiting room,” you said tightly. “He followed her outside.” A beat. “He hit her.” The entire atmosphere of the ER shifted instantly.
Dana kept insisting—still stubborn even while being sat down— “I’m okay… I’m fine, really.”
But no one was treating it like “fine” anymore. Robby guided her into the nearest chair by the nurses’ station, already fully in exam mode. His hands were steady as he leaned in, careful but efficient.
He tilted her face slightly. “Look at me,” he said gently. Dana obeyed with a tired sigh.
He checked her nose first—slow, precise—then moved the penlight up to her eyes, watching for reaction, tracking her pupils.
“No obvious deviation,” he murmured. “But we’re still going to ice this and monitor you. Any nausea?”
“A bit,” Dana admitted. Robby’s expression tightened slightly. “Okay. No hero answers, alright? Just facts.”
Dana muttered something under her breath but stayed still this time. You stayed a few steps back. Arms crossed. Watching. Not just Dana anymore—but the whole scene. Robby taking over care instinctively, grounded and calm. Dana trying to act like it was nothing.
The ER already moving again around you like it hadn’t just shifted violently a few minutes ago.
But your hands were still tense. Fingers tapping lightly against your arm without you noticing. Your chest still hadn’t fully unclenched. Anger sat under your skin like static.
Abbot noticed. Of course he did. He stepped closer to you—closer than usual, enough that the noise of the ER faded slightly around him.
You turned your head just slightly toward him. And before you could even process it— his hands came up. Gently. He cupped your face. Not forceful. Not dramatic. Just steadying.
His thumbs stayed still near your jaw as his eyes scanned you properly now—your expression, your pupils, the tension in your face, your breathing he was clearly reading without you saying a word.
“You,” he said quietly, voice lower than before, “are you okay?” The question landed differently this time. Because he wasn’t just asking. He was checking.
And his worry wasn’t hidden anymore. It was right there in his eyes—focused, real, unguarded in a way you weren’t used to seeing from him at all.
For a second, your brain just stalled. The anger didn’t disappear. The fear didn’t either. But something else pushed through both of them. And you didn’t immediately know what to do with that look on his face.
You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him. Really looked.
The ER noise blurred slightly at the edges, like your brain had decided to narrow the world down to just this moment—his hands on your face, his eyes scanning you like he was trying to verify something beyond medical facts.
It made something in your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t immediately name.
Not panic. Not anger. Something… quieter. Weirdly grounding.
After a second, you gently lifted your hands and guided his away from your face—not rejecting it harshly, just easing the contact down.
“I’m okay,” you said softly, more steady now. “He left before I even got there.”
Abbot’s hands dropped, but not abruptly. Like he was still reluctant to let go of the check he’d just done. His gaze stayed on you a moment longer, searching your face like he didn’t fully trust the words yet.
Then he exhaled slowly through his nose. “Okay,” he said, quieter. Just that.
But it didn’t sound like he meant “okay” the way people usually did in the ER. His eyes flicked briefly toward Dana, then back to you again—still alert, still tense in a different way now. Like the danger hadn’t fully left the room for him either.
And for a second, neither of you moved. Just stood there in the middle of the chaos, both of you slightly off balance from something neither of you was saying out loud.
————————
A few hours later, the ER had finally started to wind down into that late-shift exhaustion—less chaos, more lingering tension. People still spoke quieter than usual.
Glances lasted a second too long. Everyone was moving like the memory of what happened was still hanging in the air, even if the emergency itself was over.
Dana had refused to fully “be a patient,” of course. Robby had tried. You had tried. Abbot had very firmly tried.
She ended up in one of the small rooms off the main ER anyway, officially under observation—nose iced, vitals checked, “no unnecessary movement” instructions given like she was ever going to follow that completely.
Still, she managed to turn it into something productive. Charts spread out on the small desk. Pen in hand. Laptop open. Half lying back against the bed like it was just an inconvenient office chair instead of a recovery space.
Every time someone passed her room, they slowed down automatically. Not out of curiosity anymore. Out of concern. Inside, Dana kept working anyway, stubborn as ever, occasionally pausing to press the ice pack back to her nose with a quiet sigh before continuing her paperwork like the day hadn’t tried to knock her out of it completely.
Outside, the ER kept moving.
But slower. Careful. Like everyone was still waiting for the tension to fully leave.
The fluorescent ER lights felt harsher now against everyone’s exhaustion. People were quieter while packing up. More drained than usual. Not physically. Emotionally.
You changed slowly in the locker room, pulling your hoodie over your scrubs while your mind kept replaying flashes from earlier: Dana on the ground, blood on the concrete, Abbot’s hands on your face. the waiting room.
You shoved your things into your bag with a tired sigh. Then after a moment of hesitation, you decided to go see Dana one last time before leaving. The hallway toward her room was calmer now, most of the day shift already gone home. A few nurses crossed paths with you quietly, the ER settling into its nighttime rhythm again.
When you reached her room, the door was still half open. And of course, Dana was still working. You leaned lightly against the doorway for a second before speaking. “You know observation usually involves observing,” you muttered.
Dana looked up immediately from the paperwork on her lap. The bruising around her nose and eye had darkened slightly now under the soft room light, making the whole thing look worse than earlier. Still, she smiled faintly when she saw you. “Well look who came back.”
You stepped inside slowly. “You got punched in the face. The least I can do is bully you a little before going home.”
Dana huffed a quiet laugh through her nose, instantly regretted it, and winced. “Okay, maybe don’t make me laugh.”
You pulled the nearby chair closer and sat beside her bed. For a second, neither of you spoke. The quiet felt different tonight. Heavier. You looked at the ice pack resting against her cheek. “…You scared me today,” you admitted softly.
Dana’s expression changed immediately at that. Not joking anymore. She looked at you carefully for a second before answering just as quietly, “I know.” And somehow that made the whole thing feel real all over again.
Dana adjusted the ice pack slightly against her face before looking at the clock on the wall. Then back at you. A small frown appeared. “…Wait.”
You looked up.
“Why are you still here?”
You blinked once. “What do you mean?”
“Y/N,” Dana said slowly, “your shift ended like an hours ago.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because honestly? You hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten. Dana stared at you knowingly now. “You should’ve gone home a while ago.”
You looked down briefly at your hands resting against your knees. The exhaustion was finally settling into your bones properly now that things were quiet. “I know,” you admitted quietly. Dana watched you for another second before her expression softened slightly. “You stayed because of me?”
You immediately shrugged like it was obvious. “You got assaulted.” Dana gave a faint breath of a laugh through her nose again, more careful this time. “Still sounds dramatic when you say it like that.”
“It was dramatic.”
A small silence settled between you again. Then Dana tilted her head slightly, studying you. “You’re still shaken up.”
You instinctively tried to deny it. “I’m not—”
“You’re literally chewing the inside of your cheek right now.”
You stopped immediately. Damn her.
Dana’s voice softened more after that. “Hey.” You looked back at her. “I’m okay,” she said gently this time. “Bruised ego. Broken pride maybe. But okay.”
You exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly in the chair. “I know.” But your voice still sounded tense. Because logically, yes, she was okay. But your body hadn’t fully caught up with that fact yet.
You pushed yourself up slowly from the chair, grabbing your bag from the floor beside you. “I should go home,” you said quietly.
Dana nodded faintly. “Probably a good idea.”
You looked pointedly at the paperwork still spread across her lap. “And you need to stop working.”
Dana immediately smiled a little. “There she is.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“No, seriously, Dana.” You pointed at the charts. “You got punched in the face today. You are not secretly finishing paperwork at midnight.”
Dana laughed softly at that, the sound tired and rough around the edges. “You’re starting to sound like Robby.”
“That should scare you.”
“It does a little.”
You didn’t smile this time though. Still too serious. Still too wound up from the day. Dana noticed immediately. Her expression softened. Then, more gently this time, she closed the chart on her lap and set her pen aside. “…Okay.”
The simple answer relaxed something in your chest almost instantly. “Okay?” you repeated suspiciously.
Dana raised one hand slightly. “I said okay.”
You studied her for another second to make sure she actually meant it. Then finally nodded once.“Good.”
Dana watched you adjust your bag over your shoulder, her eyes following you carefully now in that quiet, almost maternal way she had sometimes.
“Go sleep,” she murmured softly.
You let out a tired breath. “That’s the plan.” And for once, Dana didn’t tease you when you left the room looking emotionally exhausted instead of physically tired.
You walked quietly through the hallway, the ER finally shifting fully into night mode behind you. Different voices now. Different rhythm.
The night shifters had taken over completely, moving through the halls with that strange exhausted efficiency unique to overnight staff. A few people nodded at you as you passed, too tired for real conversation.
You kept walking.
Past trauma. Past the nurses’ station. Past the ambulance entrance. This time you didn’t even look at the bet board. You just wanted to go home.
The automatic doors opened, cool night air brushing against your skin as you stepped outside and started down the sidewalk beside the hospital.
The city was calmer now. Dark sky above. Streetlights reflecting faintly off the pavement still damp from earlier rain. You exhaled slowly, shoulders finally loosening a little after the endless day.
Then, “Y/N.”
You turned at the sound immediately.
Abbot was jogging lightly to catch up to you from the hospital entrance, one bag slung over his shoulder, jacket half open like he had left in a hurry after seeing you go. You slowed instinctively. He stopped a few steps in front of you, slightly out of breath but trying not to show it.
For a second neither of you spoke. The noise of the ER stayed behind the doors now. Just the city. The cold air. And him standing there looking at you in a way that suddenly made your pulse feel annoyingly noticeable again.
For a moment, Abbot just stood there looking at you under the cold hospital lights, one hand still hooked around the strap of his bag.
Then finally, “I’m sorry.”
The words hit you so unexpectedly that you actually blinked. Because this wasn’t sarcasm. Wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t one of those half-joking apologies he usually hid behind. It was real. And somehow that made it feel heavier. You could actually see the effort it cost him to say it.
Abbot glanced away briefly before continuing, jaw tightening slightly like he physically disliked being emotionally honest this long.
“For the other night,” he said quietly. “With your patient.” Ethan. You stayed silent, surprised enough to let him continue.
“I shouldn’t have discharged him,” he admitted. “It wasn’t my call, and I had no right to interfere with your patient because I was…” He stopped himself briefly, visibly annoyed with his own sentence.
You crossed your arms lightly, mostly to stop yourself from looking too affected by this.
“You were…?”
Abbot looked at you immediately. You almost smiled. Almost. He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not important.”
That alone nearly made you laugh from shock.
“I broke the pact,” he continued more quietly now. “And you were right to be angry.” The mention of the pact made something shift strangely in your chest again.
The memory came back instantly, your hand in his outside the bar, the promise, the stupid sarcastic handshake that somehow had mattered more than either of you expected.
You looked at him carefully now. He looked exhausted. Not physically. Emotionally exhausted.
Like today had worn through whatever defenses he usually kept between himself and other people. “I know I’ve already apologized before,” he added after a second. “But this one’s… different.”
Your expression softened despite yourself. Because you could hear it too. This wasn’t him trying to end an argument. This was him genuinely regretting hurting you.
You were still processing the apology when Abbot shifted slightly on his feet, like he was weighing something in his head. Then, out of nowhere, “Do you want to get a drink?”
You blinked. Once. Twice. “…What?”
He didn’t look away this time. “It’s late,” he added, quieter but steady. “I know. But I want to apologise properly.”
That made your guard twitch immediately. You exhaled, shaking your head slightly as exhaustion finally caught up again.
“I’m tired,” you said honestly. “I should go home.”
A pause. Abbot didn’t argue right away, which somehow made it worse. Then, “You don’t work tomorrow,” he said simply.
You looked at him. He continued, more measured now. “So you can sleep later. Just—one drink.” That “just” did something annoying to your brain.
Because he wasn’t pushing. He was… asking again. Still calm. Still watching you like your answer mattered more than he was comfortable admitting.
You hesitated. The night air felt colder suddenly, or maybe it was just the fact that your brain had shifted from survival mode to something much more complicated. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly.
Abbot nodded once, like he expected that. “Then don’t decide right now,” he said. “Just walk with me.”
That one landed differently. Not a demand. Not a trap. Just… time. A small pause. He adjusted his bag strap slightly.
“I’ll take you somewhere close,” he added. “You can leave whenever you want.” And for the first time since you stepped out of the ER— it didn’t feel like you were being pulled back into chaos. Just invited into something quieter.
Summary: You and Jack shared a night together. He left. Here is the aftermath.
Warnings: Angst. A lot of angst. Yearning. Idiots in love. Hurt/comfort? Emotional hurt/comfort? Mentions of sex. An almost offensive amount of yearning. Miscommunication? Insecurities. Mentions of death of a spouse. Mentions of being an amputee. Older man x younger woman trope (unspecified age gap). No use of Y/N. Not beta’d. Whatever else I failed to mention.
Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.
Word Count: 6,240
Series Masterlist || Masterlist
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You should’ve expected it, honestly. Thinking he’d stay. Letting yourself believe that maybe there was actually something between you beyond lingering looks and late-night conversations in empty hallways.
You felt stupid.
Waking up to Jack’s side of the bed—your bed—cold and untouched, with no note, no text, nothing to indicate he’d even been there after you’d finally fallen asleep.
Your stomach dropped so hard it made you nauseous.
For a few seconds, you just stared at the empty space beside you, blanket wrinkled where he’d been hours earlier. The faint smell of his cologne still clung to the sheets, stubborn and cruel. Your chest ached so suddenly your eyes burned.
Rolling onto your back, you looked up at the ceiling and swallowed hard.
You should’ve seen this coming.
You should’ve known better than to read into it.
Jack was kind. Attentive. Easy to fall for if you weren’t careful. And you hadn’t been careful at all.
A shaky breath left you as you dragged a hand over your face. God, this was humiliating.
You’d spent so long wanting him that somewhere along the line, your brain had started turning every small thing into something bigger. The lingering touches. The way his voice softened around you. The looks that lasted just a second too long.
And last night—
Last night had felt real.
Not rushed. Not careless. He’d touched you like you mattered. Like he wanted to memorize you. Afterwards, he’d stayed tangled up with you beneath the blankets, warm and half-asleep, his hand resting lazily against your waist while the early morning light spilled across your apartment.
You’d let yourself think maybe this meant something.
Maybe that had been your mistake.
Letting out a heavy sigh, you finally forced yourself to sit up. The apartment felt too quiet now, almost painfully so. Your eyes flicked toward the bedroom doorway half-expecting him to appear somehow, apologetic and disheveled, explaining that he’d just gone to grab coffee or something equally stupid.
But the apartment stayed silent.
Of course it did.
You pushed yourself out of bed and grabbed some comfortable clothes before heading to the bathroom. The floor felt cold beneath your feet. Everything did.
The shower steamed quickly, fogging the mirror while you stood beneath the hot water longer than necessary, trying not to think about him.
It didn’t work.
Your mind replayed everything anyway.
The way he’d looked at you across the room for weeks now. The hesitant flirting. The tension that had built so slowly it almost felt inevitable. The way he’d kissed you last night—careful at first, like he was giving you the chance to stop him.
You’d liked Jack for God knows how long. Longer than you wanted to admit.
And stupidly, selfishly, you thought maybe he felt the same.
You thought last night had been some kind of turning point at the very least. That maybe things would be different now.
He’d been everything you imagined. Gentle when you needed him to be, teasing when he noticed you getting nervous, warm in a way that made you feel safe enough to forget yourself for a while.
Which honestly just made this hurt worse.
Maybe it was for the best that he wasn’t there.
Because if he had stayed only to tell you it didn’t mean anything, you weren’t sure you could’ve handled hearing it out loud.
As you stepped out of the shower, warm steam curling around the bathroom, you reached automatically for the towel hanging nearby and wrapped it tightly around yourself. The fabric clung damply to your skin while you stood there for a moment, staring at your blurred reflection in the mirror.
God, you looked exhausted.
Maybe it was a good thing you had today off.
At least this way, you didn’t have to walk into work pretending everything was fine. You didn’t have to deal with knowing looks or questions or the possibility of running into Jack before you’d figured out how to act normal again.
The thought alone made your stomach twist.
You could stay home. Hide for a day. Nurse your wounded ego in private.
Because really, what had you expected?
That he’d stay the morning? Make coffee? Kiss your forehead before leaving? Maybe linger awkwardly in your kitchen while the two of you tried to navigate whatever this was supposed to become?
The more you thought about it, the more embarrassed you felt for ever imagining it in the first place.
Jack hadn’t promised you anything.
That was the worst part.
He hadn’t lied. Hadn’t manipulated you. He’d just…left.
And somehow that hurt more.
You wiped a hand across the fogged mirror before looking away again almost immediately. Your chest still felt heavy, weighed down by the kind of disappointment you couldn’t even fully justify.
Because technically, nothing bad had happened.
Two adults slept together. That was it.
Except it hadn’t felt casual to you.
That was the problem.
Drying off slowly, you tried to focus on anything other than the memory of him in your bed. The warmth of his hand against your waist. His tired voice sometime in the middle of the night asking if you were okay. The way he’d looked at you like you were something fragile and precious all at once.
Your throat tightened.
You needed to stop replaying it before you drove yourself insane.
Today would be easy. Quiet. You’d clean the apartment, maybe order takeout, maybe sleep half the afternoon away. Anything to keep your mind occupied long enough for the ache in your chest to dull into something manageable.
You could get over one stupid night.
You had to.
* * *
Jack couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat.
It sat there heavily as he drove, fingers tightening against the steering wheel every time his mind drifted back to the night before—which was constantly.
Your smile.
Your laugh.
The way you’d looked at him like you actually wanted him there.
And then the memory that followed immediately after: slipping out of your apartment while you slept peacefully in bed behind him, too much of a coward to stay long enough to face the morning after.
Jack Abbott wasn’t going to sit there and pretend he hadn’t enjoyed himself.
He did.
God, he did.
He was with you.
That alone had felt dangerous enough.
But sometime during the night, after the adrenaline and want had settled into something quieter, something softer, panic started creeping in beneath his ribs. Slow at first. Then all at once.
The intimacy. The closeness. The domesticity of it all.
Your head resting against his chest. Your sleepy voice mumbling his name. The way you’d curled closer to him in your sleep like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It started to suffocate him.
Not because he didn’t want it.
Because he wanted it too much.
Jack liked you—a lot more than he should’ve allowed himself to. And that was exactly the problem.
There were too many things stacked against this from the beginning. The age difference. His leg. The baggage he carried around everywhere no matter how hard he tried to bury it.
And then there was the biggest thing of all.
His wife.
Even now, years later, the word still hollowed something out inside him.
When he lost her, it felt like losing entire pieces of himself alongside her. She’d been sick for so long that grief had settled into their home before death ever officially arrived. By the end, everything smelled like hospitals and medication and exhaustion.
He remembered sitting beside her hospital bed late one night, her hand frail and cool in his while machines hummed softly around them.
“You can’t hide behind me forever,” she’d said quietly.
Jack’s throat tightened painfully at the memory.
Her eyes had been glassy with exhaustion, but she’d still managed that stubborn little smile he used to love so much.
“You will find someone else,” she told him. “You will be happy. You will live. Do you hear me?”
He remembered shaking his head immediately. Like the idea itself offended him.
But she’d squeezed his hand with surprising strength.
“Jack.”
He’d tried.
He really had.
He went through the motions after she died. Learned how to exist again. Learned how to go to work and laugh at jokes and survive holidays and come home to an empty house without feeling like he was drowning every second of the day.
But moving on?
That part felt impossible.
Because every time he started wanting something again—wanting someone—guilt wrapped around his throat like a hand.
And with you, it was worse.
You made him feel calm in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Less exhausted. Less haunted. You made him feel like himself again, or at least a version of himself he thought had died alongside her.
That terrified him more than anything.
So he ran.
Like a coward.
Jack grimaced, dragging a hand down his face as he stopped at a red light. He could already picture your reaction when you woke up. Confusion first. Then hurt.
Maybe embarrassment.
The thought made his chest ache.
You probably thought he regretted it.
Maybe part of him did—not because of you, never because of you—but because now there was no pretending this was harmless anymore.
He’d crossed a line emotionally long before last night. Sleeping with you had only made it impossible to ignore.
Jack would understand if you hated him after this. If you decided you wanted nothing to do with him anymore.
He left without a word. Without an explanation. Without even giving you the chance to wake up beside him.
Who does that to someone they care about?
The answer came immediately.
Someone selfish.
Jack let out a humorless laugh under his breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind his eyes.
Maybe being alone was just something he deserved.
* * *
By the time Jack’s shift rolled around, he still felt like shit.
Barely slept. Barely ate. Spent most of the morning replaying every stupid decision he’d made in the last twelve hours until his head hurt.
And somehow, walking into the hospital made it worse.
Because there was a very real chance he’d see you.
“You look awful,” Robby stated casually as he fell into step beside him toward the locker room.
Jack snorted dryly, shrugging his bag higher onto his shoulder. “How nice of you.”
“I’m serious,” Robby said, glancing over at him. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Feel like it too.”
Robby let out a quiet hum before smirking slightly. “What’s gotten you all pissed off? Didn’t you go home with Honey last night?”
Jack’s throat tightened instantly at the nickname.
You.
The memory hit him hard and fast—your laugh at the bar, your hand brushing his arm, the way you’d smiled against his mouth later that night like you couldn’t quite believe this was happening either.
His chest twisted painfully.
“Nothing happened,” Jack lied.
The words came too easily. Too practiced.
Robby shot him a look that practically screamed bullshit.
Jack avoided it, jaw tightening as he pushed through the locker room doors. He could already feel irritation prickling beneath his skin, sharp and restless. Mostly at himself.
“Really?” Robby followed after him, unconvinced. “Because at the bar, you guys were practically all over each other.”
Jack said nothing, yanking open his locker harder than necessary.
“Not to mention all the flirting before that,” Robby continued. “I mean, everyone’s been noticing it for—”
“Can we just drop this?” Jack snapped.
The harshness in his voice cut through the room immediately.
Robby blinked, caught off guard.
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose, already regretting it, but the guilt and anxiety clawing around inside him had left him with almost no patience for this conversation.
For any conversation, honestly.
Robby studied him for a second longer, expression shifting from teasing to something more cautious.
“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Jesus.”
Jack dragged a hand down his face and looked away, shoulders tense. He could feel Robby still standing there beside him, probably trying to figure out what the hell had happened between last night and now.
Jack wished he knew too.
Because last night had been good. More than good.
It had felt easy being with you. Natural in a way that scared the hell out of him. Somewhere between your apartment and waking up beside you this morning, something inside him had started spiraling.
And now he was here, exhausted and miserable and completely unraveling.
“Look,” Robby said after a moment, voice quieter now. “Whatever happened…you should probably talk to her.”
Jack’s stomach dropped.
He busied himself changing into his scrubs just to avoid reacting.
“Yeah,” he muttered eventually, though the word sounded hollow even to him.
Because he should.
But he had no idea what he’d even say.
* * *
You were sprawled across your couch by the time evening settled in, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table alongside crumpled napkins and a glass of water you kept forgetting to drink.
The apartment was dim except for the television casting flickering light across the room.
You’d spent most of the day trying not to think.
It hadn’t worked.
Every distraction eventually circled back to Jack somehow. Folding laundry reminded you of him leaving his shirt on your bedroom floor. Making coffee reminded you that he hadn’t stayed long enough for morning coffee in the first place. Even the silence in your apartment felt wrong now, too big and empty after having him there the night before.
It was pathetic, honestly.
One night.
That was all it took to completely throw you off balance.
You flipped absently through channels, not really watching anything. Some sitcom laugh track filled the apartment for a few seconds before you changed it again with a grimace.
Nothing held your attention long enough.
Your chest still felt bruised.
When your phone buzzed loudly beside you, you startled slightly before grabbing it off the couch cushion. Trinity’s name lit up across the screen.
You let out a dramatic groan before answering.
“Hello?” you muttered, already exhausted.
“You sound like shit.”
Of course it was Trinity.
You closed your eyes briefly, sinking further into the couch. Her shift would be ending around now, which explained the call. Apparently your misery had become detectable through the phone.
“What do you want?” you sighed. “It’s late.”
“It’s seven.”
You groaned louder this time, dragging a hand over your face.
“Fine, whatever,” you mumbled. “What?”
“Just checking in on you.”
“Oh, I’m doing great,” you replied flatly, stabbing your takeout with more force than necessary. “Absolutely fantastic.”
Trinity hummed knowingly on the other end of the line.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I can tell.”
You shoved food into your mouth mostly to avoid talking.
For a second, neither of you said anything. The quiet stretched just long enough to make your stomach tighten uneasily.
Then—
“Look,” Trinity started carefully, “I saw Abbot come in.”
Your grip tightened around the fork immediately.
“He looked awful.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully at that, equal parts concern and anger.
You hated that you still cared.
“Did something happen?” she asked gently.
You stared blankly at the muted television.
A couple on-screen laughed at some joke you couldn’t hear.
“I don’t really want to talk about him,” you said quietly.
Trinity paused.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “That bad?”
You let out a humorless laugh under your breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.
The embarrassing part was that technically nothing catastrophic had even happened. No screaming fight. No betrayal. No cruel words exchanged.
Jack just left.
And somehow that hurt enough to hollow you out anyway.
“I overheard him talking to Robby earlier,” Trinity continued cautiously. “He told him nothing happened between you guys.”
Everything in you went still.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.
You stared down at your untouched food, throat tightening painfully as heat rushed to your face.
He said that?
For a second, you genuinely thought you might be sick.
“Is that true?” Trinity asked carefully.
The silence on your end probably answered for her.
You swallowed hard, trying to force your expression back into something neutral even though she couldn’t see you.
“Yeah,” you stammered finally, your voice sounding thinner than you intended. “Nothing happened.”
The lie scraped against your throat.
Trinity immediately caught it.
“Okay, no,” she said firmly. “I know that voice.”
You pressed your lips together hard enough for it to ache.
“Look, if he did something—”
“He didn’t,” you interrupted quickly. Too quickly. “I promise. I’m fine, okay?”
Fine.
Right.
You were currently sitting alone in your apartment trying not to cry over a man who apparently told people nothing happened between you after spending the night in your bed.
Fine wasn’t exactly the word for it.
Trinity went quiet for a moment.
When she spoke again, her voice softened.
“I’m coming over.”
Your eyes widened immediately. “Trin—”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not in the mood,” you said quickly, sitting upright now. “Please don’t.”
“Huckleberry will survive one night without me.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly at the mention of Dennis.
It disappeared just as quickly.
“Trinity,” you sighed tiredly. “I really just want to be alone right now.”
“No,” she replied bluntly. “You think you do.”
You dropped your head back against the couch cushion with a frustrated groan.
“I’m coming into work tomorrow,” you muttered weakly, like that somehow fixed things.
“So am I.”
“I mean it,” you said, exhaustion bleeding into your voice now. “Can you just leave me alone?”
The question came out quieter than you intended.
Smaller.
And that seemed to hit Trinity immediately.
Her tone gentled again.
“You’re in the middle of a crisis,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
Your throat tightened so painfully you couldn’t respond.
Because that was the worst part, wasn’t it?
You felt ridiculous for hurting this much.
Nothing had happened.
Except everything had.
* * *
You didn’t even bother trying to look presentable by the time Trinity showed up.
There didn’t seem to be a point.
You were still wearing one of your oldest oversized shirts, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath your eyes. The takeout containers were still scattered across the coffee table exactly where you’d left them, the television still playing quietly in the background more for noise than entertainment.
The knock at the door came sooner than you expected.
You opened it slowly, immediately spotting the duffel bag slung over Trinity’s shoulder and the look on her face.
A mixture of concern and irritation.
Your stomach twisted.
“You’re fine my ass,” she said the second she stepped inside.
You rolled your eyes weakly, stepping aside so she could enter.
Trinity brushed past you into the dining area like she owned the place, dropping the duffel bag heavily onto the table before unzipping it with purpose.
“What’d he do anyway?”
You lingered awkwardly a few feet behind her, arms folding tightly across yourself. You still felt strangely numb from the phone call earlier. Numb from the entire day, honestly. Like your body had just decided to shut parts of itself down to keep from fully processing the embarrassment of all this.
“It’s nothing,” you mumbled.
Even saying the words made heat crawl up your neck.
“You’ll think it’s stupid.”
Trinity stopped rummaging through the bag long enough to shoot you a dry look over her shoulder.
“It’s not stupid if it upset you this much.”
Your eyes dropped immediately.
That somehow made it worse.
Because you were upset. Mortifyingly upset. More upset than you had any right to be after one night together.
But it wasn’t really just one night, was it?
It was weeks—months—of tension and hope and carefully buried feelings finally bubbling over into something real. Or at least you thought it was real.
That was the humiliating part.
You’d let yourself believe it meant something more to him too.
Trinity turned back to the bag and started unloading supplies onto the table.
Two large bottles of alcohol.
A bag of chips.
More snacks.
You blinked. “Jesus.”
“I came prepared.”
Despite everything clawing at your chest, a weak laugh almost escaped you.
Almost.
You leaned heavily against the doorway instead, exhaustion settling deep into your bones.
“Abbot and I hooked up,” you admitted finally.
The words came out flat. Hollow.
Trinity froze mid-motion.
A heavy silence filled the room as she slowly turned to look at you properly.
“…Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked carefully after a moment. “You’ve been thirsting over him for how long now?”
Normally, the comment would’ve embarrassed you enough to protest.
Now it just hurt.
You swallowed hard, staring somewhere over her shoulder instead of meeting her eyes.
“He left before I woke up, Trinity,” you said quietly.
The room felt painfully still.
“And you told me he’s going around saying nothing happened.”
Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.
You hated yourself for it immediately.
Trinity’s expression hardened almost instantly.
“Oh.”
You looked away quickly, jaw tightening as emotion surged hot and ugly in your chest again.
The worst part was how badly you wanted there to be some explanation. Some reasonable excuse for why he left like that.
An emergency call.
Panic.
Regret.
Anything.
Because the alternative—the possibility that last night genuinely meant more to you than it did to him—felt unbearable.
Trinity nodded slowly, crossing her arms.
“So he’s a dick.”
You didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because even now, even after the humiliation and hurt and confusion, some pathetic part of you still wanted to defend him.
Jack had been kind to you. Gentle. Careful with you in ways that didn’t feel fake.
People didn’t look at someone like that if they felt nothing…right?
Your chest tightened painfully.
Unless you imagined all of it.
Trinity stepped closer, her voice firmer this time.
“He’s a dick,” she repeated. “I don’t care what his reason was. You don’t do that to someone.”
You rubbed tiredly at your face.
“I don’t know if I want to be mad at him,” you admitted softly, “or myself.”
And there it was.
The awful truth sitting underneath all the hurt.
You missed him already.
Trinity’s expression softened immediately.
“Oh, Honey.”
The sympathy in her voice nearly undid you.
“I’ll help you get over him,” she said gently after a moment.
You let out a weak laugh. “That might take a while.”
“Not tonight,” she continued, ignoring that. “Tonight we’re drinking.”
She grabbed one of the bottles and held it up slightly.
“Tomorrow we can spiral. Only a little, though.”
Another reluctant laugh escaped you, watery around the edges.
“And once you’re in a good place,” Trinity added, finally smiling a little, “you’ll go guy hunting.”
You snorted quietly, shaking your head.
“That sounds horrific.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
Trinity nudged your shoulder lightly as she passed.
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got time.”
Something in your chest ached again at the casual warmth of it.
Because right now, with Jack pulling away and your pride lying in pieces somewhere beneath the weight of the last twenty-four hours, Trinity showing up anyway felt dangerously close to enough to make you cry.
* * *
By the time morning rolled around and your alarm started blaring from somewhere beneath the couch cushions, you were immediately aware of the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes.
You groaned quietly, squinting against the weak morning light filtering through the apartment windows.
Right.
You and Trinity had apparently decided that splitting an entire bottle of whiskey on a work night was a reasonable coping mechanism.
In your defense, it had briefly worked.
Somewhere between drunkenly ranting about emotionally unavailable men and Trinity threatening to fight Jack in the hospital parking lot, the ache in your chest had dulled enough for you to breathe again.
Unfortunately, now you just felt emotionally devastated and hungover.
Fantastic.
You fumbled for your phone, finally silencing the alarm before letting your head fall back against the couch cushion with a miserable sigh.
At least you weren’t sick.
You’d dealt with enough brutal hangovers in college to know this could’ve been much worse. Still, the headache pulsing through your skull and the sluggish heaviness dragging at your limbs told you pretty clearly that you weren’t exactly going to be operating at full capacity today.
Which was unfortunate considering you had to spend the next twelve hours pretending your life wasn’t actively imploding.
Fuck.
You slowly pushed yourself upright, wincing immediately at the stiffness in your neck from sleeping on the couch. The television was off now, but the aftermath of last night remained scattered across the coffee table—empty glasses, crumpled snack wrappers, half-open takeout containers.
The apartment smelled faintly like alcohol and regret.
Honestly fitting.
A quiet groan pulled your attention downward.
Trinity was sprawled out on the floor beside the couch, somehow still asleep despite your alarm going off for nearly a full minute. One of your couch cushions was shoved beneath her head at an awkward angle, and your throw blanket barely covered half her body.
You stared at her for a second.
“…You look dead.”
She responded with an incoherent mumble.
You nudged her lightly with your foot.
“We’re gonna be late for work,” you muttered, your own voice rough with sleep.
Trinity made a wounded noise into the cushion.
You scrubbed both hands over your face before grimacing immediately at the taste in your mouth.
Jesus.
Your expression twisted in disgust.
“I think my breath just violated several human rights.”
That finally got Trinity to crack an eye open.
“You’re so dramatic in the morning,” she mumbled.
“And you smell like whiskey.”
“So do you.”
Fair.
You sighed heavily, glancing toward the hallway. The thought of going into work today made your stomach twist unpleasantly.
Because Jack would be there.
The reality settled heavily over you again, chasing away the remaining haze of sleep almost instantly.
You’d have to see him.
Pretend things were normal.
Pretend hearing that he told people “nothing happened” hadn’t quietly shattered something inside you.
Your chest tightened.
God, this was going to suck.
“Did you bring a change of clothes?” you asked, forcing your thoughts elsewhere.
Trinity hummed vaguely in response, still half-buried in the floor.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you said, shuffling toward the bathroom with all the grace of a dying Victorian woman. Every part of your body felt sluggish and heavy, like sleep and alcohol still clung stubbornly to your skin.
“If you’re not ready when I’m done,” you added tiredly, “I’m leaving without you.”
Trinity slowly lifted her head from the cushion, squinting at you with narrowed, deeply offended eyes.
“You’re cruel,” she muttered.
You snorted weakly.
“No,” you corrected. “We’re stupid for drinking that much when we both had work the next day.”
“Worth it,” she grumbled immediately.
You paused in the hallway, glancing back at her.
And despite everything—the headache, the exhaustion, the dread already coiling in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jack—you felt something small in your chest loosen.
Because you hadn’t been alone last night.
Trinity noticed your expression soften slightly and pointed at you accusingly.
“Don’t get emotional,” she warned. “I’m too hungover to comfort you right now.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Small. Tired. Fragile.
But real.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Trinity mumbled, finally dragging herself upright with the energy of someone being forced out of a grave.
You shook your head faintly before disappearing into the bathroom.
The second the door shut behind you, though, your smile faded.
And there it was again.
That ache.
The one sitting quietly beneath everything else. Beneath the hangover and exhaustion and forced laughter.
Jack.
You leaned heavily against the sink for a moment, staring at your reflection.
Then, quietly—
“You need to get it together.”
Because in less than an hour, you’d have to look him in the eye like he hadn’t hurt you at all.
Trinity had been quick to kick you out of your own bathroom the second you finished getting ready.
“You’ve used up your allotted hot water privileges,” she’d informed you through the door while you were still brushing your teeth.
Now, dressed in clean scrubs and feeling only marginally more human, you leaned against the kitchen counter sipping weak coffee while waiting for her to finish.
The shower had helped a little.
At the very least, you no longer looked like you’d crawled out from the wreckage of an emotional catastrophe.
Unfortunately, that didn’t mean you felt much better.
Your body still carried the sluggish heaviness of too little sleep and too much alcohol, and somewhere beneath the lingering hangover sat the dull, constant ache of having to face Jack today.
Twelve hours.
Twelve whole hours of pretending you were fine.
You could do that.
Probably.
Hopefully.
The bathroom door finally opened, releasing a cloud of steam before Trinity sauntered out adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie.
“You look less tragic now,” she announced.
“Thank you,” you deadpanned.
“You still look tragic,” she added after a beat. “Just…slightly moisturized.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag from beside the couch.
The walk to the bus stop was quiet at first. Morning air bit lightly against your skin while the city slowly woke around you, traffic humming in the distance. Your stomach twisted tighter the closer it got to shift change.
You kept thinking about walking through those hospital doors.
About seeing him.
About not knowing how he’d look at you after all this.
Would he act normal?
Awkward?
Distant?
Would he avoid you entirely?
The uncertainty was eating you alive.
“You sure you don’t want me fighting Abbot?” Trinity asked suddenly beside you, pulling her hair into a ponytail as the two of you stopped near the curb. “Because I’m not above a good fight.”
A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“Don’t waste your time,” you said, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Besides, I’m trying to hype myself up for my man-hunting phase.”
Trinity let out a dramatic sigh.
“Well, that makes one of us.”
You glanced sideways at her.
“Oh?”
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, expression flattening.
“Garcia still icing you out?” you guessed.
Trinity scoffed softly.
“She’s more of a fuck-and-have-ramen-after kind of gal.”
The attempt at casualness didn’t quite land.
You caught the slight tightness in her voice immediately.
“She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want anything beyond casual.”
Something uncomfortable settled in your stomach at that.
At least Garcia told her.
At least Trinity wasn’t left waking up alone wondering whether any of it meant something at all.
Guilt bubbled low and sour in your chest almost instantly.
Not toward Trinity.
Toward yourself.
Because part of you still felt ridiculous for being this hurt over Jack. Like maybe you were overreacting. Maybe you’d built the whole thing up too much in your head.
But then you remembered him looking at you so softly the night before.
Remembered the warmth of his hand against your skin. The way he’d stayed tangled up with you afterward instead of leaving immediately.
And then you remembered waking up alone.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Is there anyone else you’re interested in?” you asked quietly, mostly to keep yourself from spiraling further.
Trinity shrugged.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
You hummed softly in acknowledgment just as the bus pulled up to the curb with a hiss of brakes.
The doors folded open.
You followed Trinity inside, both of you moving sluggishly from exhaustion as you found seats near the back. The bus smelled faintly like coffee and damp jackets, morning commuters staring blankly ahead in silence.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You rested your head lightly against the cool window, watching the city blur past outside while anxiety churned steadily beneath your ribs.
The closer you got to work, the worse it became.
You hated this.
Hated that one person suddenly had this much power over your mood. Hated that the thought of seeing Jack again made your stomach knot with equal parts longing and dread.
Beside you, Trinity glanced over quietly.
“It’s probably for the best we’re on day shift,” she said after a moment.
You frowned faintly. “Why?”
“There’s more options on day shift anyway.”
You snorted softly, immediately understanding what she meant.
“Right,” you muttered. “The man-hunting thing.”
“Exactly.”
You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging weakly at your mouth before fading almost instantly.
“If you say so.”
Because right now, the idea of looking at anyone that wasn’t Jack somehow felt impossible.
And that was probably the most pathetic part of all.
* * *
Once you arrived at the Pitt, you felt yourself tense almost immediately.
It was instinctive. Unconscious.
The second those familiar hospital doors slid open and the sharp scent of antiseptic hit your nose, your body seemed to remember before your mind fully caught up.
Your stomach twisted painfully as you adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, forcing yourself to keep walking beside Trinity.
You just had to act normal.
That was the goal.
Be professional. Be mature. Don’t let him see that he’d gotten under your skin this badly.
You could survive twelve hours.
Probably.
The emergency department buzzed around you the moment you stepped fully onto the floor. Phones ringing. Monitors beeping. Stretchers rolling past. Nurses moving quickly between stations while doctors rattled off orders over exhausted conversations.
Normally the chaos would stress you out.
Today, it almost felt comforting.
Familiar.
Grounding.
The Pitt had a way of swallowing personal problems whole if you let it. There was always another patient, another emergency, another crisis demanding your attention before you could spend too long drowning in your own thoughts.
You needed that today.
Needed something louder than your own heartbreak.
You followed Trinity deeper into the department, trying to focus on the movement around you instead of the nervous pounding in your chest.
Then you heard his voice.
Low. Rough with exhaustion.
Your entire body reacted before you even saw him.
You looked up automatically just as Jack exited one of the trauma rooms with Shen close behind him, the two of them discussing something quietly.
He looked terrible.
Dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes, exhaustion weighing heavily across his features. His shoulders seemed tighter than usual, posture rigid in that way people got when they were running purely on caffeine and stubbornness.
Like he was holding himself together with tape and string.
Your chest ached immediately.
Which honestly just annoyed you at this point.
Because really? After everything, your heart still fluttered the second you saw him?
Pathetic.
Jack glanced up mid-conversation.
For one brief, terrible second, your eyes met.
And there it was.
That awful pull.
Something in his expression shifted instantly the moment he saw you. Like surprise mixed with guilt mixed with something softer he couldn’t quite hide in time.
Your stomach flipped painfully.
You looked away so fast it almost made your neck hurt.
Before he could notice how affected you still were.
Before you could start hoping he’d stop you.
Say something.
Anything.
Beside him, Shen continued talking, oblivious, but Jack had stopped hearing almost every word coming out of his mouth.
Because you were here.
And you wouldn’t look at him.
The realization landed heavily in his chest.
He watched you turn away immediately after spotting him, watched your shoulders tense subtly as you kept walking beside Trinity like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t spent the last twelve hours replaying your face in his head over and over again.
Guilt twisted viciously beneath his ribs.
Of course you were avoiding him.
What else did he expect after what he did?
Jack swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to look away before he did something stupid like follow after you.
Because the expression on your face just now—
You looked hurt.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Hurt.
And somehow that felt worse.
“Abbot?”
Shen’s voice snapped him back into the present.
Jack blinked once, dragging a hand tiredly down his face.
“Sorry,” he muttered roughly. “What were you saying?”
Meanwhile, you forced yourself to keep moving.
Professional.
Normal.
Fine.
You could do this.
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Dana called from the nurses’ station, dry amusement lacing her voice the second she spotted you approaching.
Beside you, Trinity snorted.
“Hey, Dana.”
You tried for a smile despite the way your pulse still hammered unevenly beneath your skin.
“Hope you had a nice day off, Honey,” Dana added casually, though the knowing glint in her eyes made heat immediately creep up your neck.
You wondered briefly if everyone at this hospital could smell emotional disaster on people.
“No different than any other day,” you said carefully.
The lie felt brittle.
Dana hummed softly, clearly unconvinced, but mercifully didn’t push.
She turned back toward the chart in front of her.
You exhaled quietly through your nose, grateful for the escape.
But even as you started settling into work mode, pulling yourself into the rhythm of the department, you could still feel it.
Jack’s presence somewhere behind you.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
And despite every effort not to, some awful part of you was still painfully aware of him.
summary: 10 things you hate love about frank langdon
pairing: fem!reader x frank langdon
warnings/tags: abby and kids do not exist in this universe, enemies to lovers!!, frank is a bit of a dick in this (but in a hot way), mention and description of a patient death and the events of pittfest, mysoginistic interns!, reader gets black out drunk in this, swearing, fluff, angst, usual medical descriptions that you’d expect from the pitt!
notes: i love the concept of this fic sm, I haven't written enemies to lovers in a hot minute
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
masterlist
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
one.
Frank Langdon was arrogant.
Every doctor and surgeon had a little bit of an ego, sure. It was practically a job requirement.
But Frank Langdon had somehow mastered the ability of getting under your skin in a way no one else did, possessing a particular kind of arrogance that crawled in and nested there.
The kind that smirked at you across lecture halls.
The kind that leaned too close over your shoulder during labs.
The kind that always, somehow, knew exactly which buttons to press.
It had started in med school.
You’d been paired together for a semester-long assignment during your second year, a fact that had nearly made you consider dropping out on principle alone.
"I graduated summa cum laude, you know."
Frank said it casually, leaning back in his chair like the statement was an objective fact rather than an insufferable introduction.
"That's nice."
You didn’t look up from your textbook spread across the library table between you. Highlighting and neatly scribbled notes littered the pages in organised colour-coded sections. Frank’s side of the table, meanwhile, looked like a tornado had swept through it.
His brow furrowed slightly.
"Oh yeah? What were you, valedictorian or something?" He drawled.
"Actually yes." You answered smoothly, flicking over the page. "I just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."
He blinked, staring at you for a moment before he let out a low whistle.
"Geez, alright Ace."
You finally glanced up at him at that, irritation pulling at your brow.
"Don't call me that."
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
And judging by the way his lips twitched, Frank knew instantly he’d struck gold.
The nickname stuck.
It followed you through the rest of med school like a disease. Across lecture halls and internships and far too many crowded house parties.
Sometimes it was murmured under his breath when you answered a question before everyone else. Sometimes it was tossed across a room with an infuriating grin. Sometimes, rarely, it softened into something almost fond when the two of you were the last ones left in the library the night before an exam.
And like the nickname, you couldn’t seem to shake Frank Langdon either.
You thought graduation would finally free you from him.
And for a short, glorious period of time, it did.
Until the two of you matched at PTMC. Both in the emergency department.
"Long time no see Ace."
You looked up from the chart in your hands and felt genuine despair shoot through you.
"You have to be fucking kidding me."
Frank’s grin widened immediately, blue eyes bright with something dangerously close to delight.
You felt like you were right back at med school, the two of you instantly competing over everything. In particular, the attention of Dr Robby, who seemed to have decided that one of you could be his favourite, he just annoyingly refused to pick who.
And as your residency dragged on, Frank Langdon's arrogance never waned. He never got a humbling that you so desperately hoped for.
If anything, it only got worse.
Because -
two.
Frank Langdon was good.
Like, really good.
The kind of good that made senior attendings pause to watch him work. The kind that made nurses trust him instinctively during traumas. The kind that made you grit your teeth every time he pulled off something impressive with that smug look still plastered across his face.
Which only made his arrogance more unbearable.
Because the asshole actually had the skill to back it up.
"Did you hear about Langdon's intubation today?"
You barely glanced up from your chart as Samira fell into step beside you.
"No, but I'm sure he'll find a way to tell everyone himself before the end of the shift."
Samira ignored the jab entirely, completely unphased due to the volume of them she'd heard over the years.
"There was so much swelling you literally couldn't see anything."
You paused, your pen stilling against the chart. "So what, you're saying he did it blind?"
"Completely." Samira nodded. "Robby said he did it perfectly too."
A reluctant pulse of admiration twisted in your chest before you shoved it back down where it belonged with a small huff.
"Nice."
The word came out clipped.
You dropped the chart onto the counter and headed toward the break room before Samira could catch the grimace on your face.
Hour ten of your shift was always when the headaches started.
Like clockwork, tension coiled up the back of your neck and settled at the base of your skull. The fluorescent lighting suddenly became too bright. The overlapping conversations too loud.
You shut the break room door behind you with a quiet exhale and reached for the medicine cabinet.
The door opened again just as your fingers closed around the Advil.
"You hear about my intubation today Ace?"
You rolled your eyes automatically before even turning around as you shut the medicine cabinet.
“I did.”
You grabbed a mug from the cupboard, acutely aware of his gaze following you across the small room.
“Nice work.”
The words were stiff, rolled unnaturally off your tongue, said with an attempt at forced casualness which instead resembled something pained.
Frank blinked.
Then slowly, his mouth curved into a grin.
“Wow.”
You finally looked over at him at that.
He was leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, scrubs stretched tight over his forearms, a smirk present on his face.
“Was that a compliment I just heard? Are you feeling ok?”
This time you rolled your eyes openly as you threw the Advil down your throat.
“I’m mature enough to acknowledge when a peer does something impressive, Langdon.”
His brows lifted slightly. “A peer? Is that all I am to you after all these years?"
He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Describing you as a peer is my way of being nice.”
You could see that a laugh was threatening to spill from his lips.
You turned toward the sink before your own expression betray you. You rinsed the mug beneath lukewarm water, missing the way his eyes tracked down your figure.
“Or maybe you just don’t want to admit that you’re jealous I practically performed a miracle.”
You let out a humourless laugh.
“Don’t worry, I perform miracles too.”
You set the mug down harder than necessary before glancing back at him.
“I just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."
You saw his jaw tick slightly, indicating that you’d finally penetrated his thick ego shield.
“You’re a real ball of sunshine today Ace.”
You smiled sarcastically. “Only for you Langdon.”
three.
Frank Langdon loved to rest his arms on things.
Whether it was one arm leant lazily against the nursing station, both folded across his chest when he was thinking, or both braced on either side of your monitor as he loomed over you while you dictated.
His arms were always….there.
It was irritating and more importantly, it was distracting.
Like right now, as a team of you prepped a trauma patient for transport to the OR.
Frank stood on the other side of the gurney, his gloved hands curled around the metal rails as he leant forward. His forearms flexed as he adjusted his grip, the veins there straining, just visible in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Your gaze lingered, traitorous and immediate, tracking the movement of his hands as he tightened his hold on the bed frame. Your eyes ghosted upwards at the shift of muscle beneath fabric, his biceps straining slightly with the motion.
A flurry of images hit you.
His arms around your waist.
His arms flexed as he held his weight above you, steady and controlled, while he-
“Think she’ll make it?”
His voice cut through your thoughts cleanly.
You blinked, snapping your head up too fast.
He was already looking at you, with that infuriating, calm focus fixed directly on your face like you were the only thing in the room that required dissecting.
His tongue brushed briefly over his lower lip. A habit you first observed in med school and had never successfully un-noticed since.
You despised how your body reacted to it.
You turned away too quickly, hiding your burning face under the guise of discarding your gloves into the bin.
“50/50.” You answered, praying your voice was even as you spoke.
You shook your head slightly as you tried to shake yourself out of whatever this was.
You could not find Frank Langdon attractive.
That was not an option. Not a consideration. Not a thing your brain was allowed to do.
You wanted to slap yourself.
“I’m thinking more 70/30.” You heard him remark.
And just like that, mercifully, the fantasy collapsed.
four.
Sometimes, it felt like Frank Langdon could read your mind.
“Incoming trauma, two minutes out.” Dana announced in the middle of the pitt, red phone pressed to her ear. “MVA involving a single car and a motorcycle. The rider’s in a bad way.”
“What’s free?” Robby asked.
“Trauma one.”
You glanced up at Robby as he called out your last name.
“-and Langdon, with me.”
Frank didn’t answer - he was already following you.
You were already scrubbing in as the ambulance bay doors burst open. The gurney rattled violently over the polished floors.
“What have we got?” Robby asked.
“Rider unhelmeted. Found unconscious on scene. Hypotensive en route, tachycardic. GCS eight.” The paramedic answered as they wheeled the patient into the bay.
The room shifted and swelled around you - fluorescent lights too bright, the hum of equipment, the controlled chaos snapping into place like muscle memory.
“C-spine?” Robby asked.
“Immobilised.”
The patient was a young man. Early twenties. Dirt and road rash smeared across his face and chest, chest rising unevenly beneath cut fabric and exposed skin.
“Alright, transfer in three, two-“
Everyone moved together, sliding the patient onto the bed in one practiced motion.
“Airway appears patent but compromised.”
You leaned forward, placing your stethoscope on his chest.
“Reduced breathing sounds on the left.”
Frank was already there on the opposite side, his hands steady as he moved his fingers across the rib cage.
“Subcutaneous emphysema.” He said. “Likely pneumothorax.”
“Pulse-ox is dropping.” Perlah announced. “Eighty-eight and falling.”
“Alright get ready to intubate.” Robby ordered.
“Wait.”
The word left your mouth before you could second-guess it.
Every head turned slightly.
You leaned closer, eyes moving over the monitor, then the uneven rise of his chest, the subtle shift in breathing effort.
“He’s compensating.” You said. “This isn’t primary airway failure yet. If we intubate now without addressing the thoracic injury he'll drop further.”
“Ace is right.” Langdon agreed. “We should do needle decompression first.”
“Left second intercostal space, midclavicular line.” You added. “If it’s tension physiology, that’s what’s driving the instability.”
Everyone turned to Robby, waiting for his call.
The smallest of nods, the slightest flicker of approval.
“You heard them.”
You moved instantly, prepping the site, antiseptic swab snapping across skin, fingers precise as you located the rib landmarks through trauma and swelling.
Frank held the patient steady as the needle went in.
The hiss came instantly.
The patient’s chest expanded easier this time.
“Stats stabilising.” Perlah confirmed.
“Better.” Frank observed.
You exhaled through your nose, already shifting focus. “We still need definitive imaging. He’s not out of the woods, we’re likely dealing with associated haemothorax or pulmonary contusion.”
“Agreed.”
Frank didn’t look at you when he said it.
But somehow, the two of you were entirely in sync anyway.
“Chest tube tray.” Robby ordered. “Let’s move.”
The rest of the procedure blurred into controlled motion - scalpel, incision, blunt dissection, the familiar gravity that settled over a trauma room when everyone locked into the same rhythm.
And through all of it, Frank moved instep with you.
When you moved, he made space like it was instinct. When you reached for instruments, they were already halfway to your hand. When you spoke, he didn’t interrupt - he simply factored your words into the next step.
It was infuriating how seamless it felt, dangerous how easy it was.
“Tube’s in.” Frank said finally.
“Bilateral breath sounds confirmed.” You spoke.
A beat.
Then Robby stepped back, stripping his gloves off.
“Good call both of you.”
You looked up as he pushed open the swinging doors.
“You aren’t staying?”
He gestured between you and Frank.
“I know when I’m not needed.”
Your eyes met Frank’s briefly.
A smile flickered between you before either of you could stop it.
-
The ambulance bay was quieter than the pitt, but not by much. The afternoon sun glared off the cracked bitumen, the distant echo of monitors still lingered in your ears like a phantom rhythm.
You rolled your shoulders back, trying to shake off the adrenaline that always persistently lingered after a trauma.
“Good work in there.”
You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Robby.
“Thanks.”
Silence stretched between the two of you.
His gaze shifted between you and the doors leading back inside.
“You know.” He said slowly after a moment. “You and Langdon work well together.”
You scoffed lightly. “When we’re not at each others throats, you mean.”
Robby’s eyes twinkled with amusement, dipping his chin down to conceal it. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
You exhaled, leaning back against the brick wall.
“Yeah." You admitted. "We do.”
It came out quieter than you intended.
You knew immediately that Robby noticed.
“But if you ever tell him I said that, I’ll deny it completely.”
Robby’s mouth twitched.
“Noted.”
“And, I’ll tell everyone about the time I caught you nearly in tears over a cockroach in the break room.”
Robby turned to you. “It had wings.” He said flatly.
"You still screamed like a little girl.”
five.
Frank Langdon could be thoughtful, when he wanted to be.
It was never loud. Never performative. It didn’t announce itself the way everything else about him did. No smug commentary, no pointed remarks, no expectation of recognition.
It was quieter than that, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.
You saw it in fragments over time, tucked into the spaces between the chaos.
The way his voice would soften when he spoke to patients. Or the way he’d comfort them when he thought no one else was listening.
You’d seen him pay for taxi fares out of his own pocket. You’d seen him quietly remove hospital cafeteria food from a patient's tray and replace it with sandwiches from the deli over the road.
None of it fit easily with the version of Frank Langdon that lived in your head.
And that was the problem.
Because the longer you worked with him, the more difficult it became to keep those versions separate.
You were on hour nine of a shift.
School holidays had transformed the ER into something louder, hotter, more chaotic than usual. The kind of chaos that didn’t spike cleanly, but accumulated in layers until the entire department felt stretched too thin.
The air carried a constant noise of beeping monitors, overlapping voices, crying kids, the scrape of gurney wheels against linoleum.
Like usual, your shoulders had started to tighten without permission, creeping up to your ears no matter how many times you tried to square them.
A slow, familiar clamp at the base of your neck. The kind that crept upward until it turned into something debilitating behind your eyes.
You half-heartedly tried to do your physio exercises in the breakroom before eventually giving up and opening the fridge instead, reaching automatically in for the Red Bull you knew was stashed behind someone’s abandoned lunch bag.
You paused.
A ziplock bag sat neatly on top of your lunchbox.
A plain glazed donut stared back at you through the plastic, alongside two Advil.
You stared at it.
You’d heard that upstairs had sent their usual trolley of unethical donuts down earlier. You’d been drowning in back to back traumas, only resurfacing long after all of the plain glazed, your favourite, were gone.
Or so you'd thought.
You looked over your shoulder. Was this meant for you? Surely not. Someone must have just accidentally chucked it on top of your lunchbox.
Your stomach grumbled.
Although, it looked intentionally placed. Maybe you could eat it and if the owner came asking for it later you could just-
You turned slightly at the sound of your name to see Perlah standing in the doorway.
“Robby’s looking for you.”
You hesitated only briefly before placing the bag back into the fridge, all thoughts of the donut dissolving as you heard the trauma code ring out over the loud speaker.
An hour later, the headache had settled in fully.
You leaned against the desk, elbows planted either side of the computer as pain pulsed behind your eyes. The words on the screen blurred at the edges.
You blinked rapidly, rubbing at your temples as you tried to massage some of the thrumming away.
“You need to take your Advil earlier.”
The voice came from above you.
You looked up to see Langdon towering over you.
“What?”
He slid something towards you.
The donut and Advil now sat on a napkin, a cup of water beside it.
"Your shoulders always start tightening around hour nine." He said. "Which means the headache peaks around now because you never take the Advil early enough."
You stared at him for a moment, then your eyes flickered down to the napkin.
"What's the donut for?"
His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.
"Increased blood sugar helps stabilise headaches." He answered smoothly. "And you haven't eaten lunch today."
You surveyed the donut suspiciously.
“Jesus Christ I haven’t poisoned it.” He huffed as he nudged it closer to you.
“Eat.”
You hesitated for a moment.
"...Fine." You relented as you pulled it in front of your keyboard.
"...thank you."
His eyes lifted sharply at that.
"Don't thank me. This is entirely for my own benefit."
You frowned.
"When you've got a headache you're somehow even more annoying than usual."
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
"You're welcome."
He was already stepping away before you could respond.
You stared down at the donut for a second longer, your stomach tightening hopefully at the smell of sugar.
What you didn’t see was Frank lingering at the end of the corridor just long enough to make sure you actually took the Advil.
Just long enough to watch you finally take a bite, observing the small act of compliance like it mattered more than it should.
You didn’t know that he’d had to almost physically fight Donnie for the last plain glazed donut because he knew they were your favourite.
You didn't know that he'd been buying the double strength Advil and sneaking it into the medicine cabinet for the last six months because he'd noticed your headaches getting worse.
What you did know, was that it was irritating when he did shit like this without explanation.
Because it reminded you that there was more under all of the bolstering and ego. Something softer, something complex.
Something that made you want to peel him apart layer by layer just to understand what lived underneath.
Even when you absolutely shouldn’t.
six.
You couldn’t escape Frank Langdon’s eyes.
It wasn’t just that he looked at you often, it was the timing of it. You would glance up from a chart, be mid-sentence in a handover, reach for a new pair of gloves, and there he would be. Already looking. Already watching.
Those piercing blue irises never seemed to settle on you for long, but they always found you again. It was infuriatingly precise. Like some internal compass had been set to your presence without your permission.
“Are you going to knock off drinks tonight?”
The voice pulled you back into the present. You blinked, realising you’d been staring blankly at your tablet for long enough that the screen had dimmed.
Holland was leaning against the edge of your desk, casual in a way that was unique to interns, half confident, half desperate for approval.
“Oh uh, I don’t know. Maybe.” You said half heartedly.
“Oh c’mon doc, it’ll be fun.” Holland’s grin widened as he studied you, searching for a crack in your resistance. “Especially if you’re there.”
You huffed a small laugh.
“Nice try Holland, but this one here likes to be in bed by 9pm.” McKay smirked as she walked behind you.
Your brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with that?“
“Nothing, if you’re like 80.” Holland shot back, making you roll your eyes.
“I do go out.”
McKay let out a snort that was entirely unconvinced. “Sure you do.”
You straightened slightly, feigning offence. “I just like to keep my work and personal life seperate, so I can avoid doing things like oh I don't know..." You trailed off, pretending to ponder.
"Falling off a table in front of my coworkers in the middle of a drunken rendition of Mamma Mia?" You suggested, raising a brow pointedly at McKay.
McKay flipped you off cheerfully without even slowing down.
Holland, undeterred, was still hovering like a persistent shadow over your desk.
“So… is that a yes?”
“You interns are nothing if not persistent.” You grumbled.
“I prefer passionate.”
You studied him for a moment.
“If you leave me alone to let me finish my charting, I’ll consider it.”
“I’m taking that as a yes.” Holland grinned, tapping the table once triumphantly, like the matter was closed. “See you tonight doc.”
You exhaled through your nose in reluctant amusement as he finally backed away.
Only then did you look up properly.
And, like you always seemed to do, your eyes met Langdon's from across the room.
Something unreadable flickered across his face - too fast to catch, too controlled to decode. It vanished before you could even decide whether you had imagined it.
-
Later, you found yourself alone with him in the trauma bay.
You were halfway through de-scrubbing when his voice cut through the sterile hum.
“Didn’t realise you had a thing for interns.” Langdon remarked as he yanked off his gloves, the latex snapping softly against his wrist.
You glanced over at him as you united your gown.
“Huh?”
“Holland.” He clarified, like it should have been obvious.
You frowned. “What about him?”
“He was flirting with you.”
You scoffed immediately. “No he wasn’t.”
Langdon stopped mid-movement, staring at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“There’s no way you’re that oblivious.” He said flatly.
Your brow knitted. “I’m not oblivious.”
“You are if you don’t notice the way he looks at you.”
You tilted your head slightly. “How does he look at me?”
“Like-“ Langdon cut himself off. His jaw tightened once before he looked away.
“Never mind.” He muttered, scrunching his gloves into a ball and lobbing it into the trashcan with practiced aim.
“Well if he’s flirting with me, maybe I can wrangle a free drink out of him.” You said lightly.
Frank stilled. Not dramatically, but enough for you to notice the tension settling across his shoulders. The brief curl of his fingers before he forced them open again.
You weren’t sure what reaction you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you got.
When he looked back at you, his expression had hardened slightly around the edges.
“So you’re going tonight?”
You lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I might.”
He shook his head slightly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He pushed open the glass doors, holding it open for you to pass through first. “Just thought I’d be free of you in a few hours.”
Your eyes narrowed as you stepped past him.
“Don’t worry." You shot back, "I’ll make sure to sit at the opposite end of the table.”
-
The bar the pitt crew frequented was already too crowded for your liking by the time you arrived.
It was loud in a way that pressed against your skin. The kind of place where conversation blurred into overlapping noise and every surface felt slightly sticky.
You’d been nursing a wine for the better part of an hour, perched on the edge of the booth, perfectly content listening to everyone else talk.
"I'll be back." You murmured to Samira beside you, sliding your unfinished glass toward her.
"Don't get lost." She teased.
You threaded your way through the crowd toward the bathroom, shoulders brushing strangers, the air growing hotter the further you moved from your group.
“I can’t believe she’s here.”
“Who?”
You froze when you heard the sound of your last name.
It wasn’t spoken loudly, but it cut through the noise anyway.
“I know, Holland actually managed to convince her.”
You slowed instinctively.
A cluster of interns stood near the bar, half-leaning into each other, already loosened by alcohol and confidence. All oblivious to the fact you were only a few feet away.
“It wasn’t hard, just had to smile at her and call her doc.”
A few of them laughed.
“She definitely has cat lady energy."
"In all fairness." Someone else said. "She is hot. Just way too fucking uptight."
"Seriously." Another voice added. “You can tell she’s never relaxed a day in her life."
The laughter swelled again.
The words landed like barbs in your chest.
The air felt suddenly too thin, too sharp. Your fingers curled instinctively around nothing.
“Holland, honestly, do everyone a favour and take care of her tonight so maybe she chills the fuck out next shift-"
You turned before you could hear the rest, not sure if you'd be able to bear hearing more.
Heat burned behind your eyes as you pushed through the crowd, swallowing the emotion down so aggressively it turned sharp inside your chest. You rerouted, diverting your course to the bathroom back to your table.
There were plenty of other doctors at PTMC who had sacrificed their social lives for this job. Robby and Langdon were self professed life long bachelors because of their obsession with work. But the difference was, they were men.
By the time you reached the booth again, anger had replaced humiliation almost entirely.
As you approached your table, Samira glanced up at you.
"Hey, you ok?" She asked.
"Never better." You answered smoothly, sliding back into the booth as you let the anger spark into something different.
You gestured to the bar.
"Want to get wasted?"
-
What neither you or the interns had realised was that Frank had been standing further down the bar waiting to order. And he had heard every word.
"Hey."
The interns turned.
Frank stood there holding two untouched beers, expression unreadable.
“Maybe be careful of how you talk about your seniors.” Frank said, too calmly for it to be genuine.
Holland, who’d already had one too many, snorted.
“Come on man, you of all people know what she’s like.”
Frank’s jaw ticked.
“I know that she’s a brilliant doctor who deserves your respect."
"Respect?" Holland laughed. "We all see the way you talk to her." Holland continued, the alcohol flowing through his veins hindering his ability to realise that he was walking into a death trap.
Frank stepped forward just enough that the space between them shifted.
"Don't ever try and conflate your working relationship with what her and I have." He spoke evenly, his voice lowering just enough.
A hush descended over the interns.
"And from now on I suggest you watch your fucking mouth." He continued, his eyes moving from Holland to flit over the group. "Because if I hear any of you breath another bad word about her, I'll personally ensure that none of you make it through this internship."
No one dared to speak or move.
"Are we clear?”
Holland swallowed. “Crystal.”
-
You had never been one to hold your alcohol well, and tonight was no exception.
Three shots and four drinks in and your vision was blurring at the edges. You and Samira had managed to convince Dana and a few of the other nurses to join in, the group of you giggling and slurring like a bunch of underage teenagers.
And still, every so often, despite the bodies and the noise and the light, Frank's eyes would find yours.
You had no idea what time it was when you stumbled out of the bar.
The night air hit your face like relief and exhaustion all at once. You dropped onto a bench without fully deciding to, legs slightly unsteady, head tipping back toward the night sky. The music from the bar seeped out into the quiet street, carried by the faint breeze.
You could hear foot steps approaching.
You didn't need to look to know who it was.
"How's your night going?"
You blinked slowly up at him.
"Was going great until about two seconds ago."
Frank studied you carefully. "How much have you had to drink?"
"You tell me." You squinted.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he sat beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth that radiated off his body.
"I'll answer for you." You continued, hiccupping as you folded your arms over your chest. "Not enough."
"You should have some water."
You let out a fake a gasp. "Is Frank Langdon worried about me?"
Despite himself, a small smile tugged at his mouth. "Worried about dealing with you hungover tomorrow? Definitely."
That pulled a laugh out of you. "Don't worry." You said as you leant back. "I've got the next two days off so you'll get a break from me."
He didn't answer you as you looked back up at the sky, your eyes settling on the full moon hanging above the two of you.
Instead, he watched you for a moment longer than necessary, like he was trying to place something unspoken.
"Do you think I'm uptight?" You blurted out.
Frank's brows jerked upward.
"Is that a trick question?"
The teasing disappeared immediately when he saw your expression shift.
"Maybe I should just go adopt some cats and embrace it." You mumbled, barely audible as you hugged your arms around yourself.
"Hey." He said, making you look up at him.
"So what if you're uptight?" Frank asked. "It means you care. Means you don't half-ass things."
A pause.
"Because uptight implies...I don't know.." You let out a small sigh as you glanced down at your hands. "That I'm boring or annoying, or both."
"You're definitely not boring." He said immediately.
"But yes." He added after a beat. "You are definitely annoying."
That loosened a real laugh from you this time.
Frank watched it happen carefully, something softer flickering across his face.
"But I like that about you." He added quietly, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.
You shot him an incredulous look. "Sure you do."
"I do." He insisted.
"Uh huh." Your lips pursed in amusement. "Don't pretend like you wouldn't give me a personality transplant if you could."
"I wouldn't." This time he sounded firmer, too focused on proving you wrong to realise that he was giving away too much.
"I wouldn't change anything about you." He repeated, his eyes locking onto yours.
"I like you. Just as you are."
The words hung between you for a moment.
You stared at him as your body suddenly completely still.
And then the espresso martinis and tequila shots reminded you that they were still swirling around in your stomach, causing a wave of nausea to rip through you.
The colour drained from your face as the alcohol, the heat, the exhaustion - everything surged through you at once.
Frank noticed it instantly.
"Come on, let's get you home."
-
The walk up to your apartment was a blur of stairs, half-coherent instructions, and Frank’s hand steadying you at your elbow whenever you swayed too far.
By the time he guided you inside, you were well beyond the point of being able to remember anything.
Too drunk to notice the way Frank's eyes trained on the interior of your apartment, gaze lingering on family photos, books, decorations, anything that provided him a glimpse of who you were outside of work.
He got you into bed, moving around your space with a familiarity that made it feel like he'd been here a hundred times before.
You watched as he placed a glass of water and a packet of painkillers on your bedside table.
Then he paused.
Your pink bedspread was patterned with tiny cherries.
A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth.
"Try not to vomit all over your fancy bedspread." He remarked.
You looked up at him blearily.
There was something dangerously fond in his voice now.
You watched him hover for a moment, like he was trying to convince himself to leave.
"Thank you."
A smile, small and private, broke through.
"Don't mention it Ace."
He turned to leave when your hand caught his forearm lightly.
He stopped immediately.
"Hey." You whispered.
"What's wrong?" He asked, already shifting back toward you instinctively.
You studied him for a long moment, as if something about his face had changed shape in the quiet. Frank suddenly became aware that your hand was still on his arm.
"Your eyes have a little green in them."
Frank froze.
The words had been spoken so softly he almost thought he imagined them.
He swallowed, glancing down at the floor as he tried to reconcile the emotions flooding his nervous system, tried to formulate a response.
But when he looked at you again, you were already gone - head tilted slightly, lashes fluttered close, breath even, asleep mid-thought.
He stayed there for a moment longer than he should have.
Then he left quietly, closing the door behind him like he was afraid to disturb whatever had just changed between the two of you.
seven.
Frank Langdon could make you laugh like no one else could.
It wasn’t just the words he said. Like everything else, it was the timing of them.
The way he seemed to sense the exact moment your thoughts started tipping somewhere too heavy and quietly redirected them before you could sink too far into yourself, like he refused to let it stay there too long.
Ever since that night out at the bar, things had shifted between the two of you.
Not dramatically. Not in any way anyone else would have been able to point at and name.
But there had been a change in the space between interactions. Less friction. Less sharpness for the sake of it. The edges of your usual back-and-forth softened into something that almost resembled ease - like both of you had, without discussion, agreed to stop pressing on eachother’s bruises.
You couldn’t remember much from that night. Couldn't even remember how you'd gotten home. You only had fragments to analyse - warmth, noise, Frank’s voice close enough to feel like it belonged somewhere under your skin.
"I like you. Just as you are."
That part, unfortunately, you remembered perfectly.
The words had settled somewhere deep and stubborn inside you, resurfacing at the worst possible moments. Mid-shift. Mid-sentence. In the brief seconds before sleep when your brain stopped pretending it wasn’t still at work.
And now, weeks later, you were still carrying them around like something you hadn’t figured out how to put down.
The unspoken truce between you and Frank held anyway.
Sharper jabs were replaced with quieter ones, almost always softened with half-hearted eye rolls and almost-smiles neither of you acknowledged.
If anyone else noticed it, they didn't say it out loud, careful not to disrupt whatever delicate peace treaty had been formed.
You’d been having a good shift, until hour eleven.
Your patient, a young woman with a soft, girlish face that made her look even younger. She’d come in complaining of vague chest discomfort with a documented history of anxiety. No other significant past medical history. Stable vitals on arrival.
She'd been sweet, telling you all about how she had finally worked up the courage to book flights to Italy for the summer.
Then she crashed.
Chest compressions were already underway when you arrived, the rhythm of them loud and brutal in the confined space. Someone was bagging her. Someone else was calling out time intervals.
"Epi’s in." Jesse confirmed.
You were already moving, hands automatically checking rhythm on the monitor, eyes scanning for anything reversible.
Nothing.
Still PEA.
"Again." You said, voice steady in a way you didn’t feel as you swapped in for compressions.
The bedframe rattled faintly beneath the force of it.
Time stretched in that strange, distorted way it always did during arrest, both too fast and painfully slow at once.
You all paused again, stepping away to look at the monitor for another rhythm check.
"Call it."
Robby's voice cut through the room.
"We can still try-" You began.
"You've been going for twenty minutes." Robby voice stayed calm, firm. "Call it."
The room shifted like it always did when a resuscitation failed. That invisible collective acknowledgment that the line had been reached.
You reluctantly moved your hands away from the patients chest, your gaze lingering on her glassy eyes that would never blink again.
You felt your chest tighten.
You glanced down at your watch. "Time of death, 5:17pm."
Your voice remained clinical despite the way your throat had started closing around the words.
Silence settled over the room.
The monitors still beeped softly in the background, almost offensively alive compared to everything else.
"Does she have next of kin listed?"
Robby glanced down at your hands that had started to tremor slightly. Something soft flickered across his face.
"I'll do it."
You shook your head before he even finished the sentence.
"No." Your voice tightened slightly. "She was my patient. I can do it."
A pause.
Robby studied you for a second longer than necessary, then nodded once.
"Ok."
The room began to reset around you, people stepping back, lowering their voices, the clinical transition from emergency to aftermath already beginning.
But your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
-
The wind up on the roof of PTMC was colder than expected. Sharp against your skin, grounding in a way that almost hurt.
You sat curled against the wall with your knees tucked to your chest, staring at your shaking hands.
“Heard you had a rough one.”
You turned your head.
Frank was standing a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets.
“She was only 19.” You murmured, shaking your head. “I just had to tell her parents that their daughter isn’t coming home.”
You turned your head away as he sat down beside you, wiping at your face quickly before he could fully register it.
“I’m sorry.”
"I should have checked for a PE risk or a structural issue or-"
"She presented exactly like most young patients with anxiety do. None of us would have done anything differently." Frank interrupted gently.
You inhaled sharply. "But if I'd just-"
"Ace."
Your nickname, said like that, cut through the spiral before it could finish building.
You looked at him.
His gaze dropped briefly to your hands.
Then, slower, like he was deciding rather than acting, he reached forward and wrapped his hands around yours.
"This wasn't your fault."
The contact grounded you in a way that felt unfair.
The warmth of him grounded you instantly in a way that felt deeply unfair.
You swallowed hard and nodded once.
"I don't know how Robby and Dana are still here." You admitted quietly. "How they just keep... showing up."
Frank raised a brow. "Have you met them? They're both completely unhinged."
Despite yourself, a small sound escaped you - half laugh, half broken exhale.
"I didn't realise unhinged was an official medical diagnosis."
"It is according to me.” He nodded solemnly. “Right alongside basketcase and whacko."
That got another laugh out of you, sharper this time. More real.
He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was checking whether it had actually worked.
"There we go." He said quietly.
You looked down then.
His hands were still around yours.
"I’m scared to know what you'd diagnose me with." You said after a moment, voice steadier now.
A corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"You're your own medical condition entirely." He answered. Pausing as he tried to think of the best way to describe it.
"Ace-itis."
That made you laugh again, properly this time, breath catching slightly at the end, the heaviness in your chest loosening just enough for you to breathe deeper.
Frank watched it happen like it mattered more than it should.
When the laughter faded, the silence between you felt strangely easy.
After a moment, he shifted slightly but didn’t let go of your hands.
“You want to go get a drink or something?”
The question was casual, but it didn't feel like it.
You blinked at him once, processing it slowly through the fog of adrenaline and exhaustion.
A joke rose automatically to your tongue, something defensive, something sharp, but you swallowed it as you studied him.
“Only if the first rounds on you.”
He smiled faintly.
“After the day you’ve had, I’ll even get the second.”
eight.
Frank Langdon could also make you cry in a way no one else could.
Because when he turned on you, it felt like being shut out of something you hadn’t realised you were standing inside of, something that you suddenly didn't want to leave.
It was the day of Pittfest.
It was also the day for new interns and residents, which meant a whole slate of fresh faces trying too hard while the rest of the ER oscillated between mentorship and survival mode.
The halls were louder than usual. Too many voices overlapping, too many unfamiliar footsteps echoing off the linoleum floors.
And through all of it, there was Frank.
You noticed it within the first hour.
Something was off.
He moved like his body was running half a step ahead of everything - conversations, people, decisions. His voice came too quickly, clipped at the edges. His attention snapped between patients and staff with an intensity that didn’t feel controlled so much as driven. Like his nervous system had been turned up too high and forgotten how to come back down.
His pupils were slightly too wide under the fluorescent light, sweat gathered faintly at the back of his neck despite the air conditioning.
And worst of all - his arrogance, usually carefully calibrated, was unfiltered.
Loud.
You caught yourself watching him repeatedly throughout the shift.
Each time, you told yourself you were imagining it.
Then another hour passed.
Then another.
Eventually, you found yourself avoiding him entirely, because something about the way he looked today made you think of a system running too hot right before it failed.
You just hoped that whatever was going on with him would settle and he wouldn’t sweep up too many people in his chaos.
That hope lasted until you heard raised voices coming from trauma two.
You were already moving before you consciously decided to.
Even from the doorway, you could tell the atmosphere was off. A room holding its breath in the wrong place.
Frank was at the centre of it.
One of the new interns, Trinity, stood across from him, her body rigid, eyes wide. You had a brief thought that she resembled a frightened lamb.
Frank’s voice cut through everything.
“-stupid or arrogant, you need to realise that you are a beginner.” His voice was loud and unforgiving.
“Which means your job is to shut up, listen, and learn, because so far today the only thing you have been successful at is proving repeatedly that you know nothing.”
Trinity’s eyes widened slightly when she spotted you over his shoulder. You couldn’t decide if it was a silent plea or a warning.
Frank turned slightly at that movement.
For one brief second, his expression faltered when he saw you, like seeing you had been pulled back into himself.
Then immediately it hardened again, too fast to hold onto.
You swallowed, attempting to regain your composure as you glanced between them.
“Santos.” Your voice was level as you tilted your head towards the exit. “Dr McKay needs help in Room 4.”
Relief crossed Trinity’s face so quickly it was almost painful.
She nodded once, eyes darting between the two of you before escaping the room like she’d been given permission to breathe again.
The moment she left, the air changed again.
You turned back to Frank slowly, taking a few steps toward him so you were fully enveloped by the room.
He was still standing there, hands half-curled at his sides, like he’d been interrupted mid-impact and didn’t know what to do with the energy still in him.
“What the fuck was that?”
His eyes snapped to yours.
“What the fuck was what?”
His tone made you bristle.
“Don’t do that.” You said sharply. “Don’t stand there pretending you don’t know what you just did was completely out of line.”
“Have you worked with her yet?” He shot back, words tumbling out too fast. “She’s arrogant and-and completely incapable of-“
“It doesn’t matter.” You interrupted. “That is not how we talk to rookies. Actually, it’s not how we talk to anyone.”
Frank scoffed, sharp and humourless.
“Didn’t realise you were the tone police.”
The agitation radiating off him made you instinctively want to step back.
Your gaze sharpened.
“What is going on with you today?” You demanded. “You’re all twitchy and acting completely fucking manic-“
You stopped when you caught it.
Because you saw it properly now you were up close. His pupils were too dilated, not situational, not lighting, not stress.
Something else.
Something your brain immediately started assembling pieces around before you could stop it.
Sweats at his hairline, restless movement in his jaw, the uneven pacing of his breath.
And then the memory surfaced - uninvited, unwelcome.
Back pain from when he’d helped his parents move. Been too cheap to hire movers, he’d joked.
A prescription.
You remembered him mentioning it offhand weeks ago - something about weaning off them, something about not needing them anymore.
The realization hit so hard it almost made you feel sick.
You went still.
Frank noticed immediately.
Something defensive shifted across his posture like he’d followed your thoughts to their conclusion before you even spoke.
“Frank.” You said slowly.
Your voice softened involuntarily. Careful in a way that didn’t match the argument anymore. Weeks of quiet moments and softened edges bleeding into the argument without permission.
“Are you having withdrawals?”
There was a beat of silence.
Something flickered across his face.
Not denial first, not anger.
Something closer to pain, mixed with a semblance of something like surprise, maybe at the sound of his first name leaving your lips, or being caught, you weren’t certain.
And then it vanished.
“What?” He said, voice sharp enough to cut, “are you seriously trying to ask me if I’m a drug addict?”
“No, I-“ You started immediately, stepping forward again.
But he was already unraveling faster than you could catch.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Bitterness curled through every word now. “Get your competition shipped off to rehab so you can be the only golden child of the ER.”
Your breath caught painfully.
“That’s not fair.”
"Isn't it?" He studied you for a moment, his eyes intense and unblinking. "This place isyour whole life, it makes sense that you'd be dying to have Robby's attention all to yourself."
The words, slung like arrows, found their mark with deadly accuracy. They penetrated your thick skin, embedding themselves somewhere deep behind your rib cage.
Not because they were true, but because they were thrown like they were, like they were designed to hurt you.
Your throat tightened.
“I don’t know what has gotten into you.” You said quietly, voice shaking now despite your efforts. “But I seriously suggest you stop talking before you say something you can’t take back.”
For a moment something in him wavered. A crack.
Like he could suddenly see you again instead of whatever he was fighting.
Your bottom lip was quivering now.
For a second, he looked horrified by it.
And then his expression closed again, like a door slamming shut.
“Don’t worry.” He said flatly, void of any emotion as he stalked past you. “I was just leaving.”
You stood there frozen for a few seconds before the tears finally came, sliding down your face in hot, fat tracks.
Anger crashed through you almost instantly afterward.
Not just at Frank, but at yourself.
Because you hadn’t cried when you heard interns say horrible things about you, hadn’t cried when you’d lost a patient. You’d been on the brink, but never quite fallen off the ledge.
But somehow, Frank Langdon was the one to push you off it.
And that terrified you more than anything.
Because it meant you’d let him get under your skin in a way that you never thought he would. And now, you didn’t know if you could ever scrub yourself clean of him.
nine.
Frank Langdon left without saying goodbye.
You stood in the descrubbing bay long after your gloves had been peeled off and discarded, staring at nothing in particular. The curtain that separated you from the trauma bay still fluttered slightly, like the room itself hadn’t settled yet.
You didn’t want to move. Didn't want to pull back the curtain and see the blood soaked floor beyond it.
Because if you did, it would become real in a different way. Not just something you survived, but something that stayed.
A dull headache pulsed steadily behind your eyes. Your shoulders ached with tension. Your body felt disconnected somehow, like part of you was still moving even though you’d stopped minutes ago.
Your mind was struggling to process what you'd just witnessed. How many people you saved. How many you didn't.
You swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat.
For one strange second, you genuinely thought you might pass out.
The curtain shifted. You flinched before you could stop yourself.
“Sorry.”
The voice was quiet and all too familiar.
Your stomach dropped before you even turned.
Blue eyes met yours.
Frank stood in the doorway, still in scrubs. Hair slightly dishevelled. Exhaustion carved into his face in ways that you were sure mirrored yours.
The mass casualty had left no room to think about him as anything other than another set of hands beside you. But now, standing here with him again, every emotion you’d shoved aside came flooding violently back.
“What do you want, Langdon?”
Your voice came out flatter than intended as you turned away again, like movement alone might protect you from whatever this conversation was about to become.
"I came to apologise... about earlier." He said quietly. "That was fucked up."
"Yeah. It was." You said.
A humourless breath escaped you.
"Although now it feels kind of trivial after-" You stopped yourself before your brain could drift back toward everything you’d all just witnessed.
You turned back properly then - freezing when you saw the raw emotion on his face.
"I'm really sorry."
This time, you weren’t entirely sure he was only talking about the argument anymore.
You took a step towards him.
"What happened Frank?" You asked quietly.
His jaw tightened.
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
"I fucked up Ace." He admitted, his voice cracking slightly, like it cost him something to say it out loud.
"Really badly."
Your expression softened before you could stop it, and that seemed to break something in him further.
"I think I need help." The confession came out barely above a whisper as tears pooled in the corner of his eyes.
You took a step toward him instinctively.
"Ok." You said immediately, nodding slowly. "Ok. We can get you help."
"Jesus-" He cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like he was trying to physically reset himself. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you... like you pity me."
"Jesus Christ Langdon, I don't pity you I-" You stopped yourself, breath catching slightly as you realised what you were about to say.
"I care about you."
The honesty of it startled even you.
Frank went still.
"You do?" He asked.
There was no teasing in his voice now. No arrogance. Only something small and uncertain underneath it that made your chest ache unexpectedly.
"Yeah." You said, softer now. "Even though it pains me to admit it."
That got the smallest flicker of something, his eyes never leaving your face.
"Which is why we're going to figure this out." You continued, stepping closer again without thinking about it. "Whatever this is, we can sort it out, we can-"
You never got to finish your sentence.
Because Frank Langdon kissed you.
It was sudden - like something inside him had snapped beneath the weight of everything he’d been holding back.
You froze completely at first. Hands half-raised, breath caught, brain refusing to process the shift from conversation to collision.
Frank pulled back abruptly, eyes wide, mouth parted.
“I- oh my god." He breathed heavily. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I-”
You grabbed the front of his scrubs and pulled him back down before he could finish.
The second kiss wasn’t hesitant.
It was years of tension collapsing all at once into something sharp and immediate and impossible to take back.
Frank made a quiet sound against your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were kissing him back.
Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back. His breathing uneven, chest rising too fast.
"I'm sorry." He shook his head as he took a step away from you, like he needed the physical distance to stop himself. "I can't- I can't do this."
"Frank-"
But he was already gone.
You didn't see him again after that.
Not in passing, not in corridors, not in all the strange little spaces where the two of you had somehow built an entire relationship out of arguments and eye contact and timing.
You found out a week later from Dana that Frank had admitted himself into a treatment program that same night.
And then he disappeared from your life for ten months.
ten.
The thing you hated the most about Frank Langdon was that you didn't hate him.
Not even a little bit, not even at all.
You’d known it long before you admitted it to yourself. But that moment - that kiss- had made it undeniable in a way you couldn’t pretend to ignore anymore.
And that was the problem.
Because hatred would’ve been easier than this constant, aching awareness of him existing somewhere just beyond your reach.
Fourth of July shifts were universally hated at PTMC.
Too hot, too loud, too many fire-work related disasters waiting to happen.
You could already feel a faint film of sweat start to coat the back of your neck as you opened your locker that morning.
Footsteps approached behind you.
You peered around the locker door out of habit, ready to say good morning to whichever poor colleague was stuck with you on this shift.
Your brain short circuited.
Frank Langdon stood there.
Cap on. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Like he belonged somewhere casual, somewhere outside of this building entirely.
Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life for ten months without a word.
You stared at him for a moment.
Then he opened his mouth, your name formed silently on his lips.
You slammed your door shut with finality, then walked straight past him without saying a word.
Your pulse roared in your ears, your heart bashed against your ribcage.
You knew he’d be coming back, you knew you would have to see him again eventually - you just didn’t think it would be today.
You didn’t think it would hurt this much either.
-
The shift was unbearable in the quietest possible way.
Every time you turned a corner, you expected him to be there. Every time you reached for a chart, you expected his voice behind you.
Every time someone called your name, your body reacted before your brain caught up - a stupid, pathetic flicker of hope you immediately hated yourself for.
And then there were the moments he was there.
Hands steady, voice controlled, face carefully neutral in the way only Frank Langdon could manage when he was actively trying not to look at you.
Even then, you could feel his eyes on you wherever you moved.
It made your skin feel too tight.
By hour four, you had already done two traumas with him. Your body slipped back into your old rhythm together so naturally it made you feel sick.
By hour eight, your scrubs were starting to cling to you in a way that felt suffocating.
By hour ten, your tension headache had made itself home again.
By hour fourteen, you thought you might scream if you stayed in the same room as him any longer.
The stairwell was empty when you found it.
Quiet in the way hospital spaces rarely were - concrete walls absorbing sound instead of reflecting it. The air was cooler here, industrial and slightly damp, smelling faintly of disinfectant and metal.
You pressed your back against the wall and closed your eyes for half a second.
Just one breath.
Just one moment where you didn’t have to think about him.
Your eyes snapped open when you heard the door open.
Frank stood in front of you, his chest rose and fell slightly faster than usual, like he’d decided to follow you on impulse and was only now catching up with the consequences.
You straightened immediately.
"I just want to talk." He spoke, taking a step toward you slowly like you were a wild animal he didn't want to spook.
"There's nothing to talk about Langdon."
He paused. "You know that's not true Ace."
"Don't call me that."
Your voice came out sharper than you intended.
His expression flickered.
“Please Ace just-"
"I said stop." You cut him off again, stepping back slightly without meaning to. "You don’t get to call me that anymore. Not after-"
You stopped.
The words jammed in your throat.
Because saying it out loud meant making it real in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.
His gaze didn’t move from yours.
"Not after what?" He asked quietly.
Something in your restraint finally cracked, frustration pouring out of you.
"I wrote to you in rehab." You said, voice tightening. "Even after everything, I wrote to you. And you didn't write back."
Pain flashed openly across Frank's face.
"I'm sorry."
You shook your head.
"You kissed me Langdon. And then you disappeared without a word and then you just - just appear without any warning, like nothing happened." Your voice grew louder as you spoke, trembling despite your best efforts.
"I didn't want you to get caught up in any of this."
"That wasn't your call to make." You snapped back. "I can make my own decisions."
"You don't think that I know that?" He answered, his own tone sharpening. "There's more to this then my addiction."
"I know."
Frank's eyes flared in surprise.
You exhaled shakily.
"Robby and Santos have been glaring at you all day. And I saw the way he looked at you last year before you left.” Your jaw clenched. “It doesn't take a genius to figure it out."
Frank watched you for a moment, his surprise morphing into one of disbelief.
"And you're saying what? You wouldn't have exiled me too?”
"No. I would have been there for you, if you'd given me the chance to."
His expression faltered as he shook his head slightly.
"What?" You challenged, taking a step towards him. "You don't believe me?"
"You hate me." He countered.
You stared at him, then let out a breath somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief.
"Jesus Langdon, I don't hate you.” You snapped. “And that's precisely the problem."
A pause.
He took a step closer.
"I didn't plan on kissing you like that."
You swallowed as you looked at him, all your frustration seeping out of you.
"Then why did you?" You murmured.
For a moment he didn't answer.
"Because I don't hate you either."
This time when he looked at you, there was something different. Like he wasn’t looking at you as competition, or a colleague, but something more exposed than either of you had ever allowed before.
"You're all I thought about in rehab."
Your heart stuttered violently.
Frank laughed softly under his breath, humourless.
"You're all I've thought about since med school, really."
"That can't be-"
"It is." He cut in gently. His eyes dropped briefly toward the floor.
“Ever since you sat across from me with your colour coded textbooks and looked at me like you wanted to kill me.” A small smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
Your breath caught.
“That's probably why I was always such a dick to you.” He glanced back up. “Because it was the only time you ever really looked at me."
The stairwell felt too small suddenly. Too warm, too honest, too vulnerable.
"It's always been you Ace.” His voice softened. “I just didn’t know what to do about it.”
You swallowed hard.
"You left." You said quietly.
"I know." He said immediately. No defence. No excuse. Just truth.
“I panicked. I wasn't thinking straight."
A beat.
"And I’ve regretted it every day since."
He took another step towards you.
"The kiss, or you leaving?” You whispered.
His eyes heals yours steadily.
"You know which one."
Now he was close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to keep eye contact. Close enough that you could see the small flecks of green scattered through his eyes.
"I don't think I can keep pretending that I don't want you anymore." He admitted.
Silence hung between the two of you.
"Say something." He said quietly. "Please."
The space between you was nothing and everything at once.
"Frank.." You breathed out.
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to pretend anymore either."
Frank swallowed, his eyes flickering down to your mouth.
"I'd really like to kiss you again.”
Whatever restraint you still had left finally broke.
You fisted his scrubs in between your fingers, guiding him down to your mouth.
The kiss wasn’t careful this time.
It wasn’t confused.
It was real in a way that almost hurt.
Like years of wanting each other had finally run out of places to hide.
Frank’s hand came up immediately to cradle your jaw, anchoring you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
You pulled him closer against you, one hand threading through his hair. You felt your back hit the wall, a small breath escaping your mouth at the impact.
The stairwell door creaked somewhere nearby.
You both broke apart instantly.
You turned, but there was no one there.
Frank looked back at you, breathing unevenly now, a grin slowly pulling at his mouth.
"You know what I just realised?”
"Oh god.” Your fingers scraped lightly against the back of his neck. “What?”
“I never got to tell you I performed a closed cervical reduction like thirty minutes ago.”
Your eyes widened. "Are you serious?"
"Completely." His smile grew as he ghosted his thumb over your jaw. "Guess that's two miracles I've performed today."
You snorted despite yourself. "That was terrible, even for you."
"I know." He smirked as he leant forward, his mouth hovering over yours. "You love it though Ace."
Your smile widened helplessly as you rolled your eyes.
"Just shut up and kiss me Langdon."
-
Robby glanced over his glasses to see Abbot making his way towards him, his face slack like he was trying to process something.
“Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?” Robby asked.
“Because I’m traumatised.”
“I think we all are.”
“No.” Abbot shook his head gravely. “Somehow this was worse than anything I’ve seen in here.”
Robby raised a brow as Abbot shuddered.
“I just caught your two protégées making out in the stairwell.”
“Huh.”
Robby glancing down casually at his watch.
“Well I'll give them credit."
Abbot's eyes narrowed. "For what?”
Robby shrugged as he turned back to his screen.
"They lasted longer than I thought they would.”
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Running to Jack when something terrifies you, burying your face into his chest and wrapping your arms around him.
He's startled, you guys have never touched on purpose before, but he quickly holds you to him, a hand pressing protectively over the back of your head as he hushes your tears.
Nobody in the emergency department ever saw you panic.
That was part of your thing.
Competent. Calm. Reliable.
You were the person who kept steady hands during trauma intakes and level voices during screaming matches with difficult patients. The person who remembered medication dosages off the top of your head and always somehow knew where missing charts ended up.
Even when things got ugly, you held yourself together.
Which was why, when you finally broke, it terrified Jack Abbot almost as much as whatever had scared you in the first place.
The shift had already been brutal.
The Pitt was overflowing.
Two attendings short. Psych backed up for hours. Families screaming at triage. Blood on the floor in trauma two that nobody had time to mop properly yet.
Jack was exhausted down to the marrow.
But somewhere between suturing a teenager’s arm and arguing with radiology over delayed scans, he still found himself tracking you unconsciously.
He always did.
Not intentionally.
You just existed somewhere in the center of his awareness at all times.
He noticed when you skipped lunch.
When your smile became forced instead of genuine.
When your shoulders started aching because you rubbed at the same spot near your neck.
He noticed when you disappeared too long.
Which was exactly why, after fifteen minutes without seeing you, a small knot of unease started tightening in his chest.
Jack glanced up from his charting.
No you.
He checked the trauma bays.
Nothing.
Medication room.
Empty.
His frown deepened.
He asked Dana if she'd seen you while passing the nurses’ station.
Dana shook her head.
“Thought she was helping psych intake.”
Jack nodded slowly.
Something still felt wrong.
Then—
A scream echoed down the hallway.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Short. Sharp. Cut off immediately.
But Jack knew your voice instantly.
Every muscle in his body locked.
Then he was moving.
Fast.
People turned as he shoved through the corridor toward psych intake.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
A thousand horrible possibilities hit him all at once.
Patient attack.
Weapon.
Blood.
You hurt.
The psych room door burst open hard enough to slam against the wall.
Jack took in the scene instantly.
Overturned chair.
Security restraining a screaming patient against the far wall.
A shattered metal tray on the floor.
And you—
Standing frozen near the corner.
White as paper.
Shaking.
Your eyes snapped toward him.
And something inside your expression broke.
Relief.
Pure, desperate relief.
Before Jack could even speak, you moved.
Fast.
Straight toward him.
Then suddenly you were crashing into his chest hard enough to nearly knock him backward.
Your arms wrapped around him immediately.
Face buried against his scrubs.
Clinging.
Jack froze.
Not because he didn’t want to touch you.
God, no.
The opposite.
You and Jack existed in this strange orbit around each other where everything important remained carefully unspoken.
Too many almost moments.
Too many lingering glances.
Too much tension packed into tiny accidental touches.
You had never hugged before.
Not really.
Never crossed that line intentionally.
So for one startled second, Jack’s brain completely short-circuited.
Then you made this awful, trembling sound against his chest.
And instinct took over.
Immediately.
One arm locked around your waist.
The other came up protectively over the back of your head.
Holding you close.
Shielding you automatically.
“I got you,” he murmured instantly.
Your fingers twisted hard in the fabric of his shirt.
Jack’s heart physically hurt.
You were shaking so badly.
“Hey,” he whispered, voice low and steady against your hair. “Hey, you’re okay.”
You nodded once.
Didn’t let go.
Jack glanced over your head toward security.
“What happened?”
“One of the psych holds snapped,” a nurse answered quietly. “Threw a tray at her. Missed by inches.”
Jack looked down at you sharply.
“Did he touch you?”
You shook your head against his chest.
“No.”
But your voice cracked on the word.
And somehow that was worse.
Jack tightened his arms instinctively.
His protective instincts were already dangerous where you were concerned.
This shoved them into overdrive.
The restrained patient started screaming again nearby.
You flinched violently.
That did it.
Jack immediately turned your head into his chest harder, one hand cradling the back of your skull.
“Don’t look,” he murmured softly.
The gentleness in his voice nearly undid you completely.
Because nobody had held you like this in years.
Like something precious.
Like safety itself.
Jack could feel your heartbeat hammering through your scrubs.
Could feel your uneven breathing against his chest.
And all he could think was:
Thank God you’re okay.
Thank God.
Thank God.
Because the idea of walking into this room and finding you hurt—
No.
He physically couldn’t let himself finish that thought.
“You wanna get outta here?” he asked quietly.
You nodded immediately.
Jack didn’t remove his arm from around you once as he guided you out of psych intake.
The hallway blurred around you.
People stared.
Neither of you cared.
He brought you into an empty on-call room and shut the door softly behind him.
Only then did he look down properly at your face.
Your eyes were red.
Still glassy with adrenaline.
“You hurt anywhere?” he asked immediately.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Jack searched your expression carefully anyway.
His hands were still on you.
One at your waist.
One near your shoulder.
Neither of you seemed capable of stepping back yet.
The realization hit both of you simultaneously.
You were very close.
Jack’s breath caught almost imperceptibly.
Your hands still clutched the front of his shirt.
Heat crawled slowly up your neck.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered roughly.
His brow furrowed instantly.
“For what?”
“You probably didn’t want—” You glanced downward awkwardly between your bodies. “This.”
Jack looked genuinely confused for half a second.
Then horrified.
“No.” His answer came immediate and sharp. “Don’t do that.”
You blinked.
“Do what?”
“Apologize for needing me.”
The sincerity in his voice hit you like a physical blow.
Jack swallowed hard afterward like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
Silence filled the room.
Heavy.
Charged.
You became acutely aware of every point of contact between you.
His warm hands.
Your bodies nearly touching.
The steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Jack was looking at you differently now.
Not doctor-to-colleague.
Not even friend-to-friend.
Softer.
Open.
Like seeing you run to him cracked something apart inside him.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he admitted quietly.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Sorry.”
“There you go again.”
A shaky laugh escaped you despite yourself.
Jack’s expression softened instantly at the sound.
“There she is,” he murmured.
Your stomach flipped.
God.
The way he said things sometimes.
Like every tiny piece of you mattered.
You looked down briefly, overwhelmed.
“I didn’t even think,” you confessed softly. “I just… saw you.”
Jack went very still.
“You saw me,” he repeated quietly.
You nodded.
“And I knew I’d be okay.”
Something changed in his face then.
Small.
But enormous somehow.
Like your trust meant everything to him.
Maybe it did.
Jack lifted one hand slowly from your waist to brush gently beneath your eye where tears had dried against your skin.
The touch was featherlight.
Reverent almost.
Your breath caught.
“You are okay,” he said softly.
The room felt unbearably small suddenly.
Jack was still touching your face.
Still standing close enough that you could feel his warmth.
And neither of you seemed capable of moving away.
His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.
Then immediately back up again.
Your pulse stumbled.
“Jack…”
The way you said his name nearly ruined him.
Because there was something fragile in it now.
Something wanting.
Jack had spent months pretending he didn’t ache for you.
Pretending the tension between you wasn’t slowly killing him.
But you’d run to him.
Instinctively.
Like home.
And now he didn’t think he could go back to pretending anymore.
His hand slid carefully to the side of your neck.
“You know,” he said quietly, almost like he was confessing something to himself, “I don’t think I would’ve handled it very well if you got hurt.”
Emotion climbed thickly into your throat.
“You care about me.”
Jack let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Little bit.”
You smiled shakily.
“Liar.”
That startled a real laugh out of him.
Warm. Brief. Beautiful.
Then silence settled again.
But this time it felt different.
No longer uncertain.
Just waiting.
Jack looked at you for one long moment before asking softly:
“Can I kiss you?”
Your answer came immediately.
“Please.”
He kissed you carefully at first.
Like he was afraid of overwhelming you after the panic.
One hand still cradled the back of your head protectively while the other held your waist.
But the second you kissed him back, something inside him unraveled completely.
The kiss deepened.
Months of restrained tension pouring out all at once.
Your hands slid upward into his hair.
Jack made a rough sound against your mouth that nearly melted your knees.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours.
“You scared me,” he admitted again quietly.
You touched his jaw gently.
“I know.”
Jack closed his eyes briefly at the feel of your hand.
Then he opened them and looked at you with something so openly tender it made your chest ache.
“Next time something terrifying happens,” he murmured softly, “you come find me again.”
Your lips curved helplessly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His arms tightened around you once more.
Protective.
Certain.
Like he’d already decided you belonged there.
And honestly?
Wrapped up in Jack Abbot’s arms while his heartbeat steadied yours, you thought maybe you did too.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky barnes is used to getting any girl he sets his sights on. a smile, a wink, a smooth line, it’s never taken much effort. then he meets you.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › 40s!bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 18+ MDNI strangers to friends to lovers, some fluff, flirty/playboy bucky turned loverboy, innocent reader, kinda uptown girl but not like rich or anything, smoker bucky, mentions of alcohol, brief angst, porn with SOME plot, but also plot what plot, lowk just porn with feelings, smut, p in v, virgin/inexperienced reader, lowk possessive bucky, minor corruption kink? fingering, oral sex ft munch bucky, dirty talking bucky barnes, pussy pronouns, missionary + bow, unprotected sex, creampie, soft aftercare, cigarettes after sex, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 10.7k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › 40s bucky how i love you so. ps i did nawt want to proofread this so i skimmed it not even gonna lie... #sosorry like once im done writing something i want it OUT of my head asap i dont want to look at it anymore. anyways thank u for reading enjoy xx
The bell above Moretti’s Candy Shop jingles sharp and bright when Bucky shoulders his way inside, carrying the cold autumn air in with him.
“Trouble,” Mrs. Moretti sighs immediately from behind the counter.
Bucky grins, easy as breathing. “You say that like you ain’t happy to see me.”
“I’d be happier seein’ the ten cents you still owe me, Barnes.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times.”
The shop smells like chocolate and sugar and roasted nuts warming beneath glass lamps. Outside, Brooklyn groans along in its usual rhythm, trolley bells, men hollering across sidewalks, kids sprinting through puddles but in here everything feels softened somehow. Golden. Like the world’s been wrapped in wax paper and tied shut with string.
Bucky leans against the counter, halfway through another smart remark when he notices you.
And just like that, the rest of the room disappears.
You’re standing near the chocolate display case with your gloves folded neatly in your hands, staring through the glass with such genuine wonder it almost knocks the grin off his face.
Not overwhelmed or indecisive, you seem almost enchanted.
Your eyes drift slowly over every row like each candy’s worth considering properly. Caramels. Peppermints. Chocolate turtles. Then your attention catches on the Whoppers display, and stays there.
He almost laughs when he follows your gaze to them.
Cute, he thinks immediately.
Girls usually notice him first. Usually there’s lipstick smiles and fluttering lashes before he’s even crossed the room. He knows what he looks like, knows how his grin lands, knows exactly how long to hold eye contact before women start leaning toward him without realizing it.
But you don’t notice him at all. You’re still staring at the candy like it might hold the secrets of the universe.
Something about that hooks into him immediately as he steps over.
“Those your favorite?”
You blink hard, startled from your thoughts, then turn toward him.
And there it is.
That little pause that every girl gives him, but this one seems different. Not because you recognize him as handsome or because you’re flustered, you just hadn’t realized anyone was speaking to you.
“Oh,” you say softly. “Yes.”
Your voice is gentler than he expected, careful around the edges.
Bucky pushes off the counter and steps closer. “Want a box?”
Your eyes widen instantly. “No, it’s quite alright, I couldn’t possibly.”
“C’mon, doll.” He flashes the smile that usually works without fail. “How could I deny such a sweet girl a sweet treat?”
He expects blushing, maybe a nervous laugh. Instead, you look genuinely conflicted over the idea of him spending money on you.
“Well that’s very kind,” you tell him honestly, “but you really don’t have to.”
Bucky stares at you for half a second, then another.
Well. That’s new.
“Mrs. Moretti,” he calls, unable to stop grinning now, “gimme a box of Whoppers before this sweetheart talks herself outta it.”
Mrs. Moretti snorts loudly but slides the candy across the counter anyway.
“And a cannoli,” Bucky adds quickly.
Your head turns toward him. “Oh, no, truly—”
“Too late.”
He pays before you can protest again, then holds the small paper bag out toward you with exaggerated politeness.
“You really got this for me?” you ask.
“Nah,” he deadpans. “Bought it for the guy behind you.”
You laugh and that sound lands somewhere directly under his ribs. Not loud or practiced. Just soft and surprised, like you hadn’t expected him to be funny.
Bucky suddenly wants to hear it again.
Outside, Brooklyn glows amber beneath the sun. Laundry lines sway overhead between brick buildings. Somewhere down the block, someone’s radio crackles out jazz muffled by static.
You take a careful bite of the cannoli as the two of you step onto the sidewalk, then immediately freeze as cream spills out the other side onto your glove.
“Oh goodness—sorry,” you murmur, horrified. “I made a mess.”
Bucky looks at you.
At the powdered sugar dusting your mouth, the cream threatening to drip onto your sleeve, the embarrassment blooming across your face over something so small.
His brain stops functioning.
“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately, a little too seriously for someone he just met ten minutes ago.
“I just—”
“It’s a cannoli,” he says, clearing his throat. “They’re uh, they're structurally unsound.”
That earns another laugh. And there it is again, that strange feeling settling low in his chest, not lust exactly but something softer than that.
You wipe at your glove carefully, still embarrassed. “I’m making quite the first impression, aren't I.”
“Oh, believe me,” Bucky mutters before he can stop himself, “you are.”
But you don’t seem to catch it. Instead, you just smile politely and continue walking beside him down the sidewalk like this is all perfectly ordinary. Like handsome men buy you candy and pastries every day.
Bucky decides almost immediately that he doesn’t want the conversation to end, so he keeps finding reasons for it not to. He points out the bakery on the corner because “their cheesecake could start a war.” He walks slower whenever you stop to admire storefronts. He offers you his arm when an old woman barrels past with a grocery cart and nearly clips your shoulder.
You take it without hesitation.
“Oh,” you say softly, looping your arm through his. “Thank you.”
Bucky glances down at your hand resting against his sleeve and his heartbeat stumbles oddly.
Usually this part’s easy. Usually flirting feels like muscle memory. Lean closer, smirk a little, call her doll in that lower voice that always works. But you accept every bit of it with such innocent sincerity that it keeps throwing him off balance.
“You always this sweet?” he asks after a while.
You nod thoughtfully. “I do like sugar, yes. But I don't get to eat to very often.”
Bucky chokes on air.
“…Jesus Christ.”
Your brows pull together. “What?”
“Nothin’, doll.”
Because clearly you think he means literal sweetness, and somehow that’s even worse, or better. He can’t tell anymore.
The afternoon stretches unexpectedly around the two of you. You wander through Brooklyn side streets while the sun lowers warm and lazy across the buildings. You stop outside record stores and flower stands and little grocers with apples stacked in wooden crates out front.
And all the while, Bucky keeps trying.
He leans too close while talking and you just look up at him attentively. He calls you doll every other sentence and you smile like you think it’s genuinely affectionate. He flashes smirks sharp enough to cut glass and you return them with polite warmth, entirely unaffected.
“You’re very nice, Mr. Barnes,” you tell him eventually.
Bucky nearly trips over the curb.
“Nice?”
“Well yes.” You glance at him earnestly. “Handsome too, but mostly nice.”
Handsome too. Mostly nice.
Bucky stares at you outright now. Your voice held no teasing lilt, no coyness, you said it like you’re discussing the weather and something inside him short-circuits completely.
Because by now he knows for a fact you have no idea what he’s doing.
“Doll,” he says slowly, “you know I’m layin’ it on thick, right?”
You blink.
“…Laying it on?”
Silence.
Then Bucky laughs so suddenly and loudly a passing couple turns to stare, not in a mocking sense but genuinely delighted. You look confused enough that it only makes him laugh harder.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head, “you really don’t know I've been flirting you?”
“I assumed you were being friendly.”
“I am bein’ friendly.”
“That seems normal.”
“Normal?” He stares at you. “I bought you candy fifteen minutes after meetin’ you.”
“Well… yes.”
“And?”
“You seemed very determined about it.”
Bucky rubs a hand down his jaw, trying unsuccessfully to hide another grin.
This should annoy him. It should. But instead he feels strangely fascinated, like he’s spent his whole life learning one language only to discover you speak something entirely different.
“So no fella’s ever taken you out before?” he asks carefully.
“Not really.”
The answer comes without self-pity, just honesty and Bucky’s chest tightens unexpectedly.
“What d’you mean not really?”
You shrug lightly. “I suppose men don’t usually notice me that way.”
Bucky stops walking altogether, making you turn toward him curiously as he just looks at you in complete disbelief. At your soft mouth faintly lined with your lipstick, at your bright eyes, at the way strangers glance at you as they pass without you ever seeming aware of it.
“That oughta be illegal,” he mutters.
You laugh again, warm and startled and sweet enough to ruin him slowly.
Somewhere between the candy shop and the golden Brooklyn sidewalks and the way your hand still rests trustingly against his arm, Bucky realizes something unsettling, he stopped flirting for sport an hour ago. Now he’s doing it because he genuinely likes the way you smile when he speaks. Because he wants to keep hearing your laugh mingle with the evening traffic. Because watching you move through the world feels a little like standing near candlelight, soft and gentle and impossible not to lean toward.
And Bucky Barnes is not known for leaning toward things gently.
Which is how, sometime after you’ve finished your cannoli and the Whoppers box is tucked safely under your arm like it’s something fragile, you both turn a corner and run straight into trouble in the form of Steve Rogers and the rest of the Commandos.
They’re all there—loud, sprawling across the sidewalk like they own it.
“Barnes!” one of them calls immediately. “Where’ve you been?”
Then Steve sees you and something in his expression shifts instantly into knowing.
“Oh,” Steve says slowly. “Oh, that’s where.”
Bucky groans under his breath. “Don’t start.”
Another one of them whistles low. “Barnes buying candy for a girl? End times.”
Bucky, of course, straightens immediately, protective without thinking.
“Leave him alone,” you add gently, glancing between them. “He’s just being kind to me.”
The group goes quiet for half a beat, then someone mutters, “Kind?”
Steve’s mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Bucky, meanwhile, stops breathing properly, because you said it so simply. Like there was no other explanation, like the idea that he might be doing anything else never even crossed your mind.
He looks at you then and it’s unfair how easy it is to forget everyone else exists when you’re standing that close.
The Commandos keep talking behind him as they walk by, but Bucky doesn’t hear a word of it anymore.
All he hears is the soft cadence of your voice still echoing in his head.
Just being kind to me.
That word lands heavier than anything else today. Kinder than flirtation, kinder than charm, kinder than every practiced thing he’s ever used to get someone to look at him twice. He realizes, with faint shock, that he wants to be that to you. Not some impressive or smooth flirt, just kind.
Eventually Steve clears his throat loudly from behind you. “You walkin’ her home, Barnes, or standin’ there makin’ heart eyes in the middle of the sidewalk?”
“I am absolutely not makin’ heart eyes,” Bucky says automatically.
You glance up at him and his words die immediately.
“…We’re walkin’,” he finishes weakly.
“Good,” Steve says, already grinning. “Try not to break anything on the way.”
Bucky flips him off without looking away from you.
You don’t seem to notice the tension at all. Just adjust your grip on the candy box and smile faintly like this is still just a normal afternoon walk, and somehow that makes everything worse.
The walk to your building takes longer than it should.
Bucky slows down without meaning to and you match him perfectly.
Brooklyn shifts around you in its usual evening rhythm, windows glowing warm, radios humming behind curtains, the smell of dinner drifting out of open doors but between the two of you everything feels strangely contained.
“I had a very nice time today,” you say eventually, glancing up at him.
Bucky swallows. “Yeah?”
“You’re very kind.”
That word again.
It hits him harder this time, right in the center of his chest. He looks away for half a second, jaw tightening slightly like he’s trying to figure out how to respond to something he’s never been called before in a way that mattered.
“Kind,” he repeats quietly, like he's testing whether he deserves it.
You stop in front of your apartment building steps as the streetlamp above flickers softly, casting gold light over your face. For a moment neither of you moves, then Bucky shifts, suddenly more uncertain than he’s been all day.
“Can I ask you somethin’?”
“Of course,” you answer immediately.
He hesitates, this is the part where he usually knows exactly what to say, instead, he feels seventeen different versions of himself arguing at once. He steps closer without thinking, seemingly too close, making your breath catch faintly.
He notices it immediately, the tiny shift in your posture, the nervousness flickering across your face. You’re not used to this part. The closeness, the intention that comes with it.
“Sorry,” he says softer, almost immediately stepping back half an inch like he’s correcting a mistake he didn’t want to make, “I uh—.”
You exhale quietly, watching as Bucky drags a hand through his hair, looking away for a second like he’s regrouping. Then, carefully he speaks up.
“Can I do this properly?”
You blink. “Properly?”
He looks back at you then, all teasing gone for a moment.
“Can I take you out tomorrow night?”
Your eyes widen slightly.
“…Like a date?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter now. “Like a date.”
You look at him for a long moment, then your smile returns—small, but real.
“I think I’d like that very much.”
Something in Bucky’s chest loosens all at once, like a knot he didn’t know he was holding.
“Yeah?” he asks, almost stupidly.
You nod and that’s it, that’s all it takes. Bucky steps back, already grinning like he’s lost all sense of self-preservation.
“Tomorrow,” he says, pointing at you like he’s making a promise he fully intends to keep, “I’m pickin’ you up at seven.”
“I’ll be ready,” you reply softly.
He turns to leave, walking backwards for a second because he can’t quite make himself stop looking at you. Then he finally turns around properly after you give him a soft wave goodbye, and immediately starts grinning wider.
The Commandos are still waiting down the street when he finds them. Steve takes one look at his face and sighs.
“Oh no.”
Bucky doesn’t even try to hide it. He shoves his hands in his pockets, still smiling like an idiot.
“Fellas,” he says lightly, “I’m in serious trouble.”
Bucky doesn’t sleep much that night, at least not properly.
He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, replaying the day in fragments he can’t seem to organize into anything sensible. Your voice, your laugh. The way you looked at candy like it was something magical. And worse than all of it, powdered sugar on your mouth, cannoli cream on your lips and the way you’d apologized for it like it was a crime.
He turns onto his side, groans into his pillow, then sits up like the bed has personally betrayed him.
“Get it together,” he mutters to himself.
But the problem is… he is together.
That’s the issue. He just isn’t used to what it feels like when someone looks at him like he’s safe instead of interesting. So in the morning, Bucky Barnes does the only thing he can think to do, be a man of his word.
He decides to do it properly.
No shortcuts, no charm tricks, no easy grin and leaned-in confidence.
A real date.
Which is how Steve finds him hunched over a small, slightly chaotic pile of wildflowers behind a Brooklyn fence line.
“Are you pickin’ flowers now?” Steve asks flatly.
Bucky doesn’t look up. “Shut up.”
Steve leans against the fence post, arms crossed. “That for the girl?”
“Yes.”
“You know you could just buy ‘em like a normal person.”
“I don’t have money right now for fancy bouquets.”
“That’s not the point.”
Bucky finally straightens, holding the uneven bundle like it might fall apart if he breathes wrong. “It is to me.”
Steve studies him for a long moment, something softer flickering beneath the teasing.
Then he sighs. “You’re in trouble, pal.”
Bucky huffs. “Yeah. I said that already.”
But he doesn’t feel like running from it, not even a little.
By the time evening rolls around, he’s checked his reflection in every shop window he passes twice. He fixes his tie, adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, then immediately second-guesses it and smooths it back down again. The flowers are wrapped in paper he stole, respectfully stole, from a corner stand. They’re not perfect, a few stems are uneven, one bloom is slightly bent.
He hopes they’re enough.
Outside your building, Bucky pauses as he exhales once. Then knocks.
When the door opens, everything inside him stops. You’re standing there in soft light, hair pinned back neatly, expression shifting the moment you see him. And you light up like it’s involuntary.
Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second.
“Hi,” you say, smiling.
“Hi,” he manages back.
Then he lifts the flowers slightly, suddenly unsure of everything in the universe.
“Those are for me?” you ask, voice soft with surprise.
“Unless your neighbor’s awful pretty,” he says automatically.
You laugh, stepping forward immediately to take them.
“They’re beautiful,” you murmur, already burying your nose in them gently. “Oh… and they smell wonderful.”
Bucky watches you like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.
“I, uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Yeah. Picked ‘em myself.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Your smile softens in a way that makes him feel strangely proud.
“I’ll find a jar,” you say quickly. “Wait just a moment.”
You disappear inside, flowers clutched carefully to your chest like they’re something priceless. Bucky stays standing there in the doorway slightly stunned. He hears movement inside, cabinet doors opening, water running, your quiet little hum as you arrange them.
He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his cheeks start to hurt.
Before you leave, your sister appears briefly in the hallway. Older, sharper-eyed. The kind of woman who looks like she’s already decided what kind of trouble someone is before they speak.
Her gaze lands on Bucky immediately.
“Bucky Barnes?” she asks.
He straightens instinctively. “Yes, ma’am.”
She looks him over once then turns to you.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
You hesitate. “Of course.”
She pulls you aside just enough that Bucky can’t hear everything, but not enough that he doesn’t feel it. Her voice is lower when she speaks.
“Be careful." She says.
You blink. “What?”
“Boys like him don't settle down. Sure he’s charming and handsome, but he's just a sweet talker.” Her mouth tightens. “He just wants a good time, so don’t go getting your hopes up.”
Bucky can’t hear the exact words, but he sees your expression shift slightly and something in his stomach turns uneasy.
When you return, you’re still smiling—but quieter now, careful in a way you weren’t before.
“Ready?” you ask him.
“Yeah,” he says, though his voice comes out softer than he means it to.
Dinner settles into something Bucky doesn’t recognize at first.
It’s quiet.
Not empty, but softened around the edges like the whole world has decided to behave itself for once. Soft jazz drifts from somewhere near the ceiling, curling through candlelight and clinking silverware. The room hums with conversation that never quite reaches your table.
And for the first time all day, Bucky Barnes isn’t scanning anything. His eyes aren't darting around the room looking for exits or other women, something quick to catch his attention.
Just you.
You, sitting across from him with your hands wrapped around a glass of water like it’s something grounding. You, talking in that gentle, thoughtful way of yours that keeps catching him off guard. He realizes halfway through your story about your aunt’s ridiculous attempt at baking bread that he hasn’t looked away once.
Not once. And maybe worse, he doesn’t want to.
You laugh at your own memory, shaking your head slightly. “It was practically a brick. We had to slice it with a knife meant for meat.”
Bucky smiles without thinking. “Sounds dangerous.”
“It was emotionally damaging.”
That makes him laugh for real.
And then you smile back at him, that small, bright, effortless smile and something in his chest shifts again. Because he likes this, not the performance of him, not the usual rhythm of charm and response and winning someone over. He likes this.
You talking, rambling softly when you get comfortable, pausing like you’re thinking too hard before continuing anyway. And every time you say his name, Bucky, like it’s just another word instead of something that usually comes wrapped in attention and expectation he feels it settle somewhere warm and unfamiliar.
Bucky Barnes, who usually knows exactly what he’s doing with people, finds himself doing something far more dangerous, imagining. Not in a loud way. In quiet flashes between bites of food and sips of coffee, a small bouquet of flowers on a table that isn’t a restaurant, you at a kitchen counter, hair slightly messy, laughing at something he said. A door opening at the end of a long day and you looking up like it matters that he came home.
He shifts slightly in his seat, almost like the thought physically disorients him.
Impossible things.
And yet they come anyway.
After dinner, the night pulls the two of you deeper into Brooklyn’s glow. Neon signs flicker awake, streetlamps paint everything gold and blue. Somewhere down the block, music spills out of a club like a living thing.
“You seen the new picture show over on Fulton?” Bucky asks as you walk.
You shake your head. “No.”
“Then you’re goin’.”
You glance up at him. “Is that an order?”
“Absolutely.”
You laugh softly, like you’re still not used to how easily he says things like that. The theater is older with slightly worn velvet seats, the faint smell of popcorn and wood polish, flickering light that makes everything feel softer than it should. Bucky buys the tickets without hesitation, you try to argue but he ignores you in the best way possible.
Inside, you sit close but not touching. Close enough that he’s aware of you constantly, that every small movement you make registers like it matters.
Halfway through the film, something changes on screen, the lights dim all soft and emotional, the kind of scene that doesn’t need words. He feels you go still beside him and when he glances over, your eyes are glossy in the dim light.
You’re trying to be subtle about it. You are not succeeding.
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just reaches into his pocket slowly and pulls out his handkerchief and without a word, gently offers it toward you.
You turn toward him and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then you take it carefully, fingers brushing his and in the dark, you smile at him softly. Like he did something important without realizing it. Bucky looks back at the screen, but he doesn’t see it anymore, he just feels the moment settle between you like something fragile and real. And he never wants it to end.
The picture ends on a cliffhanger that has the whole theater groaning as the lights flick back on. Outside, the city opens up again. Cool night air, bright lights reflecting off wet pavement. The distant echo of music from clubs and cafés and street corners all blending into one living rhythm.
You walk beside him slowly, a little quieter now that the night has come to its end.
Bucky notices.
He glances down at you. “You alright?”
You nod. “Yes. It was… very nice.”
“Yeah?”
You smile faintly. “You’re very kind.”
That word again.
Kind.
It lands differently now. He doesn’t know why, maybe it’s the way you say it like it still surprises you, like it still feels new. Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but you stop walking. You've tried to fight it all night, tried to push the words far back into your head. But everything feels like a double edged sword, and if you don't do something now, you'll both get cut.
“I just…” you start softly, then hesitate.
He turns toward you fully.
You look down at your hands. “You really don’t have to pretend with me.”
Bucky blinks. “Pretend?”
You glance up, nervous now. “I know boys like you don’t mean anything by this sort of thing.”
Silence. It drops so fast it almost feels physical.
Bucky stares at you and for the first time all day, his expression isn’t teasing or amused or carefully controlled. It’s hurt, deep, immediate and unmistakably hurt.
“Boys like me?” he repeats slowly.
You realize instantly something is wrong.
“I didn’t mean— I just meant—”
He gestures vaguely between the flowers, the dinner, the theater still glowing behind you both.
“You think I do this with every girl?”
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Because you don’t know, you just assumed, because your sister said he’s Bucky Barnes and people talk about him like they know him before he even speaks.
“Sweetheart,” he says quieter now, but sharper in a different way, “I picked those flowers myself.”
You freeze and he exhales through his nose, looking away for a second like he’s trying to steady something in himself.
“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this.”
That hits harder than anything else tonight, you stare at him now, like you’re recalibrating something you thought you understood.
“But everyone says—” you start.
“Yeah. I know what everyone says.” Bucky cuts in immediately, voice low. "But I only do this unless I mean it."
The street hums around you both, cars pass by, music drifts on the wind, lights flicker in the distance. But between the two of you, everything feels suddenly suspended. The silence doesn’t leave right away, it just changes shape. It stretches between you and Bucky in the middle of the sidewalk, softened only by passing headlights and the distant laugh of strangers who don’t know they’re walking through something fragile.
Bucky doesn’t look away from you.
I don’t do this unless I mean it.
It should’ve sounded smooth and confident. Instead it just sounds… exposed. Because the truth of it sits heavier now that it’s out in the open. He watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to decide something about him, and for the first time all day, he realizes that matters. Not casually, not in the way flirting usually matters, but in a way that sits deep under his ribs and doesn’t move.
Your expression is quiet, thoughtful in that way you get when you’re trying to understand something honestly. He swallows once, then looks away briefly like the night air might help him think straighter, but it doesn’t.
It only makes everything quieter.
“I don’t like that,” he says finally.
You blink. “What?”
He gestures vaguely, frustration threading through his voice now—not at you, but at something older.
“What they say. About me.”
You don’t interrupt, you just listen and that alone is enough to make his chest tighten. Bucky exhales slowly, because this is new for him too. Saying it, not laughing it off, not playing it into something charming.
“People think they’ve got me figured out,” he says. “Think I just—” he huffs a short laugh without humor, “—go around Brooklyn collecting girls like it’s nothin’.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“And maybe I used to let ‘em think that.”
That lands differently in the air between you.
“But I’m tired of it,” he says quietly.
Bucky continues before he can talk himself out of it.
“Tired of it all blurring together,” he admits. “Tired of it not meaning anything.”
His eyes flick over your face again, more careful now, more intentional.
“And I think…” He hesitates, like the next part is the hardest thing he’s said all night. “I think I’m tired of not being taken seriously.”
That one settles heavier. You don’t speak yet. So he keeps going, because stopping now feels impossible.
“Maybe I don’t wanna be that guy anymore.” His voice drops slightly.
That guy. The one people assume things about, the one who never stays, the one who never gets understood correctly because no one bothers to look twice. The words hang there, raw and unpolished.
You shift slightly on your feet and when you finally speak, your voice is soft.
“What kind of guy do you want to be then?”
Bucky stills.
That question shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it does, the way you asked him like you really want to know, the way your eyes never leave his as he looks at you. The city lights catch your face in soft gold and shadow, painting the curve of your cheekbones, the faint red of your lips still slightly brighter from the theater lights, the way you stand there holding his honesty like it’s something you’re willing to carry for a moment without dropping it.
And something inside him clicks. Like a door deciding it’s been open long enough to let something new inside. Bucky takes a slow breath, then another and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter than before.
“The guy,” he says, nodding faintly toward you like the answer has been standing in front of him all night, “that gets to do this with you every night for the rest of my life.”
Silence falls again, but this one is different. It isn’t heavy or tense. It feels like something settling into place that neither of you fully understands yet, but neither of you wants to move away from.
Bucky doesn’t smile, not yet. He just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting to see if he’s gone too far. If he’s said too much, if the version of him he’s choosing now is one you can stand to look at. And for the first time since he met you in that candy shop, James Buchanan Barnes isn’t trying to win anything.
He’s just waiting.
For you.
"I think I'd like that."
Two months don’t feel like two months to Bucky Barnes.
They feel like a rhythm he accidentally fell into and never bothered climbing out of. Mornings start with the same thought: What time can I see her? Evenings end with the same realization: Not long enough. And everything in between just becomes space he has to get through.
He shows up at your apartment more often than he means to. Not in a dramatic way, just like he happened to be nearby. Which is a lie, he crosses half of Brooklyn for it.
“Bucky,” you’d say sometimes, opening the door already smiling, “you live nowhere near here.”
He’d shrug like it doesn’t matter. “Was in the neighborhood.”
“You were in the neighborhood three days in a row?”
“Brooklyn’s a big place, doll.”
You’d just laugh and let him in.
And that’s the problem. You always let him in.
Diners become routine. Milkshakes split between two straws that you pretend not to notice he always lets you have the first sip of. Walks that start with him offering his arm and end with your hand still resting there long after it’s necessary. Movie nights where you lean slightly closer each time you get nervous during a scene, and Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice how carefully you do it. Flowers every week. Sometimes wild. Sometimes bought if he could pinch it. Sometimes just picked from somewhere he absolutely shouldn’t have been picking flowers.
You always put them in a jar immediately. Always smile like they matter. And Bucky changes without noticing, he stops looking at other women entirely, not because he’s forcing himself not to.
Because he just… doesn’t see them the same way anymore. Not when you exist in his world now, softening all the edges.
Steve notices first, then the Commandos, then basically anyone who’s ever known him longer than five minutes.
“You’re smiling more,” Steve says once, watching him across a table.
“I always smile.”
“No,” Steve says, “you don’t.”
Bucky just shrugs. Because what’s he supposed to say? That he likes the way you say his name like it’s something you trust? That he’s started thinking about ridiculous things like whether you’d like a porch someday, or a kitchen with too much sunlight, or a life where he doesn’t leave as often as he does?
He doesn’t say any of it, but it’s there anyway.
Tonight, he’s early.
Which is stupid, because he’s always early now. He’s at the bar having a drink and smoke with the Commandos, but he’s not really with them.
He’s angled toward the door, elbow on the counter, sleeves already adjusted three times, hair smoothed back once, then twice, then abandoned entirely because it keeps falling anyway as Steve watches him with growing disbelief.
“You’re worse than a kid waiting for Christmas,” Steve mutters.
Bucky doesn’t look away from the door. “Shut up.”
“You’ve checked that door eight times in five minutes.”
“It might’ve changed since the last time I looked.”
“Bucky.”
“I’m busy.”
The door opens and he straightens instantly. Not you. His shoulders drop a fraction as he sits back down.
The teasing starts almost immediately.
“Two months huh?” one of them says, grinning. “This one’s got it bad.”
“Must be real good if Barnes is still around.”
“You finally settle down?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s a stupid softness to his mouth that gives him away immediately.
“Knock it off.”
The laughter builds.
“What’s the catch, Barnes?”
“C’mon, what are you gettin’ out of this?”
“Ain’t no way you’re behaving this long without somethin’ in return.”
Bucky exhales, finally turning fully toward them and for once, he doesn’t joke. Not even a little.
“Nothing’s happened between us yet.”
The table goes quiet. A beat. Then howling ensures.
“You’re kiddin’.”
“Celibate Bucky Barnes?”
“I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Someone nearly chokes on their drink.
Bucky shrugs slightly, like it’s not a big deal, but his voice goes quieter when he adds on.
“I like her.”
That shuts them up for half a second longer.
“I don’t wanna mess it up,” he says, “by goin’ in headfirst.”
And just like that, the teasing explodes again.
“Look at him.”
“He’s gone.”
“Man’s fighting for his life.”
“You hear this? Barnes is soft.”
Bucky laughs under his breath despite himself, shaking his head.
“Yeah, yeah—laugh it up.”
And that’s when it happens, the door opens again, Bucky doesn’t look right away still half-laughing, still mid-protest, then he hears the sound of the room shifting slightly.
Someone going quiet and he turns. You’re standing just inside holding your bag, still in your coat and completely still. Not smiling, not walking toward him. Just listening. For a second, Bucky doesn’t understand then he sees it. Your expression. Something flickering there, uncertainty, confusion, something tightening at the edges of your face like you’ve just heard something you weren’t meant to.
His smile fades immediately.
“Hey,” he starts, already pushing his chair back.
But you don’t come closer. You take one step back instead, then another, quiet and careful.
“Doll—” Bucky stands fully now.
But you’re already turning to leave, the door swings open, and you’re gone. He’s out of the bar so fast it barely feels like a decision. Brooklyn air hits him like a slap, cold, sharp, and real and for a second he just stands there, scanning the sidewalk like the world might give you back if he looks hard enough.
“Doll?” he calls.
Nothing.
“Hi.”
He turns.
You’re a few steps down the sidewalk, hugging your coat tightly around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together with it. Streetlight catches your face in soft gold, but it doesn’t soften the expression there.
Not really.
Bucky’s chest tightens immediately.
He crosses the space between you in a few quick steps. “Hey—no, hey, listen to me,” he says, already shaking his head like he can undo whatever just happened inside by sheer force of will. “Don’t listen to those idiots in there. They don’t know when to shut up.”
Your gaze flickers up to him, then away again just as fast.
“It’s alright,” you say softly. “Really.”
But it isn’t alright, not in the way he knows you mean.
Because your arms are wrapped around yourself too tightly. Because your smile is there, but it doesn’t reach anything. Because you look like you’re already somewhere farther away than the sidewalk you’re standing on.
And Bucky notices everything, too much, sometimes.
“Hey,” he says again, quieter now. “You ready to go?”
A pause.
“…Yeah.”
That’s it.
No teasing, no warmth, no easy rhythm. Just agreement, and it scares him more than anything else tonight.
It's all wrong.
That’s the only way Bucky can think to describe it. Brooklyn is still alive around you, windows glowing, distant laughter, the low hum of traffic, but between you and him there’s a silence that feels heavy instead of soft. He walks slower than usual without realizing it. You don’t take his arm, but your hand finds his anyway just barely. Just fingers brushing, then settling.
Bucky holds it like it’s something fragile.
He keeps glancing at you, waiting for you to look back, you don’t. You’re staring down at your joined hands instead, like you’re trying to figure something out in them. And your thoughts, if he could hear them, would be too loud.
Maybe your sister was right.
Maybe this was always going somewhere you don’t belong.
Maybe he’s just being patient because eventually he’ll expect more.
And maybe you’re already disappointing him.
Bucky doesn’t say anything. Because something about your silence tells him words might break whatever thread is holding you upright right now. So he just walks you home, step by step, closer than usual and quieter than ever.
By the time your building comes into view, something in you has tightened so much it feels like it might snap.
You stop walking, Bucky stops immediately with you.
“Buck…” your voice is barely above the street noise.
“Yeah?” He turns toward you fully.
You swallow hard. “Maybe… we shouldn’t do this anymore.”
Everything stops. Bucky freezes completely, like the words physically catch him mid-step.
“What?” he says, but it’s not sharp, more confused than anything.
You look down, finally letting go of his hand so slowly, like it costs you something.
“I don’t think I’m good for you,” you say.
That lands harder than anything else tonight. Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to understand a language he thought he already knew.
“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, “where is this comin’ from?”
You shake your head slightly, still not meeting his eyes.
“You deserve someone who can make you happy,” you say. “Someone better.”
Bucky lets out a short breath like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“That’s not—no,” he says immediately, stepping half a step closer before stopping himself. “No, that’s not how this works.”
You finally look up at him and whatever he sees there makes his voice soften instantly. Because you look scared. Not of him but of yourself.
“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, like it should be obvious.
You blink, once, then again. And then it spills out of you before you can stop it.
“I can’t make you happy, Buck,” you say, voice cracking slightly. “I can’t give you what you want, I can’t—I can’t… make you feel good.”
Silence hits again, but this time, Bucky understands exactly where it came from. His expression changes all at once, his frustration disappears, his confusion sharpens into something quieter. Something knowing as the pieces fall into place.
The Commandos. The bar. The teasing.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Babydoll…”
The way he says it now is different.
“I want you,” he says gently. “I’m happy with you just like this. None of that matters to me anymore, okay?”
Your breath shakes slightly but you don’t look convinced. Instead, something inside you finally breaks open.
“Well it matters to me!” you burst out, voice suddenly raw. “I want to, I just—I don’t know how. And I'm scared you're going to leave just because I’ve never—”
You stop but it's too late. Bucky goes completely still and everything clicks into place so fast it almost hurts. Why you flinch sometimes when he gets too close. Why you always hesitate before a kiss even when you want them. Why you look like you’re bracing for something you think you’re supposed to be able to give.
Why you’re standing here right now looking ashamed of something you never should’ve had to explain.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”
Your eyes are glossy now, but you’re still trying to hold it together. Bucky doesn’t move closer doesn’t rush you. Just stays right where he is so you don’t feel cornered.
“Your parents home?” he asks softly.
You blink, thrown slightly by the question.
“What? Oh… no. They went to my sister’s ballet recital. They won’t be back until later.”
Bucky nods once then gives you a small, warm smile and gently threads his fingers through yours.
“C’mon,” he says quietly, squeezing your hand just once, just enough to ground you. “Let’s go talk inside.”
Inside your apartment, everything feels quieter in a different way.
Not the heavy silence from outside but something softer, contained with warmth between you. You close the door behind Bucky like you’re sealing the world out, then immediately seem to remember yourself again, nervous energy flickering back in.
“Okay,” you say quickly, brushing a hand over your sleeve. “Um—this is the living room. Obviously. And that’s the kitchen, and—”
Bucky just watches you, following your voice like it’s something grounding. You move a little faster now, pointing things out like you need the space filled with words so you don’t have to think too hard about anything else.
“This is my mother’s glass cabinet, don’t touch that one, she’ll know, and—oh.”
You stop because Bucky is already in the kitchen holding two small glasses, and the apple brandy bottle.
He glances over his shoulder innocently. “What?”
You blink. “Bucky.”
He raises a brow. “What?”
“That’s my mother’s.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can,” he says simply, already pouring.
You let out a sound of disbelief. “You are unbelievable.”
He slides one glass toward you. “Relax, doll. I’ll replace it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is tonight.”
You stare at him for a second longer, then sigh, like you’ve decided arguing with him is pointless.
“Fine,” you say. “But you’re explaining this to her if she notices.”
“Deal.”
You hesitate, then take the glass anyway. That alone makes something in his chest ease.
You lead him toward your bedroom after that, slower now, more uncertain at the edges. Not running anymore, just settling. The room is small. Warm and lived in. A book on your bedside table, a folded sweater on the chair, soft lamplight that makes everything feel like it belongs only to you.
Bucky doesn’t sit right away. He just leans against the dresser, watching as you set your glass down carefully like you’re still trying to figure out what this moment is supposed to be.
You take a sip, then another. Waiting until your chest grows warm.
“I'm sorry about earlier,” you say quietly.
Bucky’s expression softens immediately. “What?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass.
“I’ve… never done any of this before.” You glance up at him, cheeks warm now. “I mean—anything like this. Dating. Being… like this with someone.”
Silence stretches gently. Then, more spills out, almost like you need to get it out before you lose courage.
“And you were my first kiss.”
Bucky goes still in a way that isn’t shock, it’s something gentler and more careful. You rush on quickly, as if afraid of what the truth might do in the open air.
“I just thought you should know. In case I’m—awkward. Or—”
“Hey,” he cuts in softly as he pushes off the dresser and steps closer, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to.
You don’t.
“Look at me,” he says gently.
You do and his expression is steady now. No teasing anywhere in it.
"You don't ever have to apologize to me. For anything."
“I like you a lot, Bucky,” you say suddenly, like it’s been sitting in you too long to hold back anymore.
Something in his face shifts immediately, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“I like you too, babydoll,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
You swallow. “I can’t promise it’ll be any good but—”
Bucky doesn’t let you finish, he leans in and kisses you. It's not rushed or demanding, just soft and gentle. Like he’s waiting for you the entire time, making sure you’re still there with him, still okay, still choosing this. When he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, your eyes are wide.
“Don’t…” he whispers, “don’t say that.”
You pause, slightly stunned by the kiss. “Okay.”
A beat, then, softer:
“Can I kiss you again?”
You hesitate only a second then nod.
This time, when he kisses you, it’s a little less uncertain, still gentle and patient. But warmer now, like something between you is finally starting to trust the moment instead of question it. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push for anything more he just stays close enough that you can decide how much you want.
And eventually, you do loosen up slowly. Like your shoulders finally remember they don’t have to stay tight. You laugh a little under your breath at something he mumbles against your lips, and he smiles against you in response. When you pull back again slightly, breath uneven, he rests his forehead briefly against yours.
“That okay?” he asks softly.
You nod again, then your voice goes quieter.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I do,” he says gently.
You huff a soft laugh. “That’s not really comforting.”
“It should be,” he replies, a hint of warmth returning. “I’m real good at not rushin’ things.”
And he is, he stays exactly where you need him to, no pressure behind his precense. Eventually, you end up sitting on the edge of your bed together, close enough that your shoulders brush. Your glass is forgotten somewhere on the nightstand and Bucky’s hand finds yours again without thinking.
"I want to try…" you can't make the words out with a deep red blush crossing your face. "And I trust you."
"Good." Bucky hums, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "We'll go slow."
When you shift slightly closer, he lets you guide the space between you, like learning something new together instead of taking anything from you. When your nose brushes his, you tug lightly at your sleeve, suddenly self-conscious.
“I feel like I should be… more dressed for this,” you admit quietly. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be wearing.”
Bucky looks at you like the question itself doesn’t make sense then he shakes his head slightly.
“Doll,” he says softly, “you could be wearing a potato sack and it wouldn’t matter.”
You blink at him as he leans in just a little, brushing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“Just you,” he says quietly. “That’s all I need.”
You nod as he kisses you again. The kiss started slow, almost hesitant, but the moment Bucky’s hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head just so, it deepened into something more. You'd heard of desire in life, how it can warp the thoughts and actions of even the most resilient. But this, this burning ebb and flow deep within you was something else entirely. It had to be. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, your body felt magnetized to his, pushing closer and closer until there wasn't an inch of space between you.
His lips were warm, insistent, and when he pulled back just enough to murmur against your mouth. "Can I touch you?"
You could only nod as his fingers traced a slow path down your thigh, the fabric of your dress bunching under his palm as he slid higher, his thumb brushing bare skin. You shivered, arching into him, your hands clutching at his shirt yearning for more.
Bucky smirked, catching your wrist. "Go ahead," he murmurs, guiding your hand down his chest.
Your thumb slipped beneath his shirt, your breath hitching at the hard planes of muscle beneath your fingertips. He was lean but solid, every ridge of his abdomen making your pulse jump.
His lips were still on yours when his fingers returned, teasing the damp fabric of your panties again. “Already this wet for me?” he mutters, voice rough against your mouth. “God, I can feel how hot you are through these.”
You whimper, arching into his touch. “Please, just—”
“Just what, sweetheart?” His thumb presses harder, circling your clit through the silk. “Tell me what you want.”
You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Touch me properly—God, Bucky—”
“That’s it,” he growls, hooking his fingers under the waistband, dragging them aside. The first slow stroke of his fingers through your slickness drew a choked moan from your throat.
“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He drags his fingers up, pressing them to your lips. “Taste.”
You sucked them into your mouth, eyes locked on his as you licked them clean, and the groan that ripped from his chest was filthy.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, sliding two fingers back inside you, curling them just right. “Love how tight you are, how you squeeze me.” His thumb circles you clit faster. “Gonna cum already? That quick?”
You couldn’t answer, nails biting into his shoulder as pleasure coiled tighter, sharper.
“That’s it,” he urges, voice dark with praise. “Cum on my fingers, let me feel it babydoll.”
Your hips jerk as you shatter, his name a broken moan on your lips. He didn’t stop, fingers still working you through it until you were gasping, oversensitive and trembling.
He didn’t let you catch your breath just yet, licking his fingers clean before hauling you to the edge of the bed. One leg hooked over his shoulder, his mouth hot and relentless between your thighs, tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit.
“One more,” he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh. “Bet you can take it.”
Bucky wraps an arm around you, splaying his wide hand across your stomach, sinking his tongue into the slit of your cunt, curling it before going back to flick your clit. He groans against you, muffled by your skin as his free hand comes up, the pads of his fingers pressing into you.
"So fucking good babydoll," he groans as he feels you rock against his lips and fingers. "Bein' such a good girl for me."
The pressure coils tight inside you, your chest rapidly rising as your words are reduced into nothing but messy mumbles of 'Bucky' and 'Please'. He doubles down on his efforts, closing his lips around your clit as he arches and scissors his fingers inside you, his eyes locked up on you as he watches you crest over your high. Back arching off the bed as your thighs clench on the sides of his head, trapping him right where he wants to be. He brings you down with a gentle kiss to your pulsing clit, easing his fingers out and licking them clean.
"That was so much better... than I ever thought," you pant, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Bucky hums against your inner thigh, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue flicks lightly over your oversensitive clit, just enough to make your hips jerk.
"Mm, you thought about this?" His voice is low, rough with amusement. "My sweet girl thinking dirty thoughts? Thinking about what it’s like to be touched, licked, 'nd fucked?"
You whimper as he teases you again, the words alone sending another shudder through you. His fingers stroke slow circles on your thighs, gentle but possessive.
"Tell me," he murmurs. "Tell me what else you imagined."
You barely have time to answer before his mouth is on you again, licking and sucking just right, his fingers curling inside you with practiced ease. The pleasure builds too fast, too much at once and you're cumming all over again, rolling through you in deep, relentless waves.
When it finally eases, you’re boneless, breathless, but still aching for more. A deep and burning need simmering just under the surface of your skin. "Bucky," you plead, voice raw. "Please."
He kisses his way up your body, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling back just enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. The sight of him, all hard muscle and dark hunger makes your pulse jump.
"Condom?" he murmured, fingers tracing the soft curve of your stomach.
You still, then hum to yourself. "Oh. I don’t have any."
"Shit," he breathes, biting his lip. "Do you think your sister has any hidden, or maybe your—"
"We don’t…" Your voice drops, gentle now. "I mean, if you’re okay with it… we don’t have to."
He goes utterly still above you, his pulse hammering under your fingertips. "You sure, doll? Docs say I'm clean as a whistle," he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.
"But I don’t wanna rush you into anything."
Your thighs press together instinctively, already aching again, needing more. "I’m sure, Buck. I trust you." You hesitate, then whisper, "And you can… pull out. If you want to."
A slow grin spreads across his face at your shyness, even as the hunger in his eyes burns hotter. "Okay, babydoll."
He kisses you again, deep and slow, one hand cradling your jaw like you’re something precious while the other guides himself between your legs. There’s no rush, just the thick press of him stretching you open inch by inch, his lips never leaving yours until he’s fully sheathed inside.
"Good?" he rasps against your mouth.
You can only nod, nails digging into his shoulders as he starts moving in long, unhurried thrusts that make your back arch off the bed. He licks into your mouth as his hips roll into yours, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit until you’re gasping, teetering on the edge. Every stroke hitting something deep within you that you didn't even know existed. A quick addiction began inside of you, something you wanted to never end.
Obscene sounds filled the room, the air thick with something sweet and warm and needy. Your hands never left his back, digging half crescents into his skin as you pleaded for more.
Then he stops.
You whimper in protest, but he’s already shifting, pulling out just enough to drag you onto your side. One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as he leans back, changing the angle completely. The first thrust punches a moan from your throat, it's all so much deeper now, his grip tightening on your thigh as he fucks into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips.
"Fuck," he grits out. "You take me so damn good."
Your hips rise to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, and the way your body clenches around him nearly makes Bucky lose it. His rhythm falters, a groan ripping from his throat.
"Fuck—you get so tight when I fuck you like this." He leans back just enough to let his gaze drop between you, his cock glistening with your slick as he drives into you again. "Go on, baby, look at it. You see that? Not a virgin anymore. Now you're all mine—you and this sweet pussy."
You're drowning in pleasure, barely coherent, but one word claws its way out of your throat.
"Harder."
Bucky obliges immediately, his thrusts snapping into you, the slap of skin echoing in the room. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
"Mm, wonder how I should give you your first load," he growls, voice thick with lust. "Should I pull out and paint that soft tummy? Or maybe these tits?"
He palms your breast roughly, thumb flicking over your nipple. "Maybe I should put you on your knees and cum all over your pretty face—"
"No!" You tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper with a frantic whimper. "Please—"
He chuckles darkly, sinking into you fully with a satisfied groan. "What, you want it inside?"
His next thrust is punishing, forcing a broken moan from your lips. "Sweet little pussy’s never been fucked before, and now she wants to be filled too?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, tilting your hips just right. "Greedy little thing."
You can only nod helplessly, your body wound tight around him, clenching and begging as Bucky fucks you toward over edge all over again. Even after he spills inside you, Bucky can't stop, won't stop, his hips grinding slow and filthy, milking every last drop deep into your fluttering cunt. His hands slide under your knees, folding you nearly in half, pressing your thighs toward her chest until you're spread obscenely open.
"Fuck, still so tight," he growls, watching where you're joined—his cock still buried to the hilt, your pussy dripping around him. "Touch yourself. Wanna feel you come again while I'm still inside you."
Your fingers shake as you rub frantic circles over your clit, oversensitive and whimpering, but you don't stop, can't stop. Bucky groans at the way your walls ripple around him, his thrusts turning shallow and possessive, forcing his cum to seep even deeper.
"That's it," he rasps, biting the side of your leg. "Make a mess for me."
You practially sob as you cum again, tears rolling down the sides of your face, cream mixing with his spend, leaking down to your ass as your body is overcome with wave after wave of pleasure. Bucky curses when he feels it, hot pulses of you squeezing him and suddenly he's hard again, slamming into you with a snarl as another orgasm rips through him.
Your legs tremble in his grip. Neither of you can move anymore, just wrecked and sticky and full, but Bucky still rocks into you lazily, refusing to pull out just yet.
"Fuckin' perfect," he mutters against your lips as he gently sets your legs down, your mixed spend leaking from your thighs.
The room soon goes quiet in a soft, yet heavy way. You feel your chest loosen with something new, something warm and gooey.
The lamp is still on. It turns everything gentle around the edges—the rumpled sheets, the scattered clothes on the floor, the faint sheen of warmth still clinging to both of you like the night hasn’t fully let go yet.
Bucky moves first, carefully untangling himself from the sticky warmth of your bodies pressed together. He leans over the side of the bed, rummaging blindly until he finds his pants on the floor, tugging them closer with a quiet huff.
“You stay right there,” he murmurs without looking back at you.
You’re already curled slightly into the sheets, watching him with tired eyes that still look soft around the edges, calm in a way that feels new.
He finds his shirt and brings it over to you, then pauses, thinking.
“Water,” he says to himself like it’s a mission.
He disappears into the small kitchen. You hear cabinets open, the faint clink of a glass, water running. When he comes back, he’s got a glass in one hand and something folded in the other.
He sets the water beside you first.
“Here,” he says gently.
You take it without protest, sipping carefully. Then he unfolds the cloth—damp, warm from the sink.
You blink at him. “What’s that?”
“For you,” he says simply.
And then, softer, “Just… stay still a second.”
He cleans your skin with careful hands, unhurried, like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be this gentle after everything. Like there’s no rush anywhere. Like the whole night has slowed down just for this.
You watch him instead of the ceiling now, he notices.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m doin’ something impressive.”
You smile faintly. “You are.”
That makes him pause for half a second, just long enough to look at you properly again. Then he shakes it off, like he doesn’t trust himself to sit in that feeling too long.
“Stay,” he says again, softer, and gets up.
This time he’s gone longer. When he comes back, there’s a cigarette tucked between his fingers and a lighter in his pocket. He pauses at the edge of the bed like he suddenly remembers something.
“…Can I smoke in here?” he asks, already sounding like he knows the answer.
You tilt your head slightly, thinking. “Probably not.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “That a no?”
“A probably no.”
He nods like he respects that, then immediately does it anyway but not in a careless way. He walks to the window, opens it wide, letting in the cool night air. The city noise spills in—distant traffic, laughter somewhere far below.
He leans out slightly, lights the cigarette, and inhales once before exhaling into the open air. You watch him from the bed, curious despite yourself.
“That smells… strong,” you say.
Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Yeah. That’s the point.”
A pause, then you sit up a little. “Can I try?”
That makes him turn fully now.
“Doll,” he says slowly, like he’s deciding whether to be responsible or curious.
You just look at him expectantly.
He exhales through his nose. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He crosses back to the bed, hands it over carefully. You take it like it’s something delicate as he watches you.
“Just… small inhale,” he instructs gently. “Not like you’re drinkin’ air.”
You try and immediately cough. Bucky laughs softly, not teasing, just amused and leans in quickly, patting your back once.
“Easy,” he says. “Easy, sweetheart.”
You glare at him between coughs. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “It is.”
But you still try again, more carefully this time, and he guides you with quiet patience until you manage it without immediately dissolving into another fit of coughing.
“There you go,” he murmurs, almost proud.
You hand it back to him, shaking your head slightly. He takes another drag, then leans back against the windowsill while you curl into the sheets again, watching him instead of the ceiling now.
After a moment, you let out a small laugh to yourself.
Bucky notices immediately. “What?”
You shake your head, still smiling. “Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
You glance up at him, amused. “I was just thinking… I’ve had brandy, cigarettes, and lost my virginity all in one night.”
Bucky freezes for half a second, then exhales a laugh, low and disbelieving.
“…Yeah?” he says. “Well. How d'ya feel?”
You nod, still smiling like you can’t quite believe it yourself. “I think I’ve been corrupted by Bucky Barnes.”
That gets him fully now, he turns toward you properly, cigarette forgotten for a moment in his hand.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, a little softer now. “What’s the verdict?”
You look at him for a long beat, not a hint of shyness glinted in your eyes.
“I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
Bucky’s expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with charm and everything to do with something deeper settling into place.
He puts the cigarette out and tosses it out the window, crawling across the bed to you, and leans down just enough to catch your face in his hand.
“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips.
You smile against him. “You were trouble first. I was sweet as can be."
Synopsis: Jack’s tact for handling your tendency to take on the most volatile patients in the hospital is muddled slightly by your habit of ending up in his bed after a shift.
Warnings: more patient violence, very much closed-door smut (18+), concussions, mentions of being shot. Will NOT make sense if you don’t read first part soz
A/n: I’ve been literally possessed by this story buckle up
masterlist!
——
Just as Jack signed off on the report to the hospital administration about your attack, you’re required to submit a physician’s statement to his police department about his injury.
“Fuck,” you suddenly say, thinking about the report later that week.
“What?”
“I forgot to put that you refused a Plastics consult in my statement. Do you think I can still amend it?”
His groan vibrates against your neck. He mutters a “Jesus Christ” just for good measure, before he pulls back to level you with a look.
Your hooking up had started shortly after you treated Jack’s injury — you were a woman after all, one who was evidently pretty transparent, and it took everything in you not to bite down on Jack Abbot’s thumb in the middle of that South room.
Jack, perceptive as he is, gave you another chance to do so at his place the very next day after shift, and you really haven’t left besides for your shifts since. You need to text Javadi to water your plants, another mental note you file away for later, trying to focus back on the task at hand.
The task, in the form of your shirtless attending freshly roused from post-shift sleep and slotted in between your legs, is quite needy.
“That’s really what you’re thinking about? Right now?” Jack says, pitching himself up. He settles back onto his haunches, your bare legs thrown over his thighs.
“You won’t let me look at it,” you remind him, chin jutting out at his right shoulder. “Who knows what’s going on under there.”
Your hand had caught on the bandage, scrambling for purchase as his mouth had worked at your neck just moments ago, causing you to revisit the statement in your head.
You’d redressed his wound only yesterday after showering, and it had looked fine. Even better, there didn’t seem to be any internal damage after all, evident in the way he had woken only minutes ago, snatched your phone from your hands to set it on his bedside table and basically mounted you, kissing you like he needed to breathe you in in order to start waking up for the evening.
So the bullet graze probably is fine, all things considered. As you gaze up at him, his hands rubbing rhythmically over your thighs, his chest lightly heaving, his lips wet and his skin flushed in the afternoon light peeking through his blackout curtains — you maybe wish you’d have kept that thought to yourself.
But there’s just something about Jack that disables you from resisting a chance to mess with him.
“It’s fine,” he says, exasperation in voice not at all matching the way his hands start to paw at your panties. “Will you shut up now?”
“You first,” you say, one of your feet pushing on his shoulder.
“I’m really trying, baby.”
He manhandles your legs, finally slipping your panties off like he’d been attempting to for minutes now, casting them somewhere behind him haphazardly.
He bears down on his stomach, and you set your legs over his shoulders, scooching down in anticipation, not that you need to with the way his arms wrap around your thighs.
He presses a kiss to your inner thigh when your hand fists into his hair. He really needs to shave today, you realize, but your mouth falls shut when he levels you with another scorching look.
Only with his best efforts are you able to forget about the bandage on his shoulder that’s rubbing at the back of your calf.
—
“Last thing. Kind of a fun one. We have a football player from Pitt in Central 6,” Robby says at sign-out a few weeks later. “Surely concussed but refusing an exam all the same. Team doctor wanted him brought in to rule out a hemorrhage.”
“Linebacker?” Crus asks, brows furrowed.
“Tackle,” you say assuredly, beaming when Robby nods, a wry smile on his own face.
“All 280 pounds of him,” Robby sighs. “Coaches are a piece of work, too. McKay and Langdon had no luck. Santos didn’t have time. You want in?”
“Henderson,” Jack singsongs. “That’s all you.”
Crus doesn’t look surprised at all, walking off with a mere nod to the three of you as you stand dumbfounded, glancing between the two attendings.
“I don’t wanna hear it,” Jack says as soon as your moth drops open.
“But—”
“You picked up plenty of patients at rounds, did you not? Go start on them,” he says, finishing up reassignments on his tablet, letting it clatter to the desk at the central hub unceremoniously when he’s done.
“Whatever,” you say, pushing past him.
Jack guesses he’ll pay for that later, that you’ll probably text him at some point before 7am that you were going to ride the bus home and pick up the laundry you’d left in his dryer later, but in this moment he doesn’t care.
He could practically feel you vibrating with excitement as soon as Robby had presented the case — it was the exact kind of thing you thrived going right up against. You loved a tough case to solve, and you weren’t wary of them — and certainly not scared.
But your medical prowess does not in Jack’s mind override the way you’d looked when he saw that patient’s fist make contact with your face a few weeks back. When he can’t sleep, replaying the moment over and over again, he’s glad the gap in his blackout curtains that used to piss him off illuminates his bedroom enough that he can roll over and see that your face kept no memory of the incident, unlike his own mind.
“Whaaat are you doing, man?” Robby says quietly.
“You don’t like how I assign my residents?” Jack says, sniffing.
He’s looking at the board, not at Robby, but he can picture his friend raising his eyebrows in expectation, letting the silence drag with intention.
“Did we not both review her paper on missed concussion diagnoses in EDs last year?” Robby asks. “This is right up her alley.”
Jack shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not setting her up for anything that could go wrong until she cools off from that golf cart DUI last month.”
“Until she cools off or you do?”
“She’s a spitfire.”
“And a damn good doctor.”
“No one said otherwise.”
“You can’t protect her from everything, you know,” Robby says quietly, Jack suddenly acutely aware of the nurses around the hub who might be listening. “Emergency medicine can be messy, uncomfortable, dangerous. But she won’t be able to handle it if she doesn’t get to practice. Unsavory patients are part of our everyday.”
But Robby hadn’t even been there, had he? Hadn’t ran his hands through your hair inspecting for bumps and bleeds on your scalp, hadn’t helped slow your breathing by measuring it against his own — ragged, uneven in its own right — until it steadied, hadn’t wiped blood off of your chin or done a neurological exam all while his own heart pounded.
No — Robby just got to stroll in undisturbed hours later, giving you a quick once-over and a chin-check that made Jack’s hand flex near your forearm when Shen let everyone on day shift know your patient was violent.
“She can handle chaos,” Jack says, omitting the very inconvenient fact that he does not want you to. Ever again if he has anything to say about it. “But it’s like she runs toward it.”
Robby chuckles. “That sounds like someone I know.”
Jack is silent, tapping away at his tablet again mindlessly, pulling up imaging he doesn’t even need to look at.
“My last piece, and then I really need to get the fuck out of here,” Robby says, exhaustion curling around his words. He scans Jack’s face in the way that strips him to his core — something only his best friend has been able to do up until very, very recently. “If you’re worried about her bedside manner that’s one thing, and it’s on you to teach her. Which you know. So something tells me that might not be it.”
“I told you it’s casual,” Jack bites out.
“But it’s obvious, brother,” Robby answers. “You can’t send every scary lookin’ guy that comes through those doors over to Crus.”
“He knows I will,” Jack says. “We discussed it.”
Robby purses his lips, nodding slowly as he zips up his jacket, collects his coffee mug, then slaps Jack on the shoulder on his way out. “You are so fucked.”
—
You know what Jack is doing.
It hadn’t bothered you too much at first; nobody is going to complain about being pulled off of the rotating list of drunken frat boys and frequent flyers on the night shift board. You’d treated enough acute alcohol toxicity in men who couldn’t respect you less to last you a few lifetimes, so you’d been able to overlook the principle of Abbot downgrading your caseload, insulting your medical license, whatever you wanted to call it. Until it started to become egregious.
And not to mention embarrassing — poor Crus would mutter “sorry” every time he walked past you, wheeling a bed you both know you should be running with. He brought you in on patients whenever he could, which you were thankful for. It surely broke up the soul-crushing monotony of infected ear piercings and kitchen-injury sutures you were growing used to to these days.
But Crus was still just an R3 like you, and if you were gonna get even close to circumventing Jack’s authority — which you’d ironically really begun to enjoy in other contexts — you were gonna have to bring in the big guns.
“You want me to do what?” Shen asks, disinterested.
“Can you just put me on a good one? One good one. I’m so bored,” you beg. “And you know he’s sidelining me, Shen.”
You put on your best pout, the one that works half the time on Robby and always on Jack.
“Put that away,” he sighs, turning around to crane his neck up at the board. “Why don’t you go hop in on the football player?”
Your ears perk up immediately. “Wait, really?”
He shrugs. “Well, I don’t want it. Crus still can’t get consent for the exam, but they need a physician to sign off for their head coach or something stupid like that.”
“But Abbot said I couldn’t.”
“I’m not sure if I’m more offended that you’re forgetting I’m also your attending in this moment or shocked you haven’t just taken me at my word and ran over yet,” Shen says, assessing you with minor disdain — but it’s not hovering, micromanaging, suffocating attention. You owe him a cold brew for sure.
“But I’ll let you take it from here,” he finishes, shooing you away with an actual flick of his hand. “So don’t make me regret it.”
You fast-walk it to the room, not even needing to check the board for the number with the way you’d been sneaking glances into the room all day, trying desperately to get a pulse on how everything was going, your curiosity burgeoning every time Crus would emerge, shaking his head at you.
With one last look over your shoulder, you make sure your other attending is nowhere to be found before taking a deep breath and knocking on the door, shoulders back.
“Mr. Williams?” you greet, stepping into the room, pressing the pump by the door for sanitizer.
“Mason’s fine,” he greets, sitting up on the bed.
“Mason it is,” you say before introducing yourself, then clicking into his chart on your tablet. Again, not that you need to. “What’s going on?”
“I’m gonna cut right to it, ma’am,” a Southern accent from the corner of the room drawls. “You are about the fifth doctor we’ve seen today, and none of them have been able to send us on our way.”
“It’s getting late. Our boy here’s got practice at 6am,” the other coach says, checking his watch.
The two men, red-faced and exhausted, stand shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed. Matching hats and polos — you already know you’re going to wind up biting your tongue so hard it bleeds if they stay in your vicinity.
Jack won’t like that, you think off-handedly.
Your eyes flicker back to Mason, allowing you to realize for the first time just how accurate of a descriptor “boy” is. He was only 18, you remind yourself, frowning as you glance back at his chart.
“Would you two mind giving me a second with the patient?” you ask, turning back to Mason’s coaches.
“Why?”
“Just protocol,” you answer, tucking your tablet behind your back, standing up straight. “Standard of care, really. His right to privacy.”
You know you pushed it too far with that last bit, but you couldn’t help tacking it on. You’d immediately felt a titled stage upon entering the room, and you’ll bet anything Mason’s refusal has everything to do with the coaches reminding him of practice in a few hours.
“I want to get him home, and um, back on the… field as much as you two do,” you awkwardly add, attempting to soften it. You think of Jack again, his words about your mouth echoing in your head.
You might have to use the pout Shen had just grimaced at on these two — you had a suspicion it’d work.
“It’ll be super quick,” you continue, opting for placating diplomacy. “Promise. There’s coffee in the break room.”
They look at each other before nodding, some unspoken agreement passing between them, then exit the room, only to remain standing right outside in a way that makes you want to roll your eyes.
“Alright,” you sigh, finally pulling up a stool. “Where are you from, Mason?”
—
“Dr. Henderson, we really need that Pitt player’s bed.”
Abbot looks up, glancing between Lena and Crus, who just sighs. “I got nowhere. Maybe she’ll have better luck. Sorry.”
“You tap Ellis in?” Abbot asks off-handedly, his mouth twisting up at the backlog of charts populating his workstation’s display.
He looks up when he hears your name.
“Come again?” Jack says.
“Shen gave it to her,” Lena supplies. “She’s been in with the patient for half an hour.”
At the same moment he stands, Jack sees you emerge from the room he thought he made extremely clear to everyone that you weren’t allowed anywhere near tonight.
But you’re smiling — more than contentment, victory — as you approach both of the coaches waiting outside, exchanging a few words before nodding and keeping on your way.
The feelings Jack has about you directly defying him don’t even have time to spring to the surface of his mind when he sees one of the men reach for you, a paw-like hand gripping your forearm tightly.
“Out,” Jack barks immediately, his feet moving him around the desk, backlog of charts forgotten in an instant. “You’re out of here.”
He feels Crus at his back and hears Lena call for security, the hum of the ED quieting slightly at his outburst.
“Woah, woah, woah,” the other coach says, holding up his hands defensively as Jack approaches. “Let’s all calm down a bit. Simple disagreement.”
Jack’s not sure if you’d wrenched your own arm free or if the man had let you go after the threat of security, but you’re rubbing at the skin of your forearm as you wedge yourself in between himself and Crus, who make just enough space for you to pass between them — you all know the drill.
“Patient finally consented to the exam. Definitely concussed,” you say quietly as you pass by Jack, your head turned to him just slightly. “And I ordered a CT.”
“Good,” he says, his eyes drifting down to where you’re holding your arm. “You okay?”
You nod, giving him a tight smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. He doesn’t know what to do with his anger right now, but he knows he can’t set it on you.
“You did the neuro exam?” he asks instead, his eyes still trained on your arm.
You nod. “I was just going to finish charting it.”
“Have someone look at your arm,” he says. “And then go do that.”
As Shen, who’d come along with one of the night shift security guards, enters the mix, Jack watches from the corner of his eye as Crus follows you behind the central desk, nodding at him wordlessly as he winces.
—
You’re laid up in Jack’s lap the next evening, trying your best to enjoy a day off with the heartbeat that’s steady at your back, and the scruffy jaw that catches in your hair when he absent-mindedly presses his lips to your crown. Some action film series that had been on all day, barely paid attention to by either of you, drones on in the background of his living room.
“You gonna let me see now?”
You burrow down further, hoping the warmth of your body weight might be enough to assuage him. You feign interest in whatever movie really is playing — a car explodes, and you lose it immediately.
It’d been a gamble coming here after shift this morning, one you would’ve been wise not to make in hindsight. Jack hadn’t even asked if you wanted to come over, was the thing — he never really did. Sure it was unspoken in the way your car had been at your apartment untouched for days, your Tupperware were stacked neatly next to his coffee cups in his dishwasher, your skincare cluttering his bathroom counter, a duffel of your clothes tossed on a chair in the corner of his bedroom.
But he still never assumed at the end of shift that you’d be in his passenger seat — always extending the invite and then leaving it up to you, but slinging your bag over his shoulder in the parking lot as soon as you confirmed.
Halfway through your shift you thought there was no chance in hell you’d be here today, sick of his riot act and eager to move on. But bone-deep exhaustion and an ache in your arm had sent you right into his, barely a thought spared for how his disappointment in you might manifest as you walked beside him in the parking deck.
“Nothing to see,” you say simply.
“You didn’t shower with me and have been wearing a long-sleeve for 12 hours, so I know that’s not true,” he says.
“I knew you wouldn’t let me actually wash up,” you try weakly, knowing it’s futile and that Jack has learned you love nothing more than sitting astride his lap on the ledge in his shower after a long shift. “And it’s cold in your house.”
Before you can react, he grabs at your hand, his other hand hooking a finger into your sleeve and pulling it down to your elbow. The line of purple around your forearm isn’t serious, and it doesn’t hurt anymore, but he sighs against you all the same.
He’s reaching around you, stroking at the discolored skin with his thumb, his lips against your hair still. “I knew this would happen.”
“Yeah, well—”
“You don’t learn.”
You tug your arm free, and his hold breaks immediately. Your frustration grows, finally recognizing how overly-gentle he’s been in the last day. You feel claustrophobic in his hold, pushing yourself up and turning back to him, pretzeled between his legs.
“He got the CT and the team doctor is putting him in concussion protocol,” you say. “That’s all that matters. Way too much fuss over nothing when he wasn’t even aggravated.”
“His coaches clearly were,” Jack says.
“And that’s my fault? I’m not supposed to treat a patient because men can’t control their emotions when it comes to college football?”
“I didn’t say that,” he says. He pushes himself up to sit against the armrest of the couch. His gaze is steady, eyes full of disappointment, condescension — you can’t even tell at this point. It makes you want to retreat into yourself, so you do, scooting further away from him, sleeves tugged firmly over your hands.
“So what are you saying, then?” you ask.
“I didn’t assign you to that case for a reason.”
“And yet he went home about an hour after I saw him. Did he not?”
His mouth pulls up to the side. “And I had to fill out your second incident report in six weeks. You’re — You’re purposefully missing my point.”
“No one else got even close in the eight hours Mason sat in that room. He was dizzy, disoriented, slurring — not to mention being watched like a hawk two men who couldn’t give less of a fuck about whether or not he’ll have CTE in five years,” you plead. “You’re missing the point. He’s a kid.”
Jack furrows his eyebrows. “Don’t try and act like you were taking up some noble cause now when both know you just wanted to piss me off.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t insult my intelligence in front of all of my colleagues by putting me on MS3 cases,” you bite out. You feel hot tears pressing against the back of your eyes, and your bottom lip wobbles as you realize you’re for the first time really not enjoying fighting with him. “And d-don’t flatter yourself.”
You see the moment his face changes, when his defense crumbles as a tear escapes your left eye before you can catch it. You hate it — you hate how easily he gives up, how he lays down his arms because he thinks you’re vulnerable. When he can see your weakness.
Jack had never done that until you were attacked the first time. And you’d never had an issue controlling your emotions in front of him until then either.
But he’d somehow removed himself as a thorn in your side over the last few weeks and rather annoyingly instead burrowed himself into a new spot in your chest.
“I didn’t mean—”
“No,” you say, too loud for the room, standing up suddenly, feeling unsteady on your feet. “No. Fuck you, Jack.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Don’t,” you whisper, turning your face from his view. The last thing you need is him seeing the impact the term of endearment has on you.
Your eye catches on camo — his SWAT jacket on the coat rack by his front door, right next to your fleece jacket you wear to beat the AC’s chill in the ED, both of your work bags resting on the wooden shoe organizer beneath them, the dorky trail runners you make fun of him for deposited right next to your blue sneakers.
“I’m sorry,” Jack says, and you tear your eyes away, facing him again. His throat bobs as he swallows.
“You’re a hypocrite.”
You turn on your heel, beelining toward his bedroom, grabbing your bag from the chair and throwing as much of your shit as you can inside before he can follow you down the hall. His place had acquired far more of your things than you can even fit in the bag.
You shimmy a pair of scrub pants on, the first thing you can find to cover your bottom half, realizing belatedly that they’re his, the waistband not quite right.
“I’m a hypocrite?” Jack asks, darkening the doorway on his crutches.
“You’re blaming me for trying to do my fucking job,” you say. “Meanwhile, you’re the one running around getting shot at as an extracurricular.”
Jack sighs audibly as you continue into his ensuite, grabbing all of your cosmetics off of the counter and shoving those in your bag, too.
“That’s not remotely the same thing.”
“No? Seems like risk-taking behavior to me,” you accuse. You double back to the doorway he still occupies, your chests nearly touching. You see his eyes tracking the lines of tears you’d accidentally let out as you walked down the hallway. “We had a deal. Am I wrong?”
“Yeah? And who’s holding up their end?”
“Neither of us, I guess,” you say, adjusting the obnoxious drawstring in your pants again, hiking your overnight bag further up onto your shoulder, praying your expensive hair oil isn’t currently leaking all over your clothes. “Move.”
But Jack doesn’t budge, leaning directly into your face as you try to pass him.
“No. You wanna know what’s risky?” he asks, goading you to make eye contact, brows furrowed in frustration, that same look down his nose that makes you feel pathetic.
“I don’t wanna hear—”
“Fucking my resident,” he says. “That’s risky.”
Your words die in your throat. You wonder if you’d misheard him, seeing as he cut you off, but your mind immediately replays the way his lips formed the words, the harshness of his statement rattling around in your skull, and you know he’d said it.
It hangs in the air until your palm finds his chest.
You know you’re crying again, because he moves easily out of your way.
“Don’t worry about it then,” you choke, leaving him in the hall.
You don’t hear the click of his crutches as you grab the rest of your stuff by the front door, slamming it shut once you’re outside.
For all of his hovering at the hospital, Jack hadn’t even followed you down the hall.
jack abbot x fem!resident!reader word count: 9k warnings: medical inaccuracies, age gap, slight power imbalance (technically he’s her boss), miscommunication, angst w happy ending, past spouse death mentioned, emotion vulnerability, sexual innuendos, oral (fem receiving), MDNI note: this may be the longest fic i’ve ever written. just two idiots in love with major miscommunication (just talk it out already omfg) also, episode 13 abbot return soon!!!!😝😝
the room smells like sweat and your laundry detergent. your chest is still rising a little too fast, the sheets twisted around your legs, your hair sticking to the side of your face. the ceiling fan hums above you, slow and uneven, pushing warm air around instead of cooling anything down. jack’s hand is still on you. his muscular body is splayed beside you. he’s breathing heavier than he’ll admit to later, breath hot on your skin. his chest lifts once, twice, before he drags in a quieter breath and finally comes back down to earth.
you turn your head toward him, watching him instead of the ceiling. his jaw is tight—it always is after you’re done. “you okay?” he asks, voice rough, like it had to fight its way out of his throat. his speckled gray and white curls are sweaty, clinging to his forehead. you fight the urge to run your fingers through them.
you let out a soft laugh, still a little breathless. “i think so.” his thumb moves against your skin in soft circles and it’s enough to make you ready for round two.
for a second, neither of you says anything. it’s not awkward—it never is—but it’s not easy either. it’s that weird space in between you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist for months now. you shift slightly, turning more onto your side so you can see him better. his hazel eyes are already boring into yours when you turn. your breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away. these are your favorite moments. the haze of post-sex and soft gazes.
jack exhales through his nose and sits up. there it is. just like clockwork the mattress dips, the air shifts, and suddenly you’re alone even though he’s still right there. he runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, before reaching down to grab his boxers off the floor.
you watch him. you don’t even try not to. “where are you going?” you murmur just loud enough for him to hear. you don’t even need to ask anymore, yet, you still do.
“we’ve got a shift in a few hours,” he replies, already reaching for his pants. “probably should get a decent nap in.” he keeps his eyes on his clothes, focusing on getting dressed rather than facing you.
you push yourself up onto your elbows, sheet slipping down your naked torso without you noticing. “you could always nap here.” it comes out light, like you don’t care either way (you do).
he pauses, and you wonder if for the first time in forever, he’ll take you up on the offer. his hand stills where it’s halfway to his shirt. his shoulders tense just slightly before he keeps going, pulling it over his head. “i sleep better at my place.”
your stomach sinks. stupid, stupid girl. it’s such a normal answer. practical, logical, and very him. you nod anyway, even though he’s not really looking at you. “right. yeah. makes sense.”
he glances over then, like he’s checking your reaction without wanting it to look like that. you’re already reaching for the edge of the sheet, fixing it around yourself, pretending you didn’t just offer him something that felt a little too close to asking him to stay.
“i’ll see you tonight,” he adds, like it’s enough to lift your spirits.
you hum, nodding once. “yeah. see you.”
he grabs his watch off your nightstand, fastening it around his wrist. your eyes track the movement automatically. you notice stupid things about him. the way he’s always precise and controlled, especially now.
he steps closer to the bed again and your heart does something annoying in your chest. the feeling is something hopeful and something you immediately hate. he presses a kiss to your lips. it’s soft enough to distract you for the meantime. after a beat too long, he pulls away. “get some sleep,” he murmurs, ruffling your hair with his hand.
you nod again because what else are you supposed to do? he turns, grabs his keys, and heads for the door. there’s no hesitation. no looking back. he used to look upset he had to leave. that affection faded sometime between the last few months.
the door shuts with a quiet click, and just like that it’s over. you sit there staring at the spot where he was standing like he might walk back in and say just kidding, i’ll stay. but of course he doesn’t. you let out a slow breath and fall back against the mattress with a thud, staring up at the ceiling again. the fan is still spinning in its useless way.
your skin still feels warm where he touched you. your apartment still smells like him. which doesn’t soften the blow. you drag a hand down your face, exhaling sharply. “so stupid,” you mutter to yourself, voice muffled against your palm. this was your idea—you have to remind yourself that daily. well, you didn’t propose the idea officially, but you let it happen. days like this, no questions asked, no expectations, and absolutely no labels.
casual was the way he preferred to describe it. he said it to robby once after he asked what was going on between you two. you were standing right beside him, looking at him with both hope and curiosity. then he used that six letter word, and you deflated like a balloon. but you didn’t argue against it. so, you don’t have the right to feel like…this.
you turn onto your side, facing the empty space beside you. your fingers brush against the sheets, still faintly warm. you press your lips together, eyes stinging. “it’s casual,” you whisper, reminding yourself of the rules. you close your eyes, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. the worst part isn’t that he left. it’s that you already know he’s going to walk into the hospital tonight, look at you like nothing happened, joke with you like nothing happened, and you’re going to let him.
“fuck,” you curse, keeping your eyes up to stop the tears from falling. your fingers scrunch the sheets, gripping them hard enough to hurt. get it together. “you agreed to it,” you mutter, reminding yourself one more time before attempting to get some sleep.
~
stepping through the ambulance bay doors of the PTMC always feels like a fever dream. like stepping out of the hospital at the end of every shift leads you right back through those automatic doors. a coffee is tucked into your hand, hair pulled back, and a neutral smile gracing your lips. it’s become easy to pretend like you didn’t spend half your afternoon staring at your ceiling, trying to convince yourself you’re fine. you tuck your bag under the desk and log in, fingers moving automatically across the keyboard.
“you’re early,” dana notes from beside you, not even glancing up from her screen.
you shrug, scanning the board. your leg bounces rapidly under the table. “couldn’t sleep.” it’s not a lie…just not the full truth.
“join the club,” she mutters.
you hum in response, already pulling up your first chart. “what’s the damage?”
“room four’s been waiting too long and is about to bite someone’s head off, six is chest pain, eight’s a disaster-”
“when is eight not a disaster?” you mumble, grabbing a pen and mentally preparing yourself.
dana snorts. “fair.”
you’re halfway through reading when the doors swing open. you don’t even have to look. your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulders tightening just slightly, grip on your pen shifting, something low in your stomach pulling tight.
jack abbot walks in like he always does. his strut is steady and grounded. the emergency department chaos bends around him instead of the other way around. he’s clad in a black scrub top, sleeves pushed up, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck. his hair is still a little damp. you hate that you notice that. his eyes sweep the department once, before landing on you. his face stays blank, but his eyes are intense as ever. he looks away before you can react.
“abbot,” dana calls, lifting her chin. she looks him up and down, not impressed (she never is).
“dana,” hearing his voice is like tasting water in a desert. he sounds normal. like maybe he spent his time outside of work alone, or doing something productive. like he didn’t leave your apartment a few hours ago with your taste still on his mouth.
you swallow, forcing your eyes back to the screen. don’t make it weird. he steps up to the station a second later, fingers drumming against the counter. “what’ve we got?”
you glance at his fingers, then at him. he’s already looking at you. he’s good at this. no tension. no hesitation. just that same slightly amused look he gives you every shift. you clear your throat. “room six. chest pain, fifty-eight year old male. ekg’s…not great.” you keep your eyes on the screen, a subtle way to evade eye contact. he leans in slightly to look at the computer, shoulder brushing yours for half a second.
“not great how?” he asks. you can smell his shampoo and conditioner, the same ones you use when you’re over his place.
you click through the results, pointing with your pen. “st elevation in the inferior leads. troponin’s pending but i’m not waiting on it.”
he nods once, focused now. “good.” your chest warms at that.
“cath lab?” you ask.
“yup. page cardiology,” he says, already straightening. “let’s not waste time.”
“on it.” you pick up the phone, dialing quickly, slipping into that rhythm you know too well. you don’t think about him. when you’re working, you have no time to think. that’s one perk of being apart of the medical field.
by the time you hang up, he’s already halfway down the hall, calling out orders, pulling a team together and teaching med students. you watch him go for a second longer than necessary.
“eyes forward, doctor,” dana murmurs under her breath. her eyes are narrow, looking you up and down like she did to abbot before.
you blink, snapping back to your screen. “i was looking at the board.”
“mmhmm.” she hums. you can’t get anything past dana. she’s seen it all, and knows it all too well. “well, i’m out of here. gotta go before i’m pulled back in.”
“sleep well,” you blow her a kiss as she shuffles out the doors. when the doors close, you watch her grab a cigarette. you chuckle, shaking your head.
the next hour moves fast. patients come in, patients go out. you send out orders, labs, reassessments. you’re moving constantly, barely sitting, barely breathing, exactly the way you like it. it drowns everything else out.
“hey.” you turn at the sound of his voice. jack’s standing a little too close again, tablet in hand, looking at you like he’s been talking for longer than you realized. “you with me?” he asks, brow lifting slightly.
you run a hand over your face. “yeah. sorry. what?”
his mouth twitches. “i asked your plan for room four.” he crosses his arms over his broad chest. the same broad chest that you littered with hickies just hours befor—
right.
focus.
“uh, probably gallbladder,” you say, pulling the chart up on the computer. “pain after eating, radiating to the back, she’s nauseous-” you list the symptoms on your fingers. he watches you as you talk. “i was thinking ultrasound to start,” you finish.
there’s a beat before he nods. “good call.” you exhale softly, tension easing just a little. “you look tired,” he adds, shifting seamlessly between work and personal. it catches you off guard.
you shrug, keeping your tone light. “couldn’t sleep.”
his gaze lingers on you. “join the club,” he mutters instead, echoing dana from earlier.
you huff out a small laugh. “original.”
“i try.” he smiles sweetly. his dimples poke out from his cheeks. ugh you love those dimples.
for a moment, you just stand there, staring at each other. then, someone calls his name from down the hall and the bubble bursts. “abbot!”
he glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “don’t let four crash on you,” he says, already stepping away.
you roll your eyes. “no promises.”
“that’s reassuring.” and he’s moving on to the next thing.
you stand there, staring at the chart in your hands. your chest feels…tight. not in a bad way either. you always react like this to him. this is what he does. he’s kind and attentive. he listens to you, trusts your judgment, jokes with you like you’re the easiest part of his day. and none of it is supposed to mean anything more than that. it’s starting to hurt.
“you good?” lena asks, glancing over her thin glasses. she tucks her red bangs behind her ear while the rest of her hair stays pulled back into a ponytail.
you nod quickly, already busying yourself with the nearest object. “yeah. just tired.” your hands land on a pen. you click it repeatedly.
she nods and hums, not convinced. you know she means well, but you can’t look at her. if she’s looking at you with that knowing look, you might just break down, and that’s the last thing you need. so, you don’t look at her. you don’t look down the hall where he disappeared. you just keep working.
~
central seven smells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. burns always do that. you’re standing at the bedside, gloves snapped on, eyes scanning the injury while the patient talks a mile a minute. adrenaline will do that to you. she’s in her late thirties, maybe early forties. pretty in a put together way, even with her hair slightly frazzled and her voice pitched a little too high.
“it was the pan,” she’s saying, wincing as you gently adjust her arm. “i didn’t even realize how hot it was until—god, it hurts.”
“i know,” you murmur, voice steady. “you’re doing great. just keep your arm still for me, okay?”
she nods quickly, eyes flicking between you and him. jack stands on the other side of the bed, gloved hands resting lightly against the rail, watching you work. he’s quiet, letting you lead, only stepping in when needed. it’s natural when you work together.
“second-degree,” you say, glancing up at him briefly. “no blistering yet, but it’s heading there.”
he nods once. “agreed.”
your shoulder brushes his when you shift closer to the patient. you pretend it doesn’t register. the patient, unfortunately, does not. “are you two always this in sync?” she asks, a breathy little laugh slipping out despite the pain.
you offer a polite smile, already reaching for more gauze. “we try.”
jack huffs quietly, something amused in it. “she’s the one doing the work.” he praises and your warmth blooms in your chest.
“team effort,” you correct, not looking at him.
“sure,” he agrees, but there’s that low, teasing tone. the same one he uses in more private situations.
you clear your throat slightly. “i’m gonna grab the silvadene,” you say, stepping back. “be right back.”
he gives you a thumbs up. “i’ve got her.”
you slip out into the hallway, the noise of the department swallowing you up again. it takes maybe two minutes max to grab what you need, maybe a little longer because you stop to answer a quick question from a nurse, scribble an order, check a lab.
when you push the door back open with your hip, you pause. the patient is smiling. not the tight, pained smile from before. she has that admiration in her eyes. the same type you have when you look at him. jack’s standing a little closer than he was when you left. not inappropriate—never that—but closer. one hand braced near her arm, the other adjusting something on the tray.
“guess i’ll have a pretty good scar to show off, huh?” she’s saying, voice lilting.
jack glances up briefly, a small, smile tugging at his mouth. “we’ll try to keep it minimal.”
“mm,” she hums, eyes lingering on him a second too long. “well…if i need a follow-up, i wouldn’t mind seeing you again.”
your stomach drops. he doesn’t react the way you do. of course he doesn’t. he just chuckles. “always happy to treat a patient again.”
you step further into the room, setting the supplies down a little harder than necessary. “okay,” you say, voice back to clinical and controlled. “let’s get this dressed.”
jack shifts back immediately, giving you space without question. you focus on the burn and the steps. on anything but the way the patient keeps glancing between you and him.
you finish quicker than usual. “i’m going to have someone else take over from here,” you say suddenly, pulling off your gloves and tossing them in the bin.
jack raises a brow. “you don’t have to-” he starts.
“dr. ellis is better with burn care,” you cut in smoothly, already stepping toward the door. “i’ve got a few things i need to catch up on anyway.”
jack isn’t the only one with oddly reasonable excuses. he studies you for a second longer, forehead creased from confusion. “ok.” he’s reluctant to say.
you ignore the weird twist in your chest at that and step out into the hallway, already scanning for parker. “ellis,” you call, waving her over. “can you take over nine? second-degree burn, i’ve started dressing it but-”
“yeah, of course,” she says easily, already snapping on gloves and heading in.
“thanks.” you don’t look back. you don’t look at jack. you just keep moving.
~
the rest of the shift blends together. you throw yourself into it harder than usual. you pick up more patients, more notes, more anything to keep your brain too busy to circle back to that room. to the way he didn’t-
you stop that thought before it finishes.
by the time things finally start to slow, the clock creeping toward the end of your shift, your shoulders ache and your eyes burn from staring at screens too long. you’re hunched over the computer, typing out your last note, when a familiar presence settles beside you.
“you’ve been avoiding me.”
your fingers still for half a second. then keep typing. “have not,” you murmur, voice absent of its usual warmth.
jack leans his hip against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “mm,” he taps his fingers next to your keyboard.
you finish the sentence you’re on before finally glancing up at him. “i’ve been busy.”
“you reassigned my patient.” there it is.
you shrug, turning back to the screen. “parker is better with that stuff.”
“since when?” he huffs a laugh, shaking his head.
“since always,” you say a little harsher than you intend. you take a deep breath before continuing. “and i had to catch up on charting,” you add, clicking through another tab.
you can feel him looking at you. “everything alright?” he asks, leaning close enough that you can feel heat radiating him. that almost gets you.
you force a small smile, glancing up at him again. “yeah. why wouldn’t it be?”
his gaze lingers. searching for something. “just asking,” he says finally.
you nod once. “well, i’m good.”
no one talks for a moment. he shifts slightly, looming over you while you try to work. you swallow, skin burning from his gaze.
“you wanna come over tonight?” he pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “or…we could go out or something.”
your heart stutters. of course that’s what he follows it up with. he says it like it’s nothing. you should say no. you should say you’re tired. you should say you have plans. you should say literally anything that puts space between you and this thing that keeps pulling you back in.
instead, without thinking, you say, “uh, sure.” and the cycle continues.
his mouth twitches slightly, something satisfied flickering there before he looks away. “i’ll text you when i get home,” he smiles.
you nod, turning back to your computer before he can read anything on your face. “okay.”
he lingers. then pushes off the counter and walks away. after he’s out of sight, you sit there, staring at the screen without really seeing it. once again, you bring it onto yourself.
~
his couch dips under your weight. the leather is worn in just enough to feel lived in but still structured. everything in his place feels like that. modern decorations, muted colors, nothing unnecessary. you’re sprawled across it, back pressed into the armrest, one leg hooked loosely over his shoulder.
he’s between your legs, hands holding your thighs to keep you open. your fingers are tangled in his curls before you realize you’ve reached for him. “jack-” it slips out, breath catching halfway through his name.
he hums against your skin, low and satisfied, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. he’s taking his time on purpose. he always does this. his thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin, and it’s enough to make something uncomfortable settle in your ribs.
you let your head fall back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut, chest rising too fast. “you’re-” you cut yourself off with a shaky breath, grip tightening in his hair.
he moans in response, not letting up. just keeps going until your voice breaks and your body follows, tension snapping all at once. your climax hits hard. you arch as a breathless sound falls from your lips. he stays between your legs, licking you entirely clean before coming up for air.
you’re still catching your breath when he shifts up beside you, one arm sliding around your waist, tugging you into him like it’s second nature. he wipes your slick off his mouth and chin with his arm, licking his lips clean. your cheek presses against his shoulder, his skin warm, steady.
his hand comes up to your arm, fingers brushing lightly over your skin, slow and absent. “have fun?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it is anywhere else.
you huff a quiet laugh, still a little dazed. “yeah.”
he hums, like he expected that answer. his thumb keeps moving against your arm. up, down. up, down. it’s stupid how that alone makes you feel woozy. “you want something to eat?” he asks, turning his head slightly toward you. “i’ve got-” he pauses, scratching his chin. “i don’t know. something. probably.”
you smile. “yeah, i-” your phone buzzes against the cushion beside you. you glance over without thinking, reaching for it. a name you haven’t seen in a while lights up the screen. your face softens instantly.
no way you’re still alive. drinks?
you let out a small laugh, the sound light and surprised. “oh my god.” you type back quickly, thumbs moving without much thought.
next to you, jack stills. every muscle in his body tenses. his throat bobs as he swallows. he tries not to care, but that sound—that giggle—is reserved for him. his hand slows against your arm before stopping completely. “what?” he asks, attempting to sound nonchalant:
you shake your head, still smiling at your phone. “nothing.” you don’t mean it like that. you really don’t.
his jaw tightens just slightly. “doesn’t look like nothing,” he rasps, memorizing the cracks in his wooden floors.
you shrug, setting your phone face down on the cushion. “just a friend i haven’t talked to in a while.”
“mm.” he doesn’t ask who, and it eats him alive. something green and fiery pits in his stomach.
you sit up slightly, pulling away just enough to reach for your jeans draped over the arm of the couch. “actually,” you clear your throat, trying to stay normal, “i might meet them out tonight.”
the words ring in his ears. his hand drops from your arm. “tonight?” he repeats.
you nod, sliding your phone into your pocket. “yeah. i haven’t seen them in forever.”
he watches you now. “thought you were staying,” his tone is flat. his mind is anything but. the mere thought of you meeting another person—possibly a man—for a drink has him seeing red.
you pull your shirt back on, smoothing it down like it gives you something to do. “i was, i just—this came up.”
he leans back slightly against the couch, arms resting along the back, posture more stiff than it was a second ago. “right.”
“it’s not a big thing,” you add quickly. “just drinks.”
“with…?” he trails off, like he doesn’t want to sound like he’s asking. his fingers drum against the leather of the couch. he wanted this.
you hesitate for half a second too long. “just friends,” you say again, not feeling like explaining.
he nods curtly. “got it.”
silence settles around you. you grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, suddenly very aware of the space between you now. how fast it showed up. he watches you pack up your things with no argument. his eyes follow your every movement like glue.
part of you wants him to fight. to tell you to stay. to tell you he needs you. when those phrases don’t come, you sigh. “i’ll see you tomorrow?” you offer, hovering near the edge of the couch.
“yeah,” he mutters, coughing lightly. “see you.” it’s the same tone he used this morning. like letting you go doesn’t cost him anything.
you linger anyway. just for a second. long enough that it almost means something. if he wanted to, he’d fill the space. maybe say your name, tell you to stay, give you anything to hold onto. but he doesn’t. you swallow, forcing a small smile as you turn toward the door.
you don’t look back this time. you know better now. for what feels like the first time, the crack in the canvas isn’t just something you imagine, it’s something he’s choosing not to fix.
~
the next time you step into the pitt, something is different. you’re smiling, and it’s not forced or fake. it’s real. you’re talking to princess, laughing at something stupid she says, coffee in hand, shoulders not as tight as they usually are at the start of a shift. you feel good. which is rare enough that you don’t question it too hard.
“you’re in a suspiciously good mood,” princess raises a brow, eyeing you with a grin.
you shrug, taking a sip of your coffee. “saw some old friends last night. i had fun.”
she snorts. “no way. taking time away from that casual relationship?” she lingers on the word casual, rolling her eyes.
“believe it.” you don’t elaborate. you don’t mention the drinks, the loud music, the way it felt to be something other than a resident for a few hours. to laugh with friends without checking the time. to not worry about him.
three feet away, jack notices everything. he got to work early just to see you walk in. his heart stutters as he watches you talk animatedly. you’re smiling—genuinely smiling. the sight sends goosebumps down his spine. you used to smile like that when you first started seeing him. how, he’s used to something more closed off.
he watches you longer than necessary before forcing himself to look at the labs on the screen. he lasts about ten seconds before looking at you again. you’re talking, explaining something to a med student, gesturing with your pen, that same easy smile still sitting on your mouth like it belongs there. it shouldn’t bother him, but it does.
the last twenty-four hours have felt…off. your texts came slower and often with shorter messages. he sent one this morning, sweet and teasing. he asked about your night (even if it made him clench his teeth at the thought). it took you three hours to respond, and all you sent back was good. no follow up. no teasing. no nothing.
he was the one to call it casual first. he meant it when he drew that line. so why does it feel like you’re the one pulling away now?
robby glances past him, toward you, and then back again, something knowing flickering in his expression before he drops it. “right,” he sighs, slapping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “well i’ll see you in about twelve hours.” he salutes before walking off.
jack exhales through his nose, humming and sending him a wave goodbye. he drags a hand down the back of his neck before pushing off the counter. he steps into a case, then another, falling into work the way he always does. it should be enough to keep his head clear. it was working for most of the shift. that was until he heard your laugh.
it cuts across the department, soft and sweet. he looks up before he can stop himself. nick barker, head of radiology, stands too close in proximity to you. he’s leaning against the counter like he’s got nowhere else to be, one arm braced beside you, posture relaxed in. he’s practically melting into you.
“i’m just saying,” nick’s grinning, tone light, “if you’re gonna question my read, at least buy me dinner first. make it worth my time.”
you huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “your reads are questionable on a good day, barker. i’m not rewarding that.”
“harsh,” he says, but he’s smiling wider now. “i like it.” his eyes drag slowly up and down your figure. jack’s molars grind.
you roll your eyes, clicking through the scan on your screen. “i’m sure you do.”
he leans in slightly, looking at the monitor, but it’s not the screen he’s focused on. it’s you. “so what’s the verdict, doc?” he asks, attempting a seductive tone. jack wants to see if he keeps that tone while he smashes his fist into-
breathe.
you tilt your head, studying the image. “small bleed. nothing crazy, but it’s there.”
“mm,” nick hums, still close. “good catch.” you glance up at him, and there’s that smile again.
jack feels something shift. his breathing labors. he looks away because he doesn’t like what that does to him. he doesn’t like that it bothers him at all. he agreed to this. no expectations. no exclusivity.
you laugh again, quieter this time, at something nick says under his breath. that gets him. he grips the closest counter to him, knuckles going white. it’s nothing. you’re just talking and being polite as usual. but when you barely looked at him all night. when your texts have gone quiet. when someone else is grabbing your attention—that’s when it feels like something else.
across the room, shen follows his line of sight and snorts under his breath. “yikes,” he mutters.
jack doesn’t respond. he just exhales slowly, forcing his attention back to work even though he imagines the sound of barker’s nose cracking under impact from his fist. he grips the counter harder to keep him from doing something beyond stupid.
he doesn’t get to feel this way—he reminds himself for the tenth time—not when he’s the one who made sure it stayed casual. yet, his eyes flick back to you. as much as he tries to keep it simple, nothing is ever simple when it comes to you.
~
the shift drags after that. the cases aren’t necessarily harder and the workload isn’t overwhelming. it’s the usual mix—some chest pain, a drunk guy with a busted eyebrow, a kid with a fever that has two terrified parents hovering like satellites. you mind your business, keep to yourself and try your best to get through the shift.
on the other hand, jack’s senses are heightened tenfold. he notices that you don’t linger near him at the desk anymore. that when you pass each other in the hallway, your shoulder doesn’t brush his the way it usually does. that you talk to everyone the same way you always have, but when it comes to him, you keep it strictly clinical.
“cbc and cultures,” you say at one point, handing him a chart without looking up.
he takes it. “already ordered.”
“good.” you murmur and that’s it. just work.
the distance sits in his chest like something heavy. when he thinks about it for too long, his eyes sting and his throat hurts from breathing harshly. and just to add onto it, nick barker keeps wandering back over. it’s not constantly. not enough that anyone could call it obvious. but it’s enough to have jack spiraling.
you still don’t flirt back, but you laugh and answer him a little too comfortably for jack’s liking. by the time the shift finally starts to wind down, the exhaustion has settled into his bones. twelve hours of adrenaline wearing off leaves him irritated.
the locker room is quiet when he walks in. most of the nightshift has clocked out already, leaving few lockers full. you’re already in there when he walks in. your back is to him, tugging your hoodie over your scrubs, hair falling out of your clip as you pull your bag from the bench. he just watches you. he does that a lot. it’s hard not to.
he exhales through his nose and drops his own bag onto the bench with more force than necessary. you glance over your shoulder. “long shift,” you say lightly, tone neutral.
“yeah,” he mutters. he starts shoving things into his bag, movements harsher than usual. the silence stretches for a moment. you zip yours closed, and that’s when he says it. “so what—was he the ‘friend’ you met out with last night?”
you freeze for half a second. you think you imagined the sudden outburst. slowly, you turn toward him. “…what?”
jack doesn’t look at you right away. he’s still digging through his locker. “barker,” he says flatly. “that who you were out with?”
your eyebrows pull together. “are you serious right now?” you scoff, crossing your arms.
he finally looks at you then. “just asking.”
you let out a small, incredulous laugh. this is classic coming from him. “you’re not asking. you’re accusing.”
“am i?” he shoots back, voice deepening. you swear steam is rushing out of his ears. his hair is tousled, probably from running his hands through it. his eyes are dark, like he didn’t get a wink of sleep. you haven’t seen whatever version of jack this is.
“yeah,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “you kind of are.”
he huffs, hands clenching by his sides. how can you not see it? how do you not understand his views? the thoughts only fuel his fire. “looked pretty cozy out there tonight.”
your eyes widen slightly. “cozy?” you sputter. “jack, what are-”
“laughing at everything he says,” jack interrupts with a growl. “letting him lean all over the counter-”
“oh my god,” you cut him off, disbelief bleeding into your voice. “are you actually jealous right now?”
the word hits something. his shoulders stiffen. “i’m not jealous.” he says quickly—too quickly.
“jack-”
“i’m just saying it looked a little-”
“no,” you shake your head before he can finish. “don’t do that. don’t pretend that’s not exactly what this is.” his mouth presses into a thin line. “you flirt with people all the time,” you continue, voice rising slightly. “patients, nurses, literally anyone who walks through the door.”
“that’s not-”
“it is,” you snap. “i’ve seen it.”
“i’m just being polite.” he mutters each word.
“and i’m not?” you raise a brow. “no one can be polite except for you?” you stifle a laugh. ridiculous.
“i’m not the one who went out with someone else last night.” he blinks rapidly, like he’s fighting emotion. his throat bobs after he says it.
silence fills the room. the overhead lights flicker under the tension. your eyes widen slightly, mouth falling slightly agape. “i was with my friends!” you’re quieter now. you don’t need volume to show how mad you are.
he doesn’t stop, just rolls his eyes. “doesn’t matter. you couldn’t even text me back, but you had time to go out drinking?”
“you don’t get to say that,” you fire back.
“why not?”
“because you’re the one who wanted this to be casual,” you say, the word coming out harsher than you mean it to. “remember?”
his chest rises slowly. “i never said you could-”
“no,” your voice cracks as you shake your head. “you just made it very clear there were no expectations.” the room feels smaller now. “so what,” you continue, voice quieter but cutting deeper, “now suddenly you care who i talk to?”
jack runs a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging at the curls. “that’s not what i said.” his teeth sink into his bottom lip.
“it’s what you meant.”
“you’re twisting this.” he holds a hand over his mouth before dragging it down. his stubble scratches his hand.
“oh, am i?” you shoot back incredulously.
footsteps near the entrance of the room grow closer before you can finish. robby steps inside, mid sip from a coffee. he immediately stops when he sees…whatever this is. his eyes flick between the two of you. jack standing rigid near the lockers. you looking like you’re two seconds from throwing your bag at him. “…wow,” robby mutters, closing his eyes.
neither of you notice. or maybe you do, but you’re too upset to care. “you don’t get to be mad at me for moving on with my life,” you mutter.
“moving on?” jack repeats, huffing a chuckle.
“yes.”
“from what?”
you blink at him. “exactly,” you say quietly.
jack opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. his chest heaves with every breath he takes. “how dare-”
robby exhales loudly. “okay,” he sighs, stepping between you. “both of you get some air.” he claps his hands together like a mother separating two children. neither of you move. “seriously,” robby adds, voice firmer now. “this is a hospital, not couples therapy.”
jack scoffs while you shake your head. you sling your back over your other arm harshly. “forget it.” you mutter, pushing past them toward the door.
“hey-” jack starts, reaching for your wrist. his hand falls short of your arm and you don’t stop. your heavy footsteps echo through hospital as you leave.
that leaves just jack and robby in the room. robby slowly looks at jack. “…casual, huh?”
jack stares at the closed door with his jaw tight. “yeah,” he mutters through clenched teeth. the word sounds a lot less convincing now.
~
three days pass in stubborn silence. friday night ends with raised voices and slammed lockers. no one apologizes. no one reaches out. saturday passes. then sunday. both of you check your phones more than you’ll admit to. both of you type messages that never get sent. stubbornness wins every time.
monday night comes slower than it should. the pitt is alive when jack walks in, the department humming under the harsh fluorescent lights. patients complaining, nurses exchanging updates, the board already full curtesy of the day shift.
though, he notices it the second he steps through the doors. you’re not there. you’re almost always one of the first residents on shift. clad in your colorful undershirt, coffee in hand, already scanning the board. jack usually comes in a few minutes after with his bag slung over one shoulder, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. he likes the routine of walking in and spotting you.
now, as his eyes flick instinctively to the usual spots—the workstation, the trauma bay, and the corner where you tend to hover when reading a case over. nothing. his jaw tightens. it’s dumb, the way disappointment creeps in so fast. it shouldn’t matter whether you’re there yet or not. people run late. people get pulled into things. he tells himself that as he drops his bag into the locker and heads out toward the floor. still, he keeps looking.
ten minutes pass. then twenty. you still haven’t walked through the doors. he checks his watch too often, paces back and fourth between stable patients, and pinches the bridge of his nose enough times to bruise. he’s leaning over the counter, staring at the doors as if you’ll magically appear when lena cuts in.
“you’re early.” she hums, smacking gum in her mouth. he glances over his shoulder. lena’s setting her bag down at the desk, tying her hair back into a loose knot as she looks at him.
“could say the same to you,” he mutters.
she shrugs, pushing her bangs back. “early bird gets the worm.” the contents in her bag clack as she reaches for something. jack makes an absentminded noise of agreement, eyes drifting back toward the entrance again. her mouth twitches slightly as she follows his line of sight. “she’s not here, you know?”
his shoulders stiffen just enough to give him away. “who?” he feigns innocence.
lena gives him a look that says don’t be stupid. “your resident.” she narrows her eyes, tilting her head.
he exhales through his nose, turning back to the screen. he clicks into the login, flashing his badge like muscle memory. “i have multiple residents.”
“yeah,” she says dryly, “but you only stare at the door for one of them.” she huffs a laugh. jack doesn’t respond. lena scans the board, tapping a pen against the desk. “she took a couple days.”
that gets his attention. he turns fully now. “what?”
“oh, now you know who i’m talking about,” she tsks with smug grin. he scoffs in response. “called out,” lena continues. “sunday morning, actually. said she needed a few days. scheduled off tomorrow too.”
jack blinks once, trying to shuffle the words together to make sense. “she sick?” he asks.
lena shrugs. “didn’t sound like it.”
his stomach sinks. the events of friday night flood his mind. the way you stormed out before anyone could stop you. how tired and angry you sounded. the slight crack in your voice at the end of the argument. he drags a hand down the back of his neck, feeling a dull weight settle in his chest. he hears his own words again—jealous, and so, so stupid.
was he the friend you met out with?
the look of hurt that flashed across your face, and how that hurt turned into anger quickly.
lena’s watching him now, quiet for once. “you two okay?” she asks.
jack looks away immediately. “fine.”
she doesn’t believe that for a second. she nods slowly, “right,” she raises her brows.
he nods once, already turning back toward the computer like the conversation’s over, but the screen blurs in front of him. two days. you took two days.
way to screw that up.
~
across the city, monday night looks very different. your apartment is quiet. the curtains are half drawn, thin streaks of the sun set slipping through the gaps and stretching across the floor. you haven’t moved much since yesterday…or the day before that.
your phone sits face down on the nightstand. you told yourself you wouldn’t check it again. you checked anyway. the outcome was the same as before—nada. no messages. no calls. no apologies. you would rather him reach out to argue more than to just ghost you.
you stare at the ceiling, blanket pulled up to your chin, eyes swollen and raw from crying so much your body eventually just ran out of tears. you feel ridiculous. you’re a doctor. a grown woman. someone who handles trauma cases and dying patients without falling apart. yet, somehow this relationship (if you can even call it that) wrecked you.
your throat tightens again. “god,” you whisper hoarsely, dragging your hands down your face. the argument replays in your head whether you want it to or not. the jealousy. the accusations. you swallow hard, staring at the wall. “you knew what this was,” you mutter to yourself, but the words don’t help.
you didn’t mean to fall for him. you didn’t mean to care this much. now you feel stupid for every second you let yourself believe he might care the same way. you turn onto your side, curling tighter into the blankets.
outside, the city keeps moving, while you stay stuck. what’s worse is that jack has no idea you’re lying there, crying into your pillow, wondering if you just ruined the best thing you’ve ever had.
~
the next morning, your body wakes up before your brain does and for a few blissful seconds you forget everything. that’s until the ache in your chest reminds you. you groan softly, shifting under the blanket. the couch cushion beneath you dips awkwardly, and it takes a second for your brain to remember why you’re here instead of your bed.
last night you finally got up after spending most of the day rotting in your room. you brushed your hair, washed your face, and tried to feel like a functioning adult again. it lasted maybe twenty minutes before the tears came back. so you grabbed a pint of ice cream, curled up on the couch, and put on the stupidest, sappiest rom coms you could find. you cried through three of them before exhaustion eventually dragged you under.
now the tv is still on, volume low, playing the end credits of something you don’t remember finishing. an empty ice cream container sits crooked on the coffee table beside a crumpled napkin. your face feels puffy. your throat still burns faintly from crying. you stare at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle over you. you would’ve stayed there forever had you not heard the knocks.
knock knock.
your brain doesn’t fully register it at first. maybe it’s a neighbor. maybe you imagined it. you sit up slowly, blanket sliding down your lap.
knock knock.
this time it’s louder. yup, definitely real. you frown, glancing toward the door. nobody ever comes here unannounced. something deep in your body clenches. you push yourself up off the couch, wincing as your stiff neck protests. your bare feet pad quietly across the floor.
knock.
“geez, learn some fuckin’ patience,” you groan under your breath, reaching for the door, and peaking in the peephole, heart dropping straight into your stomach.
jack stands in the hallway still in his scrubs. his hair is more disheveled than usual, curls flattened slightly on one side. faint shadows sit under his eyes, the kind that only show up after a long shift. in one hand he’s holding a coffee carrier. in the other, he’s holding flowers with a small box of chocolates tucked awkwardly under his arm.
you stare at the door like it might bite you. your pulse starts racing.
“i know you’re home,” his voice calls through the door, tired but unmistakably his. “your car’s outside.”
you close your eyes for half a second. your hand hovers over the lock. part of you wants to pretend you’re not here. the other, bigger part is already turning the handle. the door creaks open slowly.
jack looks up immediately, his shoulders dropping slightly. “hey,” he says softly. you don’t respond, just blink. you probably look like a disaster with tangled hair, swollen eyes, and an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. jack takes you in quietly. “so,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the flowers, the coffee, and the chocolate box. “i brought options.” his mouth pulls into a small, sheepish smile. “figured i’d give you a variety of things to throw at me.”
for a second, you just stare at him. jack abbot—veteran, doctor, and professional pain in your ass—standing in your hallway holding flowers like a nervous teenager. you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding loosely over your chest. your voice comes out rough from sleep and crying. “you’re persistent.”
he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like that’s the closest thing to a victory he’s getting right now. “occupational hazard.”
the hallway light flickers softly overhead. neither of you moves. up close, he looks worse than you expected. the dark circles under his eyes are deeper than they should be. there’s stubble along his jaw he probably didn’t bother shaving after his shift. his shoulders sag slightly under the weight of the shift.
“you just get off work?” you ask.
“yeah.” he nods, rocking back and fourth.
“and instead of going home…you came here…?”
“yeah.” he nods once again.
you tilt your head slightly, unimpressed. “bold strategy.”
“desperation, actually,” a chuckle slips out before he can stop it. the smell of coffee drifts up from the carrier in his hand and your stomach twists. you didn’t eat anything besides ice cream yesterday. jack notices your eyes flicker to it. “one’s black,” he says gently. “one’s that…caramel thing you get. i don’t know the exact name because the menu looks like it was written by a wizard.” your mouth twitches despite yourself. he holds the flowers up a little awkwardly. “and these were the least offensive ones they had at the hospital gift shop.”
“high praise.”
“it was between these or balloons that say get well soon.”
you sigh, rubbing your forehead. that familiar ache presses behind your ribs. “jack…”
his expression shifts immediately. the joking drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. “yeah?” he braces for impact.
you step aside. “come in.”
he hesitates for half a second—he’s surprised you didn’t slam the door in his face—before stepping into the apartment. the door shuts behind him with a soft click. the place looks exactly how it felt last night. blankets on the couch. empty ice cream container. credits still rolling silently on the tv.
jack takes it in without comment. he sets the coffee and chocolates on the table, then places the flowers down carefully beside them. you hover near the couch, arms folded again. neither of you speaks.
finally, jack exhales slowly and rubs the back of his neck. “so,” he mutters. “this is the part where i try not to screw this up worse.”
you lean against the arm of the couch. “good luck with that.”
he huffs quietly. “yeah, fair.” he inhales deeply, looking up at the ceiling, before exhaling and looking at you properly. “you look like hell,” he states bluntly.
you glare. “thank you.”
“meant it affectionately.”
“i’m touched.” sarcasm drips from tone.
a ghost of a smile crosses his mouth, but it fades quickly. “look,” he says, “i’m just gonna say it straight because historically when i try to be subtle everything explodes.” he taps his fingers against his wrinkled scrubs. “the thing i said to robby,” you swallow immediately. “the casual thing,” he squeezes his eyes shut. “was a reflex.” your gaze sharpens. jack’s gaze drops to the floor before coming back to you. “he caught me off guard,” he sighs, “came outta nowhere. started asking what we were.”
“and your instinct was to say casual?” you retort. the word tastes bitter in your mouth.
“yeah,” he admits even though he’s shaking his head.
“why?” you ask.
jack opens his mouth…then closes it again. a muscle in his jaw twitches. you wait. “because i panicked.”
your forehead creases. “jack-”
“i didn’t know what the hell to say,” he says, throwing his hands up. “and before i could think, the word just came out.” you stare at him. “and when you went along with it…” his mouth tightens. “i figured that was what you wanted.”
your brows knit together. “you thought i wanted it to be casual?”
“well you didn’t exactly argue.”
“i was standing in front of my two bosses.”
“yeah,” he mutters. “realized that about ten minutes later.”
you drag a hand down your face. “i thought you meant it.”
he laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “trust me, baby, if i meant it i wouldn’t be standing in your apartment right now holding flowers like an idiot.”
your heart gives an annoying little flip. you try to ignore it. “then why didn’t you say anything after?” your voice is sheepish.
he goes quiet again. his gaze drifts toward the window, like he’s watching something only he can see. when he finally speaks, his voice is lower. “because opening your mouth about stuff that matters,” he licks his lips. “is how you lose it.” jack rubs a hand across his jaw. “i’ve done this before,” he admits. “the whole loving someone thing.” he doesn’t look at you as he continues. “had a wife,” he lingers on the word. “she was…everything.”
you knew that vaguely. pieces of the story everyone in the hospital knows but never says out loud. hearing him say it like this feels raw.
“and then one day she wasn’t there anymore.” his throat works once. “you learn real quick after that,” he stutters, “that the universe has a pretty sick sense of humor.” he finally looks at you again. “so yeah,” he concedes. “i keep things,” he squints, racking his brain for the right word, “light.”
the room is quiet now. you’re processing and…well, processing some more. the early morning sun shines harshly through your windows. gour faucet drips repeatedly. “jack…” you murmur.
he stop you before you can continue. he has to say it now or he won’t ever. “because if you don’t say the important parts out loud,” he finishes, “then when it all disappears you can pretend it didn’t mean as much.”
your heart twists painfully. you step a little closer without realizing it. “that’s what you thought this was?”
“no,” he says immediately. he shakes his head. “that’s the problem.” his gaze flickers over your face. he memorizes your eyes, your mouth, the messy hair falling over your shoulder. “this stopped being casual for me a long time ago,” he admits quietly.
your breath catches. you take a step back. “then why-”
“because you’re younger than me.” your eyes widen. you rest a hand on your coffee table to stable yourself. he huffs out a small breath. “by a lot.” he looks to the side. “and i kept thinking,” his voice is tight, “one day you’re gonna walk into some bar and meet some guy your age who doesn’t have an endless supply of baggage.” you stare at him. “and he’s gonna look at you the way guys your age look at women like you.” the veins in his arms tighten at the thought. “and you’re gonna realize dating the grumpy middle-aged doctor was just a phase.”
you can barely breathe now. the room goes completely still. you stare at him. the tired lines in his face. the guarded way he’s standing like he’s bracing for something he fears. “jack,” your voice is like candy. he lifts his eyes. “i thought you didn’t want more.”
he frowns slightly. “why would you think that?”
you let out a small, incredulous laugh. “because you were the one leaving first,” you shrug. “drawing boundaries.”
“well-”
“and,” you continue, “we never talked about what we are.” he goes still. “and i thought that meant we were nothing.”
his expression shifts immediately. “hey,” he coos.
you shrug helplessly. “so i went along with it,” you admit. “because i figured if that’s all you wanted, i wasn’t gonna beg you to care.”
“god,” he mutters. it feels like a spear is lodged in his chest.
your arms drop to your sides. “i liked what we had,” you murmur. “but it never felt casual to me.” you blink back tears. “not once.”
jack steps forward instinctively. “so let me get this straight,” he recounts. “you thought i didn’t want more?” you nod once. “and i thought you didn’t want more?” you nod again. he exhales. “that might be the dumbest standoff in human history.”
a reluctant laugh slips out of you. he smiles faintly. the tension in the room loosens just a little. jack stops a step away from you now. “for the record,” he whispers, “i’m pretty sure i’m in way too deep for casual.”
warmth crawls up your neck and plants itself on your cheeks. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
you tilt your head slightly. “took you long enough to say it.”
his mouth quirks. “cut me some slack. emotional honesty isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”
you study him for a moment. “are you still scared i’m gonna run off with some guy my age?”
jack doesn’t flinch. “probably.”
you roll your eyes gently. “jack.” you’re not joking now.
he shrugs. “i’m working on it.”
you shake your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth now. “you’re unbelievable.”
“i’ve been told.”
the weight that sat between you yesterday feels lighter now. it’s not gone—that will take some time—but the cracked pieces are starting to fuse back together.
jack glances toward the flowers on the table. “so,” he says. “are you gonna forgive me or do i need to start groveling more dramatically.”
you consider it. “the flowers help.”
“damn right they do.”
“the coffee helps more.”
“excellent choice on my part.”
you step closer, your shoulders brushing together. jack’s voice drops a little. “we okay?”
you look at him through your lashes. “yeah,” you say quietly.
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PAIRING ➩ jack abbot x inexperienced younger reader
WC ➩ 8.9k
SUMMARY ➩ striving for perfection and running off nothing but study books and bitter coffee, you’re struck by your new night shift attending and his gentle praise that gets under your skin
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ torn between letting this be a stand alone fic or writing a part 2 with the smut i know you’ll all be begging for lol so let me know what you like about this part and ill work on that!
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part two
You weren’t exactly sure where the need for perfection even came from. It might have been something you were innately born with or maybe it was nurtured by the indifference on your parent’s faces whenever you came home with your report cards.
At first you had tried rebellion but that didn’t even get an eye blinked in your direction so you figured you had to switch it up, go as hard as you could for as long as you were able to handle and then maybe you’d be able to satisfy the itch to be something better than whatever you were.
Eventually the need to prove yourself to your parents went away but the lack of tolerance for mistakes didn’t, growing heavier and heavier until your back was aching over your desk and your migraines were almost constant from lack of sleep.
You made it through school with barely a single conversation held that was beyond surface level, your entire being obsessed with studying and what your talents could bring to the table even if nobody knew or cared enough about you to even be sitting at it.
Emergency medicine wasn’t your first choice, it was actually pretty close to the last but you realized quickly that a large amount of med students were just as anal as you about being perfect and your studying habits didn’t seem as outrageous when surrounded by your actual peers. There was no more casualness and the sudden feeling of genuine competition was almost beyond what you were able to push through.
It didn’t take long for your first round picks to be taken by somebody who worked harder, came from a better family, or just had more natural talent. And then your second and third were filled too and before you knew it you were three years deep into your time at the PTMC.
You didn’t dislike it and you figured the long grueling hours were just par for the course in this career, you even felt a sense of relief when you got home and felt the ache in your body and saw the bruises coloring your skin.
To you it felt like a small victory, visible proof that you had worked harder than anybody might have assumed you were capable of if they had bothered to assume anything about you at all.
You weren’t really sure why it hurt you so bad when you were suddenly moved to a different shift last week. You didn’t have any real friends in the department, not even somebody you’d feel comfortable enough to borrow a protein bar from but the routine was something you’d become used to and you’d just started to perfect your way around any avoidable social situations.
The scowl on your face must’ve been more prominent than you realized when you walked in on your first day on the night shift, hand curled tightly around the single backpack strap were wearing.
You saw all of the same faces you had seen each morning for the last three years but now they looked weathered and tired in the way they did when you typically bid them a quick goodnight nod. Finishing their shifts as you began yours, a new normal that didn’t seem to disturb the flow of things at all for anybody minus you.
Robby gave you a nearly sympathetic look when he passed by you in a hurry and you didn’t meet his gaze out of anger, not necessarily at him since you knew the lack of staffing for the night shift wasn’t his fault but you felt a weird sense of betrayal.
“He feels bad you know.” The low voice to your left would have made you jump if you weren’t so exhausted already, failing to properly flip your schedule in the two days you’d had to prepare for such a drastic change.
“Yeah I bet.” You replied back to Ellis, barely giving her a once over as she leaned on the desk next to where you were currently frozen in place.
Your voice was flat and laced with irritation that you almost felt bad about. You knew these people well enough, been through shift change talk throughs hundreds of times and even sat around for a few awkward drinks on the nights out you were forced to go to by the newer student doctors.
There was an uncomfortable feeling when her face fell and she sighed softly, hating the fact you were being so standoffish and ruining any chance of making a friend before you even really started. You tried to loosen your posture a little to look more approachable and even half planned to tell her you were just tired before she was walking off with a pitying smile pointed your way.
You groaned inaudibly as you kept walking and made your way to the locker room, instinctively trying your old one with your code before remembering halfway that they’d moved you. One of the night shift doctors already had yours and had you beat in seniority by nearly a decade.
The deep breath left you shakier than you intended and you rested your forehead against the cold metal for a few more, letting the grates press hard into your skin to try and wake yourself up.
“Heard coffee is effective.”
You knew who the low drawl belonged to without turning around so you didn’t bother, eyes opening and another louder sigh leaving you with intention.
“Really? You should patent that.” You only responded after a few seconds went by without the sound of departing footsteps, turning around at the end of your sentence to raise an eyebrow at the man who was standing leaned against the door with his arm crossed.
Jack Abbot was one of the only faces on the night shift that wasn’t a near stranger. He spent enough time picking up unnecessary hours and lingering around the desk long after his shift ended to talk to Robby so you’d had your fair share of encounters with the older man.
He gave you a barely noticeable smile at your quick comment back, his ankles crossing over each other as he relaxed in the doorway.
“You used to smile more when I first met you.” He said in return and you fully rolled your eyes at this, ignoring the lack of professionalism considering you knew he didn’t care for it much anyways.
You turned again to open your new locker, trying not to fumble with the code under his watchful eye from behind you. Abbot was a direct opposite of Robby who felt like such a natural leader in every decision he made down to the tone of his voice, that cadence that some people were just born with.
Abbot seemed like he was always trying to leave a room as unnoticed as possible and despite being charming and as personable as anyone working the graveyard shift could be, he was more prone to quick nods of approval and silent pats on the back when someone was in desperate need of encouragement.
Sarcastic quips replaced the inspirational speeches Robby would give after a hard day and you didn’t need to work a full shift with him to understand that his methods were something you’d clash with.
You were self admittedly very sensitive, slow to understand a joke especially when you were the butt of it and unable to hide the insecurity in your chest that seemed to be clawing its way out almost constantly.
“No I didn’t.” You replied back and you finished putting your things away, closing your locker softly and walking past him in the doorway.
There was no surprise when he followed behind you, both because he was your new first in charge and also because he was never really one to let a conversation end so briefly when you were in a sour mood.
“He really does feel like shit about this whole thing.” He continued on and you kept your gaze forward as you slid into one of the rolling chairs behind the main desk and scanned your badge. He leaned forward onto the counter in front of you, the hair on his arms just barely visible out of the top of your eyes as he folded them together. “Robby.”
“He doesn’t have to.” You said smoothly with a light shrug like it wasn’t something that had been keeping you up for the last two nights wondering what you had done wrong to get booted at the first chance.
“He said you’re his best.” Abbot continued on and now you finally stopped the fast paced typing you’d barely been paying any attention to, eyes flickering up to him as he watched you with a sense of knowing that made you feel nauseous suddenly.
“He also said not to listen to anything you said about him.” You said flatly once you finally had your light dinner back down your throat, looking at him beneath your lashes to catch his reaction and feeling a bit smug when he snorted a small laugh and nodded as he looked off towards the entrance.
“Fair.” He replied in a softer tone as he pushed himself up off the counter and took a few steps back, pointing in your direction until your eyes rolled again.
You figured you saw Abbot a few dozen times during your shift but it was such a blur of red and stark white that you barely registered him, your medical vocabulary rolling off in autopilot and your hands moving through procedures before your brain could catch up.
It wasn’t until the fourth hour in, nonstop damage control from the shift change off and post dinner rush in the waiting room leaving you feeling dizzy when you stood still, that you actually got a chance to focus on his presence again.
Robby had a sort of nervous energy to him that followed him around the room like a static, catching the attention of his staff and keeping you in your toes.
Abbot was nearly the polar opposite in this way too.
He felt like a solid force in your corner, there enough to remind you that you were supported but letting you do the leg work as much as possible. The night shift certainly had a different level of darkness and chaos to it but the staff themselves seemed to be operating in a way that left you a little awed.
They almost seemed to be finding downtime in the endless stream of injuries and traumas, including Abbot who was currently leaning back on the counter and fidgeting with the corner of a file cover.
You were a similar position as you were before when he was giving you a half assed attempt at helping you understand Robby, but now you were on the other side of the counter.
It had to have been the delirium that left you leaning on the space next to him, enough distance between you for two people to fit but still more comfortable than you probably would have been after a power nap. He sent you a glance from the side of his eye that made a sigh leave you.
“You know…” He started slowly and his voice graveled in a way that made the traitorous hair on your arms stand up. “It’s okay if you take a breath, nobody is going to sue you.”
“Don’t jinx it.” You say back and your gaze lands on him, staying there until he meets it and then looking away with the new feeling of his eyes on the side of your head.
“We are happy to have you here.” He adds suddenly and you feel your eyebrows furrow at the sincerity of it, feeling like it’s misplaced considering you hadn’t exactly been a delight the entire night. “Hey.”
It’s a call for attention and you give it to him, picking up your gaze to lock with his and trying not to sink into yourself at the intensity of it. He gives you a firm nod like you’d passed some invisible test you didn’t understand and yet you still feel a surge of pride blossoming deep in your chest.
“Really?” You had really meant to quip something smart back at him but instead you croaked out the single desperate word and clenched the counter in a tight fist.
“I mean it.” He says back and it’s nearly soft now, halfway to a whisper and your head starts to buzz beneath the sleep deprivation. He doesn’t even slightly shy away from the eye contact, not that you expected him to considering you had definitely noticed it was a habit of his. “Hope you stick around.”
He was gone before you could let out another breath and you let your head sink down against the chilled counter top, pressing your forehead down until it turned red and you felt a dull ache.
Then you were picking yourself up and getting back to work.
—
The first three weeks flew by and you felt yourself adjusting to the changed shift way faster than you had anticipated. You’d picked up one or two day shifts when needed and your rhythm there was now awkward, fumbling around more than you ever had and finding yourself longing for the nights instead.
You felt beyond relieved that your brain and body seemingly decided they were okay with your new assignment and it was a breeze to sleep through the daylight now.
You knew part of it was because the staff and their demeanor, another half dedicated to your own hard work and your determination to make the most out of it. But there was a large portion that was reserved for the man currently standing in front of the room and talking calmly.
Abbot was leaned back against the desk, somewhere he apparently frequented considering it always seemed to be where you found him. He was talking with his hands outstretched and his posture as straight and military as it had been since the day you met him, favoring the side without his prosthetic leg.
To his left was Robby, nodding along with a drained expression that made you think he was barely listening to the brief. You couldn’t necessarily judge him considering you were pretty sure you hadn’t heard a single word that was said in the last five minutes but you figured you could ask Ellis later since the two of you actually managed to become sort of friends after your interaction on your first day.
It wasn’t like you to get distracted so easily and you had spent the better part of the last few weeks beating yourself up over whatever the actual fuck was happening to you whenever your attending looked proudly in your direction.
You’d sought after Robby’s approval yes, beamed under his praise and blossomed when you felt like he was truly trusting you to save lives, but whatever it was that you felt deep in your chest when his other half merely gave you an approving nod was nearly dangerous for your career.
Crushes were not something you had any experience with considering how study focused you were your entire teenage years, you’d felt a flutter here and there but you had never let your eyes linger too long and it was almost criminal to have your thoughts entertained by any fairytale fantasies.
So the fact the entire staff was dispersing without your awareness, leaving you standing in place staring at Jack Abbot like a lovesick puppy, was a serious problem.
You shook your head to try and get yourself together, hurrying away to busy your hands and mind with low risk patient cases. You spent the first half of the night talking to sick old ladies and stitching up simple knife wounds that any student doctor could do with ease.
It was a little after midnight when you were stopped by a firm hand on your shoulder, freezing you in place with a sharp breath as you turned around to see Abbot looking down at you with furrowed eyebrows.
“Could’ve used you in trauma two.” He said lowly and you felt shame immediately rush over you like cold water. “Where were you hiding out at?”
“I…” You trailed off in an automatic lie that got caught in your throat, sighing and letting your shoulders deflate under his palm. He removed it but only to slide down your arm and briefly cup your elbow before letting it hang back at his side. “I’m sorry I wasn’t trying to hide. I just… needed to slow the pace down a little.”
“No you don’t.” He replied immediately and now it was your turn to furrow your brows as you watched him crossed his arms and adjust his posture. “You can handle it and I need you by my side when the hard cases come in because I know you can.”
You looked down at your feet as he half scolded and half praised you, not sure if you were touched by your own apparent importance or embarrassed that he had realized what you were trying to do so easily.
The embarrassment must’ve shown clearer on your face because his gaze softened and he exhaled, rubbing a palm over his stubble and looking towards the busy hub where some student doctors were currently fussing over the ever growing patient chart.
“Pass off your easy patients to the newbies.” He said and his voice dropped down into a whisper, leaning in just enough for your cheeks to momentarily inflate from the way you suddenly held your breath. “Let them learn something, you know plenty.”
“Isn’t this a teaching hospital?” You finally managed to get your voice back and you glanced upwards at him just in time to see the amusement pass over his face. “Technically I could always learn more.”
It was silent for a few seconds long enough for you to regret making a sarcastic joke when he was clearly trying to make you understand a legitimate point about your abilities. You almost started to apologize, already internally beating yourself up for thinking his usual dry humor was appropriate at any time when his low chuckle stopped you short.
“Yeah I guess you’re right.” He nodded slowly as he spoke, lips curling into a small smile and your eyes stayed locked on the movement. His gaze drifted back to you and you hoped the way your eyes widened was minuscule enough he wouldn’t notice. “But let me teach you. Deal?”
You didn’t even notice his hand had extended inbetween your bodies until the tips of his fingers lightly brushed your scrub top, head turning down to identify the feeling and laughing a little at the ridiculousness of it all.
Your hand wrapped around his much larger one, trying not to flush at the roughness of his palm against your soft skin. You squeezed around it and he returned the action before you shook them between you. Yours was retracted and stuffed into your pocket after barely three seconds of touching but it was enough for you to press your nails deep into your skin once it was out of sight.
“Deal.” You gave him a firm nod that you hoped looked more professional than that little moment felt.
The rest of the shift consisted of following behind Abbot from trauma to trauma and trying to act like his steady voice and calm demeanor wasn’t still somehow sending you into a state of nerves despite it having the completely opposite intentions.
—
You didn’t spend as much time in the ambulance bay as some of the others did on a hard night, from the nurses with smoking habits they couldn’t kick to the students who felt like they couldn’t breathe around their eight hour.
But now you were on your fifth minute of standing outside the automatic doors with tense shoulders nearly up to your ears, breathing in and out so audibly you would have felt self conscious if there was anybody else around.
It really wasn’t that grand of an offense considering your shift was ending in less than ten, the sun already peeking around the cement pillars and making your headache sting even sharper than you thought was possible. Plus it had actually been a relatively slow night when it came to the flow of foot traffic but that hadn’t made it any easier.
You’d lost somebody young before it had even hit midnight and the entire ER felt the typical shift that came along with something like that for the rest of your time there.
Then there’d been a drunk man getting rough on his way in that had sent you and two nurses flying against one of the environmental carts, insisting you were fine and rushing to glove up to attempt to assist him with the beer bottle currently sticking into his thigh.
You’d been stopped by a sharp glare from Abbot that you knew wasn’t necessarily directed towards you but it still made your throat tighten with the urge to cry.
He didn’t even need to say a word to dismiss you, head hanging low as you ripped off the glove you’d gotten on halfway and threw it roughly into the trash can on your way out.
After that you spent the next few hours taking patient after patient as the ache in your ribs built steadily. You hadn’t even noticed it at first in the chaos but a trip to the bathroom around five alerted you to the large bruise forming under your chest, wincing as you tugged your undershirt back down and splashed some water on your face.
So you didn’t feel too awful for standing outside and taking a nearly meditative amount of breaths while the shift change happened somewhere in the building behind you.
The doors sliding open didn’t alarm you nearly as much as the slow measured footsteps did, the slight drag of one of them making you stop your breathing entirely. You knew Abbot by his stride on a regular day and even more-so when he had been on his feet beyond comfortability and his leg started to bother him, the slight limp he adopted nearly unnoticeable if you weren’t paying as much attention as you always seemed to be.
Next was the smell of him as he stood shoulder to shoulder with you, the fabric of his shirt barely brushing your hoodie sleeve. He carried the same sterile scent you all did after a long night but there was the unmistakeable musk and light cologne hidden underneath it.
“You know what that was about right?” He said lowly and you pursed your lips at the sound of his voice, not realizing how close you’d been to crying until the silence was broken.
“You don’t need to explain to me.” You replied as smoothly as possible but your voice was tight and lacking any air.
“But I’m going to.” He shook his head and stepped forward so he could turn and be in front of you, giving you no choice but to stare at some part of him as he blocked the sun coming up behind his solid frame. “It wasn’t about your ability as a doctor but your safety as a member of my team.”
You didn’t want to talk because you knew you were tired enough to try and argue with him that you had been fine, that you didn’t need to be wordlessly booted out of the trauma room in front of half a dozen people like you were an intern. You almost wished he had yelled at you for a mistake rather than that disapproving look he gave you when he saw you gloving up.
Your silence must have bothered him into boldness because suddenly his hand was moving between you, sliding under the undone zipper track of your hoodie and pressing lightly around your rib cage. You immediately hissed in pain and shrunk away from his touch, nearly taking a full step backwards from the sensation.
“That’s what it was about. Do you understand that?” He asked quietly and you kept your mouth closed shut tightly as the scratchy sob like feeling continued to build. He pressed on the area a few more times in a wider range like he was trying to examine how far the bruise stretched out under your clothes.
You stayed quiet and let him do the same routine you’d done hundreds of times in your career, heart racing only a few inches above where his fingers were softly pressing.
“How bad was it?” He continued to whisper in that low tone as you avoided looking at him.
“It’s fine.” You said back because you knew the silence was pointless and you were partially paranoid he was concerned enough to look himself if you didn’t answer soon. “I looked at it a few hours ago and it wasn’t anything to worry about, just tender.”
“You of all people know how misleading a bruise can be.” He shook his head and you sighed again at the light show of disappointment even if it was as light hearted and casual as a comment could be from your boss. “I filed a report. For the two nurses too.”
Your back tightened up and you reached down to grab his wrist loosely, just enough to get him to stop touching you so you could focus on the conversation. His arm tensed and his gaze left your midsection to watch your expressions closely at the touch.
“You didn’t have to do that, he was drunk and probably confused. It wasn’t that big of a deal and I really would rather not deal with the paperwork.” You were nearly rambling but you couldn’t handle the thought of this becoming a larger issue than it already was.
You felt a sudden sense of humiliation despite the fact you hadn’t done anything wrong, it was almost a selfish feeling considering there had been other people affected to but you wanted the situation to be left behind with the rest of the shitty shift.
“Then I’ll handle the paperwork.” He said firmly and his voice took on that stern tone you hated so much. “Drunk or not, he hurt you.”
You knew his words and actions were coming from his place as a concerned boss, protecting you and the nurses as a mass collective being his only determination to carry out a consequence for what had happened, but you still felt almost touched by his want to handle this.
It was much easier to finish off the final few minutes of your shift after that conversation with the single delusional thought stuck in your head and the phantom feeling of his fingertips pressing against your clothing sending shivers down your spine.
—
You had the terrible habit of spending any day off you had in your bed scrolling on your phone until your eyes stung, possibly making up for the years in school you spent solely studying before you fell asleep.
It wasn’t something you had felt the need to break your first few years considering you thought friends were a distraction but you’d drastically changed your tune lately when it came to your social interactions. You felt nice when Ellis greeted you comfortably and a buzz of optimism when Shen remembered your coffee order three weeks in, the sudden desire to have friends hitting you.
So this time around, when you were invited to get drinks with some of the team, you actually accepted.
It had become a formality to just invite you regardless of the knowledge you’d decline so they all seemed thrown when you actually arrived.
The bar was smaller than it looked when you investigated it on google reviews before leaving and the music was a little too loud for it to be as casual as Ellis had suggested. She similarly had a day off and was sitting with a few of the day shift students you recognized more than the others.
Santos and Whitaker were in a quiet debate about something you couldn’t pick up, pushing a nearly full glass back and forth between each other like it was moderating their argument.
You’d expected to look at the other half of the circular booth seat to see Ellis by herself and ready to greet you but you froze halfway across the room when you saw who was currently occupying the spot.
Jack Abbot was not included in the list of names Ellis had casually said might be here tonight so you’d fully lowered your defenses that typically needed to be enabled to withstand being in a room with him.
You considered turning around and leaving before they spotted you, well aware that they wouldn’t be too shocked or disappointed to learn you weren’t coming. It was already too late considering Santos was glancing upwards and waving you over as soon as she saw you, mouth moving rapidly like she was trying to call you over.
You sucked in a breath, gathering as much air as you could manage to stuff into your lungs before heading over to them. Your greetings were stiff and awkward but they seemed to be buzzed enough to not notice, other than the older man who was watching you with a careful eye.
Abbot didn’t look much different outside of the hospital, black t-shirt pulled tightly around his biceps and the jeans worn out in a way you knew was from actual use and not design. You could see the shine of a belt buckle if you looked too hard under the table but you decided not to when you landed on his boots.
There was no where else to sit other than beside him but you perched nearly halfway off the booth seats to avoid touching him in any way.
“I never thought I’d see the day you actually spoke to us outside work hours.” Santos was quick to start her comments as soon as you settled down and got mildly comfortable. She was smiling as she spoke and you retuned it tensely even though it gave you a similar feeling to cruel comments you’d heard in high school.
“Don’t take it personally, I’m just boring.” You said back with a bashful laugh, glancing downwards as you picked at the loose wood under the tabletop.
Whitaker, who’d insisted you called him Dennis after you’d greeted him by his last name, was already shaking his head before you could finish your self deprecating statement.
“We think you’re cool.” He said simply and you gave him a disbelieving look. “Seriously, even Santos.”
You sent the same look her way and she shrugged her shoulders with a buzzed grin that made you laugh a little. You felt yourself growing comfortable with the small group which you were extremely thankful for, not sure you’d feel the same ease if anybody else had been there instead.
Although you hadn’t even begun addressing the quiet presence beside you, staying silent even when you all dove into conversation after conversation. You listened and added on occasionally, genuinely interested in their lives outside of work and fascinated by their dynamics, but he barely spoke a word at all.
You’d almost forgotten he was there by the time you slipped out of the booth to go to the bar and order a drink for yourself, barely sliding into the stool before his arm was in your line of vision.
He had it resting on the counter beside you, slightly caging you in unless you wanted to squeeze out the other direction past the large man who already was rocking drunkenly back and forth.
“I thought you worked tonight.” You said softly, feeling a wave of shyness you had never felt before in your entire career.
Being in the ER with Abbot came with clear guidelines on how to interact and a long list of boundaries that didn’t give you many opportunities to embarrass yourself. However, being in a dingy bar with him smelling too much like that rich cologne was a whole different playing field you had no idea how to navigate.
You figured talking first would soften the damage on whatever he was planning to say but you didn’t think it would matter anyways.
“Scheduling error.” He replied back simply, eyes on the side of your face as you desperately and silently willed the bartender to head in your direction so you could get back to the booth. “Disappointed?”
You sent him a confused glance, shifting on the circular seat. “No, of course not. Why would I be?”
“Not everyone wants to hang out with their boss.” He said and tilted his head down enough to try and catch your eye again.
You turned a little in your seat so you could actually give him a clear view of your face, enough so he could hopefully tell your next comment was meant to be a joke.
“Isn’t Robby technically my boss?” Your voice was mockingly curious and you felt a surge of pride when he laughed lowly. “No offense Dr. Abbot.”
His nose scrunched up at the sound of the title falling from your lips, something he’d asked you to avoid on your first day and you hadn’t missed the lack of it coming from the other residents.
“Jack works fine.” He said softly and his fingers tapped against the wood as the bartender passed.
You followed the movement as you listened to him order another drink, mumbling your own preferred one when he casually asked you what you wanted. You barely processed he had added your drink to his tab before it was placed in front of you.
You looked back at him to find him already watching you closely, hand curled around his glass but not taking a sip yet. You felt awkward drinking from yours under his gaze but you also craved the extroverted feeling alcohol gave you so you took a bigger sip than you probably should have, keeping eye contact as you slightly tipped your head back.
The glass touched the wood with a soft clink when you set it down and his hand move his own towards yours, lightly dragging it by the rim closer to him. It wasn’t out of your reach but enough so you’d have to lean your arm into his space to grab it.
You gave him a curious look but didn’t outwardly question it, like it made perfect sense to you that he would control where your drink was.
“You look different with your hair down.” He said suddenly and you watched his eyes track over your head and down past your shoulders.
It took you a second to respond and by the time you were starting to his hand was already lifted and softly touching the ends of your hair, not pulling or even really grasping but just letting it tickle his fingertips. You laughed at the way he stared, making his hand freeze in the air and his eyes go back up to you.
“How much have you had to drink?” You asked him with a smile you definitely had never showcased in the walls of the hospital before, a bit looser knowing he must be drunker than he seemed to be touching you so casually.
His hand on your ribs was a different story, the way it snuck under your hoodie may have felt historic but it was simply his doctor brain taking the lead in his decision making. Even the lingering hand shake had been sourced from a legitimate professional interaction, at worst just a bit too friendly.
This however, was completely unnecessary and out of character.
“I’ve been drinking since before you were born.” He rasped back and you felt a shiver run over your entire body, gaze narrowing a bit when his fingers started to move again just to twirl a strand of your hair. “I’m fine.”
The reminder of your age gap, not that you really needed one considering it was absolutely impossible to ignore, made you feel drunker than any amount of drinks could have even attempted.
You tensed up when the man next to you was attempting to get off of his stool, tipping sloppily in your direction and leaning against your side. You hissed in pain at the pressure and waved him off when he started to slur out an incoherent apology.
Jack went similarly rigid, standing to his full height from where he’d been leaning until the man stumbled away and then shrinking down a little to get a better look at you. Suddenly his hand was back on your ribs, large and encompassing almost the entire injured side of your midsection.
It felt different now than it had outside in the ambulance bay, the professional aura of the hospital surrounding you and layers of scrub and undershirt blocking out the warmth from his skin. Now you were in an intimately sized bar with a thin long sleeve pulled tight on your body, already feeling heated from the quick chug of your drink you’d done without the added effects of his touch.
“Still bothering you?” He said lowly and his eyes were locked on where he was touching, pressing lightly with his fingers tips and not backing off when you squirmed uncontrollably.
“It’s really not that bad it’s just sore when you touch it.” You breathed back, wincing again when he pressed down on the center of your large bruise. “That hurts you know.”
“Does it?” He hummed in response, his eyes meeting yours despite the fact his hand didn’t stop its light pulsing against your side.
You felt your throat tighten up and you knew you wouldn’t be able to speak even if you wanted to, not sure what words you could even say in this moment. This was clearly not appropriate for about a dozen reasons but the hidden school girl in you was ecstatic that a man like Jack Abbot was actually possibly flirting with you in a bar right now.
His fingers stopped pressing down on your bruise but he didn’t move his hand right away, letting the warmth of his palm cover your ribs until you squirmed on the stool.
“I’ve noticed something.” He hummed out and your eyebrows furrowed at him, gaze darting around to escape his intense staring.
“Yeah?” You hated that you sounded a little breathy and you halfway considered ripping his hand away from you just so you could focus for a second or two. “What’s your observation Dr. Abbot?”
His eyes darkened just enough to be noticeable and not for the first time, you wondered if you were making a mistake. You couldn’t tell enough to figure out if he had drank a lot before you came, his gaze seemed as steady as anyone’s could be but the way he shifted closer made you search for any sign of intoxication.
“You perform better when you’re told so.” He said it slowly like it was an indisputable fact and you watched him closely, trying to think of a way to deny what he was saying. “You like it.”
“Who doesn’t like it?” You whisper back, the only tone you could take without letting your shaky voice show.
“Everyone likes it but you need it.” He continued on easily and you inhaled sharply as his fingers started to lightly press on your bruise again. His lips curled up in a slight smile when your face contorted in a pained wince. “That okay sweetheart?”
You should have felt embarrassed for the near gasp that left you in response, head nodding rapidly the only translation to what the noise might have meant.
The pet name was spinning on a loop in your head and you were sure you looked completely ridiculous by now, seconds from falling off the stool if it meant being any closer to him. You could smell his cologne now under the faint scent of the whiskey he’d been sipping on since you got there and it was a nice change from the typical sterile smell you all carried at work.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.” You found yourself whispering and you regretted it as soon as it left your lips and his hand was retracting back down to his side.
He cleared his throat, stood up straighter and you knew right away that you had messed it up.
Jack Abbot may be a flirt and he clearly had some sort of interest in you, you’d be stupid to try and deny that after how he was just looking at you a few second ago, but he was a good man above that all. You had signaled wanting to stop and he had done so right away without any hesitation.
He was a gentleman and that much was clear but more importantly, he was your boss.
You’d given him shit about it actually being Robby but you knew the specifics wouldn’t matter to HR and all they would see is the indisputable fact that he was your superior, both in rank and in age. You wanted to protest and take the words right back from where they sat awkwardly in the air but you didn’t know how to.
“You’re right.” He said gruffly and he didn’t look at all upset with you, just mildly disappointed and maybe even a little sheepish like he hadn’t realized just how far he’d taken it until you said something. “It’s not.”
—
The effects of that night out were carried with you to your next shift, sitting heavy in your chest and making it nearly impossible to get anything right.
Jack hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary to you but it was the absence of his usual banter and quick check ins that made your stomach turn. He wasn’t being cold, wasn’t even giving you any weird looks that would indicate he was ever in a bar with his hand on your ribs, but something was missing and you knew it was your own fault.
You were slow with your response time, fumbling around when you needed to quickly grab tools or make space for another set of hands in an operation. You were acting like a complete idiot and although you were still preforming above the average quality for any other doctor around, it was below your usual standards and obvious to anybody used to you and how you normally carried yourself.
At first you had been attempting to avoid Jack but you realized that was pointless considering he was removing himself from any room you were in anyways before you got the chance.
You knew him well enough to know he wasn’t upset with you but rather himself, he believed he had made you uncomfortable and you were the reason he thought that.
The trauma one room was heated with loud frustrated voices, overlapping commands and hypothesis about what could be wrong with the little boy currently seizing on the table below you. Your brain completely blanked out, something that almost never happened to you and you barely registered one of the nurses yelling for another attending to help.
You moved over on autopilot out of the way of whoever had arrived, lightly bumping into Shen on the other side and only coming back down to earth when you felt a hand brush against your back.
“C’mon kid.” The low rasp from next to you sent you spiraling right back down to reality and your head snapped up and over to lock eyes with Jack. He had worry all over his face from the way you’d seemingly gone absent for a few long seconds at a crucial moment. “You know what to do.”
It wasn’t a question but a solid and trusted statement.
You hesitated for a breath before nodding firmly at him and turning back to face the room, your brain finally catching up with your mouth as you easily spout out the steps to take to help the boy settle down enough to continue his care safely.
There isn’t another moment to breathe until he’s sent up to the ICU and you’re able to leave the room, barely able to get your gloves off before you’re slumping against one of the hallway walls.
You don’t need to open your tightly shut eyes to know who the approaching footsteps belong to, reluctantly opening them again to meet with Jacks concerned face. He looks hesitant to even be in a slightly private space with you, looking over his shoulder like he needs an exit plan.
“You did good.” He says it softly and your shoulders deflate a little in a large breath followed by a scoff.
“I could have killed him.” You say back in denial, voice painfully tight as you run a shaky hand over your messy hair to try and smooth the flyaways.
“You couldn’t have.” He denies as he takes a step closer and you want to correct him, to tell him all the ways it was possible and remind him of the times it had happened before regardless if it was directly your fault or not. Instead you just fall silent and give him a long pitiful look. “And I wouldn’t have let you. But you did good on your own, you pulled it together.”
Now it’s your turn to take a step closer even though you immediately miss the support of the wall against your back. He peers down at you and your chest tightens.
“I’m sorry.” You say it so softly it’s barely audible under the chaos of the night and the beeping of machines, his eyebrows furrowing just enough to be noticeable but the rest of his face impossible to read. “For the other night.”
“Don’t.” He says immediately once he understands what you’re referring to. “That was my fault. I should be the one apologizing for making you uncomfortable.”
You shake your head and somehow gather enough courage to let your hand raise and land on his bicep, squeezing softly to try and communicate with him through some sort of physical touch morse code. Thankfully he softens a little at the feeling and you can brave yourself through an actual audible sentence.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable Jack.” You reassure as sincerely as you can even though you see the contemplation passing over his features, like he’s not sure if you’re just trying to save face or if you actually mean it. “I was nervous. I just… I haven’t really done that.”
“Flirted with your boss in a shitty bar?” He rasps as he steps closer and you know he’s joking, especially considering the way his lips curl up in a soft smile, but you feel a little sick knowing you’ll have to explain yourself further.
“Jack.” You sigh out, eyes locked on his before glancing away nervously and squeezing his arm a few more times.
You’re not sure if it’s just something about you that leads him to understand what you mean, an inexperienced nature that you’re sure could be relatively obvious to anybody interested in you, or if he had just came to the conclusion on his own but his lips part in realization as he slowly nods.
Your face flushes and you drop your hand from his arm, not losing contact for long considering he’s immediately bringing his own much large palm back up to your ribs, his thumb rubbing back and forth right under where your bras underwire starts.
“That’s alright sweetheart.” He says in a soft whisper and you suddenly feel like you want to cry.
Both from the adrenaline of everything that’s happened in the last few hours, the way he avoided you throughout the day, and especially from how embarrassing it feels to get such an automatic relief just at the sound of the pet name coming from his mouth.
You hope you don’t look as visibly torn up as you feel but you’re sure he can see it on your face, his eyes softening even more if that was possible.
“Yeah?” You find yourself whispering back in desperate need for reassurance and he’s quick to give it, nodding his head and shifting close enough that your chest could brush if he moved his hand and leaned forward. “That doesn’t… freak you out?”
“Are you kidding me?” He laughs a little but it’s lacking any real humor, like he finds you genuinely ridiculous for ever thinking along those lines. “Nobody’s ever touched you right sweetheart?”
It takes a few seconds before you’re nodding your head and biting at your bottom lip from nerves, face undoubtedly bright red from the blunt way he put it.
“I promise that does the opposite of freak me out.” He rasped back and your eyes reluctantly met his again just to make sure he was being honest with you, finding whatever you were searching for in his gaze almost immediately.
His eyes are actually a little darker than you expected and you feel your cheeks flush immediately at the mere idea of him being the first one to touch you like that. Not some drunk hookup with a guy who can barely pay his taxes, not a stiff and awkward first time with a boy your age who isn’t focused on your pleasure at all.
Instead you finally let yourself imagine what it would be like with Jack.
Jack and his rough weathered hands and low rasp, his decades of experience that started before you were even a thought in your mother’s mind. His never ending attentiveness and easy dominance that he carried through the ED without ever needing to raise his voice or assert himself, the thought out and specific praise he gifted you whenever he could sense you needed it.
You knew the direction your mind had gone was probably written all over your face, his amusement leaving his own as soon as he registered what it was you were so quiet about.
“Sweetheart.” It was low, the lowest you’d heard from him and your slightly watery eyes immediately darted back up this face despite you not even realizing they’d been drifting down his broad chest. “You have a few more hours to go.”
He kissed his teeth like he was disapproving and you felt a little sick at how eager you were to fix that.
Who knew Jack Abbot could so easily slip into the role of a complete menace the second he realized you were interested in him that way?
You nodded your head and visibly gulped, straightening out your scrubs and doing your best to avoid contact with him in any way as you turned to leave the hallway.
—
There was almost a sense of fear as the end of your shift approached although you still had your doubts Jack would ever cross that professional line with you.
You knew he wanted to, he wasn’t being very subtle anymore with the very hungry gaze he kept fixated on you whenever you were in a room together for the rest of the night, but wanting and doing were two very different things.
A large part of you hoped you’d just be able to leave the hospital and head home to obsess over him in your own bed like any good doctor with a raging crush should do, stuff it down and keep living your life solely for the medicine and the job. You didn’t have time for this, you didn’t have the ability to make the time for it either.
But Jack Abbot was somebody who walked around like they had all the time in the world, shoulders relaxed after a brutal shift and humor dry and witty as ever behind you as he said goodbye to the day shift.
You’d expected him to walk past you, maybe give you a light parting statement possibly accompanied by another knowing half smile in your direction.
Instead you felt his warm hand on your lower back, wordlessly guiding you with him out the doors. You didn’t bother telling him that you hadn’t even grabbed your backpack yet, absolutely no protest coming from your lips as you walked with him.
You wondered what you might look like to any other staff members, maybe just like a mentor giving you a ride home and guiding your exhausted body to keep you upright. A caring boss who was providing comfort after a long night.
His truck was parked further back than necessary, high up on the parking ramp and in one of the corners you’d only use on a really full staff day. You didn’t have time to fixate on the minuscule details of what this meant about his character, willingly walking extra minutes uphill just to be parked in solitude on the highest point of the ramp.
You barely even had the time to gasp when he was turning you around, suddenly in front of you with his hand on your hip as he gently backed you up against the driver side door of his truck.
Your eyes must have been wide and unfocused because he made sure to take his time, gaze raking over you and your messy hair that he was brushing behind your ear. He let his calloused hand cup your cheek after the hair was tucked neatly and you instinctively leaned against it.
“You sure baby?” He asked softly, croaked out in a gentle way you didn’t even know his voice could produce.
You didn’t even really know what he was referring to but you could definitely make a few guess and after running through a handful, you realized there was very little you would deny Jack Abbot of.
Your head moved into a half nod before he was surging forward and pressing his lips against yours.
it wasn’t supposed to be anything more than sex. you barely even liked each other as friends. frank uses you, and you use him. but somewhere along the way, the lines got blurred.
warnings/tags: mdni, smut and implied smut, themes of addiction and recovery, emotional constipation from reader, vague references to prior relationships and trauma, coworkers with benefits to lovers, some angst and some fluff, oblivious idiots in love, frank is divorced, reader has a niece, takes place sometime after season 2, pov switches, reader is afab, resident reader, no use of y/n
author’s note: i needed to torture frank langdon, just a little bit, but i promise it’s a happy ending. also as always shoutout to my girl @fru1t4fr0gs for letting me virtually yap her ear off about this
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Frank’s therapist had cautioned him about replacing one addiction with another.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He’s never been a smoker, but if he were, would that really be worse than being addicted to benzos? It’s not like American Spirits or cotton candy flavored vapes would drive him to steal from his job.
Yeah, yeah. Cancer. Lung cancer, esophageal cancer, all the cancers. Gum disease and tooth decay. He is still a doctor, even if it took him a long time to start feeling like one again. He knows the risks. And that is exactly why he hasn’t tried filling the void with nicotine.
He works out just enough to be able to say that he does and it not be a complete lie, but he’s never understood how people can get addicted to exercising. He understands the science behind it, but every time he steps on a treadmill, it just feels like an opportunity to think too much about every mistake he’s made in the last few years.
Video games have never really been his thing. He’s still paying off his stint in rehab, so betting and gambling are off the table. Alcohol, of course, is out of the question for obvious reasons.
When he hit one hundred days of sobriety, he really thought he was in the fucking clear. He let himself breathe a little for the first time in a long time, thinking he had finally learned his lesson.
Never did it cross his mind that he could become addicted to a person. Least of all one that he isn’t even supposed to like.
Least of all you.
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“This is a really fucking bad idea.”
Frank grunts, bottoming out as he fills you so full of him that it takes your breath away.
He stills, looking down at you in the glow of your living room television. His hands were on you the second your apartment door clicked shut - the two of you didn’t even make it down the hallway to your bedroom before you were pulling him onto the couch by the collar of his scrubs, his lips chasing yours with a degree of desperation that you might have found laughable if it weren’t for the fact that you had to bite back a moan the second that his tongue slipped between your lips.
He huffs a half breathless laugh. “We can stop if you want to, but I’m already inside you, so it’s a little late to realize this is a bad idea.”
You wiggle your hips, grinding down where his body meets yours. His eyes roll shut at the sensation, his muscles tensing beneath where your fingers grip his biceps.
“Didn’t say that I wanna stop,” you breathe. “Just said this is a bad idea. It’s called an observation.”
Frank snorts, retaliating by hiking one of your legs over his hip to deepen the angle. You hiss, your walls clenching around him. “You didn’t seem to think it was a bad idea when you were drenching my face a few seconds ago.”
You aren’t surprised in the least that his argumentative nature carries over into sex, but the dirty mouth on him does take you by surprise.
“So, what?” You hum, part challenge and part genuine curiosity. “You don’t think this is a bad idea?”
He shakes his head. He snakes a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. “It’s definitely a bad idea. I’m just finding it really hard to give a shit right now.”
You whimper at it all - the rough timbre of his voice, the the soft pad of his thumb brushing over your clit, the way he somehow still smells like musk and allspice even after working a full twelve hours in the emergency department and how his kiss-swollen lips glisten from his time spent between your thighs.
Come morning, you’ll regret this. Twelve hours from now, when you can’t concentrate on a routine intubation because you’re having flashbacks of pretty cerulean eyes peeking up at you as he brought you to climax with only his tongue, you’ll regret this. When you can’t take two steps tomorrow without the ache between your thighs reminding you where he’d been, you’ll regret this.
Probably should’ve thought about that before deciding that the best way to cope with stress of an exceptionally shitty day was by kissing him in the empty parking garage and inviting him back to your place, but you’ll deal with the aftermath of that when he’s no longer buried half a foot inside you.
You take his chin in your hand, stilling his face in front of yours. “Just so we are clear, this is a one time thing.”
Frank looks like he’s fighting the urge to laugh, a familiar, cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know you’re the one who kissed me and practically ripped my clothes off, right?”
Your hands ghost over the planes of his shoulders and up his neck before settling at the base of his skull where your fingers thread through the short locks of his hair. “Don’t let it get to your head. You were the closest conventionally attractive man I could find after that shitshow of a shift. Don’t confuse convenience with desire.”
He cocks a brow. “What I’m hearing is that you think I’m attractive.”
You roll your eyes, pulling your hands away from his hair and playfully shoving his shoulders. You don’t bother denying it, though. He is attractive. Annoyingly, irritatingly, frustratingly attractive.
“I’m serious. One time, Langdon.”
He doesn’t verbally respond right away. Instead, he leans down, closing the space between your lips and his. You taste yourself on him, sweet and salty with a hint of the gum he had been chewing when you first kissed him in the parking garage. It’s slower than the first time, and the second, and the third, making heat bloom where he’s hard inside you.
He pulls back just enough to murmur the words against your lips.
“One time.”
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Two months ago, Frank Langdon kissed you and swore that he was only going to fuck you one time.
Two months ago, he lied through his teeth.
The good news is that you’re as big of a liar as he is.
Because one time turned to two, and two to three, and now the Pittsburgh winter has turned to spring and he’s forgotten all about that broken promise.
He knew before the words had fully left his lips that they were bullshit. How could he mean them when your kiss tasted like watermelon lip gloss and being bare inside you made him feel the best he’s felt since he got sober?
But still, he tried. For a whopping seven days, he tried his hardest.
One week. That’s all it took for him to feel like he was going to lose his fucking mind if he didn’t touch and taste you again.
Then, in a moment of weakness - the kids were at Abby’s, he’d spent his day off cleaning his entire apartment in an attempt to keep himself busy, he’d already gone to an NA meeting earlier that afternoon, and he couldn’t get this one specific sound you had made when he nipped at the column of your throat out of his head - he did something he’s never done before.
He texted you.
Are you off work yet?
Short and vague, but you’re far from being dumb. He was confident that you could read between the lines without him having to spell it out for you.
Much to his relief, you replied before he could overthink the simple text message.
Keeping track of my work schedule now?
He scoffed to himself, smirking down at his phone. As if you haven’t worked the same set schedule the entire time he’s known you. At least, that was his excuse for knowing you’d be leaving work at approximately that time.
You replied fast. I take it that you are off?
He stared down at the screen as you typed, grateful that technology doesn’t allow you to see him waiting for your response in real time.
Leaving now. But if you’re about to say what I think you’re going to say, then you should know that I have been both puked and peed on today.
That should have deterred him, but it didn’t. In fact, it only further encouraged him, because you didn’t immediately tell him to fuck off like he halfway expected you to.
I happen to have a shower.
Then, before you can type a rebuttal, he sends a second text with his address.
You didn’t even reply, but twenty-three minutes later you knocked on his front door.
(It goes without saying that yes, you insisted on showering, and yes, he insisted on joining you, and yes, he ate you out until your legs turned to jelly and he had to help hold you up).
After both of you were thoroughly spent, he expected you to say something similar to the first time - when he had you pinned to your couch, balls deep inside you, and you told him that it would be a one time thing. He expected you to insist that what just happened would not be happening again, that it was a mistake for you to come over, and that he should lose your number entirely.
So it took him by surprise when you got out of his bed, put your clothes back on, and said, “it goes without saying that this stays between us, right? If this is going to be a thing, the last thing I want is Perlah and Princess spreading it all over the hospital.”
“Please,” Frank had scoffed, pulling his own t-shirt over his head. “Like I want the entire emergency department making a bunch of ridiculous bets about us. Trust me, this stays between us.”
And that was that. There was no further discussion of what exactly this is, but Frank knows.
He knows what it is, and he knows what it isn’t. For two months now, you’ve been on the same page. He comes to your place, or occasionally, you’ll go to his. One time, you even rode him in the backseat of his dad mobile, as you had referred to the midsize SUV.
But work is off limits. You have made that abundantly clear by acting indifferent to his existence anytime a coworker or patient is within ten feet of you, which happens to be damn near always. When the two of you are at work, he pretends like he doesn’t know that you clench around him every time he tells you how well you’re taking him or where your birthmark is located.
As soon as he walks out of those hospital doors, though, all the pretending comes to a stop.
It most often happens after long shifts, when one or both of you needs to decompress and not think of whatever horrors had been witnessed that day. But every now and then, like that day you and Frank both broke the initial agreement of this being a one time thing, he’ll find himself alone with thoughts of you that are a little too loud and unrelenting.
So instead of only thinking about the way your breathy, fucked out voice sounds saying his name when you’re on the verge of coming apart, he calls and hopes that you answer.
And, for some reason that Frank refuses to let himself dwell on, you always do. He knows that there will inevitably come a day that you don’t.
But he doesn’t let himself dwell on that, either.
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“Meet me in the empty on-call room in fifteen minutes.”
The words are murmured low enough for only him to hear. He glances up from his charting, utter disbelief on his face. He opens his mouth to question you, but you’re already walking away.
You’re weak. Spineless as a damn jellyfish, really.
And it’s all Frank Langdon’s fault.
If he didn’t kiss you like you’re the air he needs to breathe, go down on you like you’re the last thing he’s ever going to taste, and fuck you like he’s trying to ruin all other men for you, then it wouldn’t be so embarrassingly easy for you to go back on your word.
But here you are. Going back on your word. Again.
The first time it happened - when he texted you his address a little over two months ago and you wasted no time driving to his apartment even after telling him and yourself that you would not be hooking up with him again - you forgave yourself. You allowed yourself the small comfort of knowing it was him that reached out. It was him who caved first, even if you had thought about doing so every day since you first slept together.
But this time? Telling him to meet you in an empty on-call room in the middle of the day at work? Where any of your coworkers could potentially catch you? This boundary being crossed is all on you.
You must have a competence kink. That’s the only logical explanation for why you’re willing to let this happen right here, right now.
Your watch reads 2:17. He’s two minutes late.
Two more minutes. If he isn’t here in two minutes, then you’re leaving this room and forgetting that you ever even considered doing this.
The door creaks open and he slips in with only twenty seconds to spare.
“Wasn’t sure if you were actually going to come,” you hum from where you’re perched on the edge of the mattress.
Frank locks the door behind him. He still looks as confused as he did when you first told him to meet you here, but there’s now a hint of amusement on his features, too.
“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh, slowly walking towards you with his hands shoved in his scrub pockets. “I came as quickly as I could. My patient in Central 14 pulled up WebMD on his phone to try to argue about his diagnosis so I got a little tied up with that.”
You snort. “Don’t you love when they do that?”
“So…” he drawls, eyes glancing around the small room, empty save for the two of you. He comes to a stop directly in front of where you sit on the bed. “You gonna tell me what we’re doing in here right now?”
You look up at him from beneath your lashes. “What do you think?” Then, before he can answer, your hands go to the waistband of his pants. You don’t look away from his face, blue eyes dilating and pretty lips parted in surprise.
“Seriously?” He breathes, looking around the room again as if there’s anyone around to catch you in the act. “Here?”
You shrug, tugging his pants down just enough to expose the soft patch of dark curls below the waistband. “What can I say? Watching you perform that closed cervical reduction really did something to me.”
He blushes. Even with the curtains closed and only a small bedside table lamp illuminating the room, you can see pink bloom across the apples of his cheeks.
“That’s all it takes to make you stop avoiding me like the plague while we’re here?” He scoffs low. “A closed cervical reduction?”
You hum a laugh. “Sorry, does it hurt your feelings that I don’t spend my shifts fawning over you like every early-to-mid twenties female that walks into this place?”
Frank chuckles lowly. “Not quite.” He cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones as he leans down far enough that his lips hover just above yours. “You might not fawn over me, but you’re the one who got me alone just so you can give me head.”
Under normal circumstances, you’d keep going until you get the last word. But right now, you have a list of patients who need tending to and a boss who has already been on your ass about patient satisfaction scores today.
And as much as it physically pains you to admit, he isn’t wrong.
“Mm-hm,” you hum in agreement. “I did. Now are you going to let me or not?”
With your fingers still hooked into the waistband of his pants and boxers, you pause. It’s not like he’s ever said no to receiving head from you before - and the unmistakable bulge behind the fabric of his scrubs would normally be enough of an answer - but he is just now finding his way back into Robby’s good graces, so the risks here may outweigh the reward.
He exhales a shaky laugh, his nose brushing against yours as he nods slightly. “If I ever say no to that, page neurology, because something is very wrong with me.”
You roll your eyes, pretending you aren’t slightly charmed by the dorky remark. “Sit down, then.”
The two of you trade places. He lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress, and with help from you, his scrubs and boxers fall to a puddle at his feet. You spread his thighs gently with your palms, nestling yourself between them. You take his hard length in your hand, giving a few languid strokes as you look up at him.
“I mean it, you know,” you murmur, voice uncharacteristically earnest. For a moment, you drop the sarcastic facade. “The closed cervical reduction was very impressive. You were incredible.”
He swallows thickly, his cock twitching in your hand as he stares down at you in the dim lighting. Despite the truth to your words, you expect him to brush the compliment off with a cocky grin and smartass retort that undercuts the rare instance of genuinity between you.
Instead, he leans forward without a word, takes your face in his hands, and crushes his lips against yours. He tilts your head slightly, sweeping his tongue across your bottom lip to encourage you to open up for him. You can’t help but lose yourself in the effortless familiarity of his kiss that you’ve grown to crave more than you ever thought possible.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t release the careful hold on your face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. “Means a lot coming from you.”
For one impossibly long second, the two of you stare at each other until the sincerity of the moment starts to feel suffocating.
And because you don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to do with that, you swallow it down and do what you came here for.
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Frank sees you before he finishes parking his car next to the ball fields.
At first, he thinks he’s seeing things. It must be someone who looks like you - someone with the same hair color and skin tone as you, who just so happens to be roughly the same height - because it couldn’t possibly actually be you.
Why the hell would you be at a Pee Wee soccer game bright and early on a Saturday morning?
He knows exactly why he’s here - it’s one of Penny’s last games of the season and between a pain in the ass custody arrangement and an even bigger pain in the ass work schedule, Frank has only been able to attend a few of his daughter’s soccer games this spring season. He would have missed today’s game, too, if Robby hadn’t agreed to him switching a couple shifts around and Abby hadn’t been willing to let him take Penny for the day during her week with the kids.
You don’t have children, though. He’s sure enough of that. There’s no way you wouldn’t have said something about having a kid at some point during your time spent together these last few months. He’s been over to your place enough times to have noticed toys scattered around the living room or sippy cups in the sink or tiny clothes left lying on the bathroom floor.
But as Penny sprints ahead to join the rest of her teammates and Frank crosses the field to where all of the player’s families sit in lawn chairs, he realizes that his eyes are not playing tricks on him.
Even from behind, he knows it’s you. He’s spent enough collective hours memorizing the curves of your body to recognize you anywhere - even wearing something so different than what he normally sees you in: scrubs or nothing.
He comes to a stop a couple feet behind you to take you in. It’s an unseasonably warm day, with temperatures already in the mid 70s before nine o’clock in the morning, and you’re dressed to match the weather. His gaze trails from your polished toes that peek out of your sandals and up the expanse of your legs before settling on the sun-kissed skin of your shoulders.
You’ve yet to notice his presence as you wave to a kid in the distance as all of the players start to take their positions on the field. “Good luck, Holly!”
He smirks, his eyes darting back and forth between you and the little girl with curly pigtails.
“Who’s Holly?”
You jump as if you had been electrocuted, your head snapping to look in his direction. He can’t see your eyes well because of your sunglasses, but he can clearly picture the look of surprise on your face.
“Jesus, Frank. What are you doing here?”
He snorts, coming to stand beside you, as he brushes off the fact that you called him Frank instead of Langdon. “My daughter is playing. What are you doing here?”
“My niece is playing.”
He looks back out to the field - your niece, Holly, you had called her - is standing right beside Penny. They’re wearing matching jerseys. Same team.
“Huh. I didn’t know that you have a niece.”
Now it’s your turn to snort. You cross your arms over your chest with a shrug. “We don’t exactly spend very much time talking about our personal lives, do we?” You glance around, seemingly looking for something - or someone. “Where’s Abby?”
“Oh,” Frank clears his throat, sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants just so he has something to do with them. “It’s Abby’s week with the kids, but she let me take Penny for the day. She’s uh…she’s not here. She’s spending some quality time with Tanner today.”
You nod, your posture relaxing slightly. He isn’t sure if he’s just imagining things, but he can’t help but think you look a little relieved to hear that his ex wife isn’t here.
Not that he’d blame you for not wanting to see the ex wife of the man you’ve been casually fucking on a regular basis for months now. He definitely wouldn’t want that, either, and feels extremely relieved himself that Abby isn’t here to witness this interaction.
“That was very nice of her,” you say after a beat of silence with a small smile. “I’m sure Penny is happy that you’re here with her.”
Frank glances around now. You had been standing alone when he approached you, and you don’t seem to be here with anyone else. “So, is Holly your sister’s…or brother’s…kid?”
He mentally curses how fucking awkward he sounds. He knows what the most intimate parts of you taste like, knows what you sound like when you come for a third time in a row because of him, but he doesn’t know how to ask you a straight forward question about your personal life.
But he wants to. He shouldn’t, but he does. He wants to know if you have siblings, and how many, and if you have other nieces or possibly nephews. He wants to learn things about you because he asks and you answer or because you volunteer the information freely.
He wants to know what you do after a hard day at work, when you aren’t doing him after a hard day at work. He wants to know things because you want him to know things. Not just the shit that he observes at work (like how you take your coffee) or during the ten minutes that he lays in your bed after finishing inside you (like that you have a white noise machine that is basically always on).
“She’s my brother’s,” you answer, looking away from him to watch as Holly, Penny, and a few other girls all sprint after the soccer ball. For a second, he thinks you’re going to leave it at that, but then you continue. “He and Holly’s mom are going through a pretty nasty breakup. He only has Holly on weekends right now, and he works a lot, so…I’m just trying to help him out a little.”
“Ah,” Frank hums, surprised by the answer for more reasons than one. “Yeah, that’s tough. I know firsthand how…messy that kind of thing can get.”
“Yeah,” you agree with a sigh. “It sucks. But it’s probably for the best. They weren’t good together. I’m just hoping they can learn to co-parent for Holly’s sake.” You pause, eyes cutting back to him. “Seems like you and Abby do a pretty decent job with that.”
He has to refrain from laughing at that. He exhales slowly through his nose, gaze drifting back to the field. There’s a lot he could say in response to that - about lawyers and custody hearings and the same arguments that he doesn’t know if he and Abby will ever stop having - but if he starts then he might not stop, and he highly doubts you care to hear all of that. You’re here to watch your niece play soccer. Not listen to your fuck buddy trauma dump about his divorce.
“We try,” he settles on instead. “It’s still a work in progress, but we’re figuring it out.” Then, so you don’t feel pressured to respond in any particular way, he glances down at the lawn chair that he brought, still folded and tucked between his arm and side. “You uh - you want to sit? I brought a chair.”
He unfolds the chair, not giving you the opportunity to object as he takes a seat on the still slightly dewy grass right next to the chair.
The rest of the game continues with the two of you sitting side by side, watching the girls in an unfamiliar but not uncomfortable kind of companionship. He cheers for Holly, and you cheer for his daughter just as much.
You even introduce herself to her when Penny runs over to where Frank sits for a sip of water. As his coworker, of course. Because that’s what you are, even if the relationship title rubs him the wrong way for reasons he won’t let him think about for long enough to have to be honest with himself.
Still. It’s nice. Much different than how time with you is normally spent - working together to save someone from a pulmonary embolism, or naked between bedsheets - but this doesn’t feel wrong. It’s unexpected but pleasant, Frank thinks.
He tries not to think about how you feel about it, instead focusing on Penny chasing and kicking the soccer ball (sometimes in the wrong direction, but she’s four, so it’s cute).
When the final whistle blows, the swarm of four and five year olds erupts into excited shrieks. Penny and Holly spot the two of you at the same time and sprint over - Penny with her white tube socks stained green with grass and Holly with hair falling out of her pigtails.
Holly reaches you first, practically launching herself into your lap. “We won! We won! Did you see how far the ball went when I kicked it?”
“Of course I did,” you answer cheerfully. “You were amazing. I’m so proud of you. You did so great too, Penny.”
Before he has a chance to recover from the way the softness in your voice made his chest tighten, Penny starts jumping up and down, chanting daddy, daddy, daddy.
“Daddy, can Holly go with us to get ice cream?”
Oh. That’s right. He had promised his daughter ice cream after the game.
“Uh—” Frank hesitates, just for a second, glancing over at you. With your sunglasses now resting on the top of your head, he can see your wide, slightly panicked eyes. “We…we don’t know if Holly and her aunt already have plans, sweetie,” he says gently, not wanting to disappoint her but also giving you the out that he’s almost certain you’ll take.
But Holly is already looking up at you with pleading eyes. “Please, please, please can we go get ice cream?”
You let out a small laugh, eyes darting between Holly and Frank. He offers a small smile of his own, shrugging as if to say the ball’s in your court.
“Why not?” You sigh. “Sure. Ice cream sounds good to me.”
Frank might not show it in the same way that the girls do - with wild cheers and shrieks of laughter - but he’s just as pleased that you said yes.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
More and more often, you find yourself wishing that you met Frank Langdon when you were younger.
Not because you wish you met him before he got married or before he had children or before he fell into addiction. None of that deters you, actually.
Maybe it should. It probably should. But it doesn’t.
No, you wish you met him when you were still an optimist. When you still welcomed love with open arms and wore your heart on your sleeve and believed that everyone you met had as good of intentions as you do.
You wish you met him before your past tainted the mere idea of relationships and romance and trust.
You know it’s irrational. Things are the way that they are for a reason. If you had met him in med school, you probably would’ve thought he’s such a douche that you never would have even entertained the idea of kissing him.
But sometimes you still can’t help but wonder…
If you had met him at a different time, would there be more days like today? Early morning sunshine and soccer games and ice cream instead of late night booty calls that turn into mornings where you still wake up all alone, breathing in the scent he leaves behind on your pillow?
It’s fun to imagine that things could be different.
Then you remember the hurt and the heartbreak that comes with loving, and you shut those thoughts down. Back to sporadic, unplanned hook-ups and the illusion of control that they give you.
You suppose you can still allow yourself to sniff the scent of him that lingers after he leaves your bed, though.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
There’s a gradual shift in your and Frank’s dynamic over the weeks following Holly and Penny’s soccer game and the subsequent ice cream date that somehow ended in you and Frank sharing a chocolate soft serve.
It’s so subtle that at first, the changes don’t register as out of the ordinary.
You’re a little more reluctant to put your clothes back on and leave his place after sex. You stop ignoring each other at work, even exchanging jokes at the nurse’s station. He compliments you openly when you do something impressive with a case, not caring who might overhear the praise. When it’s his day off, you’ll randomly text him to tell him about something crazy that he missed at work. He starts opening up more - about his recovery, about his divorce, about his children. Not all at once. Just little pieces of his life bit by bit that you weren’t privy to before.
And you open up to him, too. Without realizing it. Without even meaning to.
It slips out by accident. You can’t even recall exactly what you’d been talking about at the time, but you tell him that he’s the first person you’ve slept with since your ex.
Your ex that you broke up with nearly two years ago.
He’d looked surprised when you revealed that. But he didn’t laugh, or say anything to tease you. He just turned to lie on his side, propped his head in his hand, looked down at you lying beside him, and asked you the same question that you’ve asked yourself on more than one question but have never answered.
“Why me, then? If you waited that long to…be with someone again. What made you kiss me in the parking garage that night?”
You stare up at him for a moment before answering, your fingers teasing his chest hair. “I’m not really sure,” you answer honestly. “Maybe I thought you were having as shitty of a day as I was, and that you looked like you needed someone as badly as I did. Maybe I thought it would be a good thing for both of us.” You pause. “Or maybe I just thought you looked like you’d be good in bed.”
He exhales a shaky laugh. One hand rests on your hip, fingers drawing lazy circles across your skin. It’s too dark to tell with only the moonlight from your open curtains illuminating the room, but if you had to guess, you would say that he’s blushing. It takes practically nothing to make him blush, a fact that you often take full advantage of because you think he looks pretty when he blushes.
“And were you right?”
“About which part?” You murmur, your hand stilling against his chest.
He gives a half shrug, hesitating just long enough for you to know exactly what he’s asking without him saying it. “The part about me being good in bed,” he says instead, with no trace of his normal humor in his voice.
“Frank.” You cup his face in your hand, swallowing down the answer to the question he won’t ask. “You know you are.”
It wasn’t a lie. He’s more than good. He’s the best you’ve ever had, and that’s exactly why you’re blind to the most damning way the lines begin to blur.
What started as stress relief, as a coping mechanism for a shit day, turned into something that started to feel less like an escape from reality and more like something that feels terrifyingly like love.
Just coworkers with benefits turned friends with benefits don’t stare into each other’s eyes during sex like they’re trying to see into each other’s souls. They don’t touch you, hold you, and kiss you like you’re their lifeline. Like you’re the air they need to breathe.
They definitely don’t call you baby when they’re telling you to come for them.
But then Frank goes and does just that.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Frank’s hips slam into yours, repeatedly hitting that sweet spot deep inside you that makes you croon his name against the sweat-slicked skin of his throat.
You weren’t supposed to come over tonight. He had come to your place last night, and the two of you have never hooked up two nights in a row before.
You’ve also never hooked up when his children are sleeping in their bedrooms just down the hallway.
But he called you, right as you were leaving the hospital, and told you that he wants to see you. That he misses you. He even said please in a low, sleepy voice that made heat bloom down your spine.
And you pictured him - skin flushed and dewy from his shower and dark gray sweats hanging low on his hips - and then next thing you knew, you were driving the route to his apartment that has become as familiar as the route to your own.
He noticed you were tired as soon as you walked in. Laid you down in his bed, undressed you, and kissed down your body until stopping between your thighs, where he spent even more time than he usually does - so much time, in fact, that your legs were shaking around his head when you pulled him up to you by the tops of his arms and all but begged him to fuck you.
And he did. Is.
Sounds of flesh on flesh and his bed frame creaking fill the room as your nails scrape down the skin of his back and his teeth dig into the meat of your shoulder, the familiar fiery coil in your core dangerously close to snapping again.
“Frank,” you breathe, voice unrecognizable. “Fuck, I’m close. I need - I’m gonna—”
He gently shushes your incoherent babbling, slanting his lips over yours with a sloppy, open mouth kiss that makes you cry into his mouth.
“I know,” he grunts low and breathless when he pulls away. Skilled, slender fingers find the swollen bundle between your folds, coaxing you to climax. “I can feel it. Squeezing me so fuckin’ tight. You’re so close, just let go for me, baby.”
The foreign pet name falls from his lips so effortlessly that it sends you over the edge - warms you from head to toe, white-hot pleasure coursing through you as he fucks you through your orgasm and his own.
Baby, baby, baby.
You barely register the fact that he pulls out and collapses beside you on his mattress, his thigh brushing against yours.
Every nerve in your body vibrates with the typical post-coital blend of oxytocin and serotonin but the bliss is background noise to the word he’d murmured so pretty against your skin.
It flashes in your mind like a neon sign. Baby.
Suddenly, everything leading up to this moment begins to play like a highlight reel.
The touches that linger for a split-second too long, the random texts throughout the day, the just because kisses that don’t necessarily lead to sex, your favorite vending machine snack randomly appearing on your desk at work when you’re having a hard day, how you know his go-to take-out order by heart, baby, baby, baby—
You bolt upright, cutting Frank off in the middle of a sentence that you hadn’t registered a single syllable of. You throw your legs over the side of the bed, reaching down to pick your underwear and scrubs up off the floor.
“Uh—” He lets out a soft, confused laugh. “You okay?”
You pull your shirt over your head, unable to bring yourself to look at him. “Yeah,” you say, your voice unnaturally high. “It’s just late. I’ve got work in the morning, so I should get going.”
“O…kay,” he draws the word out, obviously unconvinced. “You sure that’s all it is?”
You jump up, yanking your pants into place. “Yep. Just tired.”
He’s silent for a moment, as if trying to gauge the sudden shift in your demeanor. Then, he clears his throat. “I mean, if you’re tired, you can sleep here. Probably shouldn’t drive—”
“What the hell are we doing, Frank?”
He pushes himself up on one elbow, eyebrows knitting together. “What are we doing?” He repeats. “Same thing we’ve been doing for the last few months, I thought.”
You’re shaking your head before he can finish the sentence.
“It’s not the same. It’s not the same and you know it.”
He sits up straighter, blue eyes boring into you like he’s trying to read your mind. It feels like an eternity before he speaks again, and when he does, his voice is low and restrained. “Where is this coming from?”
You make a vague, exasperated gesture with your hands. “It’s coming from…all of it. You call two nights in a row and I come running. People at work are starting to talk because we barely even try to hide it. Your kids are sleeping right down the hall and you’re offering to let me spend the night—”
“Okay, okay,” he interrupts gently. He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. You’re right,” he admits. “Things aren’t exactly the same. Haven’t been for a while now.” He pauses, the intensity of his stare keeping you glued to the spot where you stand next to his bed. “I just don’t see why that’s a bad thing.”
Your chest constricts at the way he doesn’t try to argue. Doesn’t get defensive, just wants to understand.
“Because it was never supposed to be…this.” Your gaze drops to the floor. “It was supposed to be casual. No strings attached. No feelings. But now?” You look back up to find him still staring at you, jaw clenched. You mentally will your voice to stay level, but emotion still slips through. “Cuddling all night then having breakfast with your children in the morning? Calling me baby like I’m yours? That’s not casual, Frank. That’s—”
He cuts you off with an incredulous laugh. “That’s what this is about?” He pushes the covers off of him, grabbing his underwear as he jumps out of bed to yank them on. “Me calling you baby?”
You’re silent as he walks over to you, stopping when his still bare chest is just inches from yours. He looks at you, unblinking, as he waits for you to answer.
You stare up at him, offering a small shrug. “Tell me it didn’t mean anything. Tell me it just slipped out and meant nothing and I’ll let this go.”
He lets out a breathy, humorless laugh and shakes his head. “I’m not going to lie so you can stay in your comfort zone,” he says, voice dangerously low. “It wasn’t just a slip. I called you baby because that’s what you are to me. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but at least be honest with yourself about why it upsets you.”
His words hit you square in the chest, knocking the air from your lungs and causing you to take a small, involuntary step back. “And why exactly do you think it upsets me?”
He leans in slightly, his eyes darkening. “Let me ask you this. Are you really that pissed off that I called you baby? Or are you upset that me calling you baby made you come harder than I’ve ever felt you come?”
You laugh at that. Cackle, really. Louder than you probably should at this hour when his children are sleeping with only walls in between you.
“Wow,” you exhale. “Okay.” You nod. “You’re a dick, and I am leaving.”
You don’t wait for a response before you’re grabbing your tennis shoes and bag off of his floor, not even bothering to put the shoes on your feet before storming out of the bedroom and making a beeline for the front door.
You’re aware of footsteps trailing after you, of Frank calling your name in a desperate whisper-shout, but you don’t stop. You aren’t thinking, you aren’t processing what just transpired, you just want to go back to your place, scream into a pillow, and hope that when you wake up in the morning, your heart is no longer doing gymnastics in your fucking ribcage.
“Please,” he breathes, his hand blanketing yours over the doorknob when you go to turn it. “Hear me out for just a second, okay?”
You don’t look up. His palm feels like wildfire against your skin and your brain is screaming at you to yank your hand away but you’re frozen in place.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he starts, voice a notch above a whisper. “If you want to leave, you can leave. But I can’t let you walk out of here thinking that this is still just sex to me. It was at first. I don’t know exactly when that changed for me, but it did. And I think it did for you, too.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. All of the words that you know you should probably say pile up in your throat.
I can’t be what you want me to be. I don’t know how.
I’m scared of hurting you. I’m scared of getting hurt.
It’s easier for me to shut down than to admit how I really feel.
I don’t remember how to let someone in. I wish I could.
For you, I wish I could.
You swallow them all down.
But you don’t tell him he’s wrong, either.
“I’ll see you at work, Frank.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Though the cravings have yet to subside, Frank is now a month sober from the exact thing his therapist had warned him about in the earliest days of his recovery.
Unlike when he got clean from benzos, this specific brand of newfound sobriety isn’t his choice. It’s yours.
He would never choose this for himself.
But still, he has surprised himself. Hasn’t reached out, no matter how much he has wanted to. Hasn’t texted you, no matter how many drafts he’s typed and deleted. Hasn’t called, even though it has killed him inside to watch your name get lower and lower in his call history. He’s given you space at work and has only talked to you when it pertains directly to a case.
He’s hated every fucking second of it, but he can officially say that he is thirty days clean. If the past thirty days have taught him anything, though, it’s this: he’d happily fall back into old habits, if only you’d give him the chance.
Because it isn’t the sex that he misses most. The sex doesn’t even crack the top ten things he thinks about when he’s trying to fall asleep at night.
It’s the way you’d occasionally forget a hair clip or chapstick on his bedside table and he’d find little pieces of you when you weren’t around and smile. It’s the way he’d get a text from you when he least expected it. It’s the way you’d ask about his children, and make a point to celebrate his recovery milestones even when he didn’t.
And now he’s here, thirty days without you, and one thing has become abundantly clear to him: he didn’t fall back into addiction, he fell in love.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
The news comes on a random Tuesday.
Temple University Hospital. Philadelphia. An internal medicine based fellowship you had impulsively applied for the night after you slept with Frank for the last time.
You had already made peace with the fact you weren’t going to get it. Didn’t think you even stood a chance, really, and you were okay with that. You had already been offered a pediatrics fellowship here in Pittsburgh, anyway.
Then the email appears in your inbox on a random Tuesday morning while you’re at work.
Suddenly, you have what most doctors approaching the end of their residencies don’t have: options.
And because you can’t talk to the one person you most (selfishly) want to talk to about it all, you talk to Cassie, instead.
“Wait. Temple?” She exclaims. “As in Philadelphia? I didn’t even know you had applied! What happened to pediatrics here in Pittsburgh?”
You sigh, taking a seat on the concrete curb in the ambulance bay. “It was really last minute. I didn’t say anything because I really didn’t think I’d get it. And as for the peds fellowship…” You shrug. “I don’t know what I’ll do now.”
“Oh my god,” she laughs, sitting down beside you. “That’s amazing. Do you know how hard it is to get into that program? They’re crazy selective.”
You force a smile. “I know.”
Cassie’s smile falters into concern. “Why does it seem like you aren’t thrilled about this?”
“I am,” you answer way too quickly, hugging your knees. “I’m just…surprised, that’s all. It’s big news.”
She stares at you as if you’re a patient who’s lying to her about how much pain they’re in. “You sure that’s all?”
Before you can bullshit a response, the automatic doors to the hospital slide open, and the very reason that you find it impossible to jump for joy right now steps outside.
He’s saying something to an EMS worker, completely oblivious to you watching him from across the bay, but the mere sight of him makes your heartbeat stutter and palms go clammy.
“I’m sure,” you force out, your eyes still glued to Frank. “It’s just…”
“Just…?” Cassie prompts, then follows your gaze. A few seconds of heavy silence pass between you before the pieces click into place. “Oh.”
You nod slowly, your throat tightening. “Yeah. Oh.”
She clicks her tongue. “So that’s why you submitted a last minute application for a fellowship in Philly.”
You can’t deny it. Not when you know she’s right. Not when you’re staring right at him with every feeling you’ve been trying to bury since the very first time you kissed him bubbling to the surface.
“I really fucked things up, Cass.”
You finally look away from him, your eyes burning with the threat of all of the unshed tears that you’ve refused to let spill for the last month.
“Between you and Langdon?” She asks gently.
You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I completely shut down the second things started to get real. He told me how he felt and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I feel the same. I just ran like I always do and…”
“And now you’re thinking about running to Philadelphia.”
Again, you can’t even deny it. Not in any way that would be halfway convincing.
“Temple would be a great opportunity,” you mumble instead, looking down at your shoe.
Cassie purses her lips. “It would be,” she agrees. “But moving five hours away isn’t going to magically erase your feelings. You have great opportunities here, too. And I don’t just mean peds.”
She nods in Frank’s direction. You glance back over to where he still stands chatting with the EMS worker. At the same moment, he looks up and his blue eyes meet yours.
You exhale, hoping that he doesn’t have a hidden talent for reading lips. “I don’t know if he even wants to talk to me at this point.”
She snorts. “Please. If the way he’s been moping around like a dejected puppy for the last month means anything, then you have nothing to worry about.” She pauses. “Look, if you really want to go to Philly, then I’ll help you pack. But if you’re gonna go, go for the right reasons. Not because facing your feelings scares you more than the thought of moving three hundred miles away.”
You hate that she’s right. But not as much as you hate the fact that you know she’s right, and still might take the easy way out, anyway.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
What hurts Frank more than anything is that he doesn’t hear the news directly from you.
He isn’t supposed to hear it at all, actually. He only finds out because he happens to be standing a few feet away at the nurse’s station, and Victoria’s voice carries.
“I heard about your fellowship offer from Temple,” Victoria practically sings. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you. Internal medicine, right?”
Frank doesn’t even look up from his tablet at first. He isn’t sure who Victoria is talking to, but he has no reason to believe it’s you. You didn’t apply to any fellowships in internal medicine. You’ve always been interested in going into emergency pediatrics—
“Oh—” Your nervous laugh causes Frank’s eyes to shoot up. Your back is to him, so he can’t see your facial expression. “Yeah, thanks,” you tell Victoria, your voice an octave higher than it typically is.
He doesn’t register the rest of the conversation because of a shrill ringing in his ears that makes him bolt to the restroom.
It’s been one month since his last legitimate conversation with you, and now you’re moving to Philadelphia? For a fellowship in internal medicine, which you’ve never expressed interest in during all the years you’ve worked together or months you slept together?
And you didn’t even tell him yourself. He heard it from Victoria talking so loudly that patients in fucking triage probably heard the news.
Not that you owe him anything. Of course you don’t have to run your life decisions by him. He was just blindsided is all.
Blindsided, and more devastated than he probably has any right to be.
He wishes he could be as happy for you as Victoria is. But no matter how much Frank works on himself, no matter how much time he spends in therapy or how many self-help books he reads, he’s always been a selfish man when he’s in love.
But you aren’t his to be selfish over. He knows this. He’s painfully aware of it every time he sees you at work and every time he feels your absence when he’s alone at night.
So when he sees you walking to your car in the parking garage after work that night, he tries to do the right thing even though it feels wrong.
“So, Philly?”
You come to a halt beside your car, slowly turning around to face him. You purse your lips in the way that Frank knows that you normally do when you’re nervous, adjusting your bag over your shoulder.
“You heard about that, huh?”
Frank stops a couple feet away from you, one hand on the strap of his backpack and one crammed in his pants pocket. “Yeah, Javadi doesn’t exactly whisper.”
“Ah,” you breathe. Then, with a small laugh, “No, I suppose she doesn’t.”
An awkward beat of silence passes between you as it dawns on Frank that this is damn near exactly where he stood months ago when you first kissed him. The realization makes his gaze flash to your lips.
God, what the hell is he doing?
He clears his throat and starts to take a step back. “Well, I just wanted to say congratulations. Temple will be really lucky to have you—”
“I haven’t decided anything yet,” you interject quickly, the words nearly running together. “I just found out yesterday so I…I don’t really know what I’m going to do yet.”
Frank hopes that his face doesn’t show the sudden relief he feels to hear of your indecision.
“But I’m sorry you found out that way,” you add in a smaller voice, not meeting his eye. “I was going to tell you, once I made a decision.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says softly. “You don’t owe me anything. I just want you to be happy. Even if it’s not here.” He pauses and adds the words that taste like bile when they leave his mouth. “Even if it’s not with me.”
But goddamn, do I wish it was, he thinks.
A storm of different emotions flicker across your face in the span of about two seconds. For one of them, Frank thinks you might step toward him.
But it’s just wishful thinking, or maybe the shitty parking garage lighting.
“Thank you, Frank.”
Anything else he could possibly say would be solely for his own benefit, so he nods.
And he doesn’t want to risk ruining the moment, knowing there’s a chance that he may not have many more with you.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
The words on the screens in front of you bleed together.
The email you received yesterday morning from Temple University Hospital is open on your laptop screen. The iPad in your hands displays UPMC Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh’s website.
You’ve scanned and scrolled as if the answer you’re searching for will appear in bold letters across one of the screens, but since you got home from work a few hours ago, the only decision you’ve succeeded in making is chamomile over peppermint tea.
You thought taking a hot shower might help you clear your mind. All that resulted in was remembering all of the times that you ended up at Frank’s or he ended up at yours after work and you’d shower together, washing off the long day with your hands and lips on each other the entire time.
After cutting your shower short, you figured eating something other than a protein bar would help you gain at least a little mental clarity - but then you opened your fridge to see leftover takeout from the Italian place down the road that you know Frank likes, and completely lost your appetite.
The following hours weren’t much different.
Put on body lotion - remembered how much Frank loved the smell of it. Turned on music - the first fucking song that played on shuffle was by an artist that Frank introduced you to. Searched through a pile of laundry for a cardigan - found a t-shirt Frank accidentally left at your place over a month ago that you can’t bring yourself to give back to him.
He’s still everywhere. It’s been a month and he’s still occupying spaces that he hasn’t been in weeks. In your apartment and in your brain and in your heart.
And to top it all off, the words that he had said to you in the parking garage tonight won’t stop replaying in your head.
I just want you to be happy. Even if it’s not here. Even if it’s not with me.
But what if it is? What if it is here? What if it is with him?
You sigh, rubbing your eyes, but it does little to improve the quality of the words on the screens in front of you. Maybe, if you put on your reading glasses, everything will become clear to—
Your hand freezes on a piece of paper in your bedside table drawer as you’re searching for your glasses.
A bright blue, wrinkled sticky note. You don’t even have to flip it over to remember what it says but you do, anyway.
Stop overthinking. You made the right call. You always do.
Also, stop scowling.
Frank’s handwriting. He’d scribbled the words, crumpled the paper up, and flicked it at you across your desks while charting after a particularly brutal trauma that he knew you were beating yourself up over.
It had been the first thing to make you smile that whole day. It was a reminder that you desperately needed at that moment. And it was from Frank. Of course you kept it.
And now here it is. At the exact moment you so desperately need that reminder once again.
Stop overthinking.
So that’s exactly what you do. You stop overthinking, and do what you should have done a long time ago.
He’s probably already asleep, but you put on your shoes.
There’s a voice in the back of your mind telling you that you’re probably too late, but you grab your car keys and make the short drive to his place.
And there’s a tight ball of anxiety in the pit of your stomach that begs you to turn around, but you raise your hand and knock on his front door.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Frank is convinced that he must be dreaming.
He didn’t actually hear a knock and open his front door to you standing outside at midnight.
There’s no way this isn’t his subconscious playing some cruel joke on him. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve appeared in his dreams, but it is by far the most realistic he’s had. He can feel the chill of the night wind as it blows the familiar scent of your body lotion in his direction and it is all so, so lifelike.
It doesn’t register that he is very much awake and you are very much here until you speak.
“Shit.”
It’s the first word out of your mouth.
“I’m sorry,” you huff. “Are the kids here right now? I hope I didn’t wake them up. I didn’t really think this through. I just got in my car and drove here before I could chicken out because I’m tired of chickening out and—”
“Hey, hey,” he soothes, stepping over the threshold of his doorway. He almost reaches out and touches you, but stops himself at the last second.
You’re here. You’re actually fucking here right now. It’s the middle of the night and you’re in your pajamas and slippers and he has no idea what you’re talking about, but you’re here.
“What’s going on?” He asks gently, unable to keep obvious concern from his tone. “It’s…after midnight. Is everything okay?”
You nod. “Everything is fine. I’m sorry to freak you out. I just…I told you that I was going to tell you whenever I came to a decision.”
Frank stares at you, his mouth slightly agape. You did say that…approximately five hours ago.
The shock and the hope he had initially felt upon realizing that you’re standing on his front porch is quickly replaced with dread at what you might say next.
He swallows, his voice rough. “So…you made a decision, then? About Philadelphia?”
Another nod, followed by a smile that he can’t quite read. “Philly sounds great. I mean…the Eagles, the Liberty Bell…cheesesteaks.” Your shoulders lift in a small shrug. “And the internal medicine program at Temple would be a really great opportunity.”
Frank drops your gaze, bracing for what surely comes next.
“But Philadelphia does not have the guy that I love.”
His eyes shoot back up. You’re staring at him, eyes wide and closer to tears than he thinks he’s ever seen from you. Before he can speak, you take a step closer and he forgets how to breathe.
“It doesn’t have you.”
Frank knows it defies all science and logic, but he swears the entire city freezes around you two right then and there.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt before his brain has a chance to catch up. “Frank, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have walked out on you like I did. I shouldn’t have shut you out, I shouldn’t have taken this long to get my head out of my ass—”
“Hey—” he tries gently, but you’re on a roll now.
“—and I should have told you that you were right. It wasn’t just sex to me, either. I don’t think it ever really was. And I get it if I’m too late. I get it if you can’t give me another chance. But I’m not going anywhere, I’m done running away from what I feel, and if I have to prove every day that I love—”
That’s it. He won’t listen to another word.
Not that he doesn’t love the sound of them coming from your lips because goddamn, he does. Every word, every apology, every promise you’re willing to give, Frank will take.
But he can’t just stand here and watch the way your hands are starting to shake and listen to your voice begin to tremble when every part of him that has missed you for the last month screams at him to pull you close, so that’s exactly what he does.
It only takes a fraction of a second for you to process that his lips are moving against yours.
Your hands fly to his hair, his own dropping from your face to your waist to pull you flush against him. You gasp into his mouth, a pretty noise that Frank is happy to swallow down. It takes no time at all for the kiss to turn fervent, a clash of tongue and teeth that makes him grateful that it’s the dead of night and all of his neighbors are asleep.
“—you,” you finish when you reluctantly break apart, your breath warm against his lips. “I love you.”
The three words are everything he’s been waiting to hear since the first night you kissed him. He just didn’t know it at the time.
“I love you, too, baby,” he murmurs low. A smirk forms on his kiss-swollen lips. “It is okay that I call you that now, right?”
You let out a sound that is half laugh, half sob at the words. You grab his face in your hands and pull him down again for one more kiss, this one shorter but just as sweet.
“Please,” you sigh, smiling up at him. “Because you weren’t wrong about the effect it has on me.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
thank you so much for reading. if you comment/reblog i love you forever n ever 💗💗💗
summary: your relationship with jack has always been 50/50: he buys you everything, and you let him. this arrangement, as he calls it, works perfectly - until you start to worry that you may not be the only one who's doing it with. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, mentor!michael robinavitch, baran al-hashimi, samira mohan
contents: friends with benefits, sugar daddy!jack, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort, so much sexual tension cw for mentions of injuries, medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, heavy mentions of smut 18+ (MDNI)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Jack Abbot rushes into the ER with a high-velocity GSW, a close call of his own, and a terribly smart mouth.
Splotches of dark crimson stain the camo of heavy-duty tactical gear as he bursts through the double doors of the ambulance bay, squeezing rhythmically at the intubation bag he holds in a bloodied hand. You rush instantly from the work station to meet him halfway without a second thought.
“I thought you were off today,” you tell him, in lieu of a greeting, as you escort him to the nearest open trauma room from the opposite side of the gurney.
“Well, my therapist said I needed a hobby, so…” he quips, with sweat dripping from his greying curls. He manages to flash you a playful look in the midst of all the chaos as you situate the unconscious policeman in the center of the room. “What about you, huh? You’re supposed to be off, too— What’s your excuse?”
“Well, I had a strange feeling that I might see a pretty man in uniform today,” you shrug, slipping on a pair of gloves. “So I decided to work a double— See if my wish would come true.”
The corner of Jack’s mouth lifts into a crooked, tight-lipped smile. “Well, if you like this, you should see me as a flight attendant—”
Robby rushes in with Dr. Al-Hashimi just behind him a second later, shattering the playful tension between the two of you with a thousand different questions. You’re left as the only resident in a sea of attendings and nurses; Dr. Al passes you the reins accordingly. “This is a learning hospital, right? Time for you to learn how to be the boss, R4.”
“Hear that, Abbot?” you joke as the older man migrates inevitably to your side, smelling of blood and sweat and the cologne he always leaves on your pillow. “I’m the boss here.”
“Well, you could try to be a little more humble about it, sweetheart,” he squints and tugs on a disposable PPE gown, which Perlah helps him tie in the back. “Let’s do some skin hooks— 4 Shiley. Sound good?”
You hiss through your teeth and drag the clear blue sleeves of your own gown over your shoulders, while Robby stands behind you to knot the garment in place. “I don’t really like the curve of a Shiley… Especially not if we’re about to rush him up to the O.R.”
“I didn’t know you were so picky.”
“Well, you should know better than anyone, Dr. Abbot,” you grin. “Cut me an ET tube, will you? 6-0?”
“Yes, ma’am…” the older man nods and holds back his giddy grin until he turns away from you.
Robby grumbles a noise of disgust in the back of his throat in the meanwhile — quickly realizing that the two of you were much easier to stomach when you were working night shifts together, and he only had to see you for half an hour in passing, at most.
“Jesus Christ— Get a room, you two.”
“Well, technically, this is a room,” Jack quips distantly as he returns to your side with the endotracheal tube in tow. You make room for him at the head of the gurney on instinct, and drape a thin blue cloth over the patient’s neck, centering the aperture over the gushing wound.
Robby moves to the opposite side of the bed and pulls the haphazardly placed intubation bag from the man’s mouth with careful hands. “One without me in it, preferably,” he argues.
“Ooh…” you lilt. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Dr. Robby.”
“Just focus,” he scolds in a gritty tone of voice.
“You need to find the second and third tracheal rings,” Dr. Al instructs, sliding between the crowd and motioning to his neck with her gloved pinky. “You’ll be able to feel them with your fingers— just make the incision through the cricoid cartilage and be careful to avoid hitting the vocal cords, yeah?”
She flashes you a dark, doe-eyed, and distantly unamused look, seemingly immune to the playful banter surrounding her.
You nod once, scalpel in hand. “Yes, ma’am.”
You make the incision while Jack preps the tube. You work together with deft hands and a relative silence, aside from a few procedural directions. For the most part, the two of you communicate without words — you locate the man’s ruptured trachea in a sea of bright red blood while Jack slides the thin tubing to make an airway.
“I’m in,” he blurts after a few tense minutes. “Balloon up.”
The rapid beeping of his dropping SATs begins to even out almost instantly.
“I’ll sew the tracheal to the skin,” you announce within a sigh of relief. “2-0 silk, please.”
Jack passes you the round of sutures with a proud nod and a quiet smile. “Not too shabby, Doc… We make a pretty good team.”
“Or maybe I’m just really good at telling you what to do, Abbot,” you quip.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “That, too.”
Robby and Dr. Al take their leave when the chaos dissipates, and Garcia comes down from the O.R. for a consultation. They trade the crowded trauma room for an equally crowded emergency department — slowly filling to the brim, like a pot bound to boil over. But, even still, it’s not nearly as tense as whatever you and Abbot have going on.
“Are they always like that?” the woman wonders aloud, nodding her tied-back curls towards the room behind them.
“Yep…” Robby nods with a heavy sigh, rubbing hand sanitizer between his calloused palms. “But they’re not usually dayshift, so… My philosophy is— let the night crew deal with it.”
You and Jack decide to follow Robby’s advice and find a room of your own — on the half-abandoned wing of the eighth floor, where everything smells like dust and time gone by, and the dying overhead lights only work a quarter of the time. It’s a good enough place to be alone with him, though; it gives you ample time to patch up the wound on his shoulder, and saves Jack the trouble of getting caught with the injury and being forced to fill out a mountain of paperwork accordingly.
He sits on the edge of the hospital bed with his shirt off and his broad arms crossed over his chest. The tendons in his freckled back twitch despite himself when you smooth a fresh bandage over his freshly cleaned scrape.
“Does it feel okay?” you ask him.
“Yep…” he nods once, trying and failing to get a peek of the gauze from over his shoulder. “Fine.”
Your concern doesn’t waver. Your brows lower with it, in a palpable look of worry that etches across your face. “You’d tell me if you were, like, in pain, though, right?”
Jack ponders for a moment, lips jutting faintly. “No, probably not,” he answers, too blunt for his own good.
“Well. At least you’re honest…”
You sigh and turn on the heel of your sneaker to chuck the dirtied napkins and crumpled wrappers into the bin across the room. Jack watches you go with something mischievous glimmering in his gaze.
“But I am fine, though— If you’re really all that worried about me,” he assures you with a quiet smile. “I’m a little banged up, but… I’ll survive.”
“So I can still come over tonight?” you wonder, half-shy.
Jack nods slowly and tilts his scruffy chin to keep your gaze when you walk the short distance back over to him. “Yes, sweetheart— I still plan on buying you dinner tonight,” he answers in a dry, sarcastic lilt.
Because that’s usually how it goes nowadays. You keep him company for a night, and he gets you food, pays off your grocery bill, or covers your rent — and then you go to work the next day like none of it ever happened.
It didn’t always used to be that way, though, this quid pro quo thing that the two of you had struck up over time. Jack bought things for you because he cared about you, because he didn’t want you to go hungry or homeless when he knew he had the money to help. It was all a part of his job, he figured, to help his residents out whenever he could. But, somewhere down the line, he became more than just your attending, and a whole lot less than your boyfriend. It was more like a secret, third thing that the two of you never bothered to put a label on.
You frown. “That’s not why I was asking, smartass.”
“Well, that’s the arrangement, though, right?”
“Calling it an arrangement makes it sound like I’m your— mail-order bride or something,” you scoff and cross your arms over his chest, following his form with a squinted gaze as he reaches for his discarded shirt. “You don’t have to make it sound so formal, Jack. I know this is fun for you, too.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t…” he quips with a faint wince as he slides the thin black t-shirt over his head, grimacing at the burn that blooms beneath the bandage as he does so.
“And no pressure or anything, obviously, but, uh…” You trail off and swallow hard, struggling to find the courage to continue as your eyes flit everywhere but at the man before you. “My student loans are about to hit for this month, and I—”
“I know,” Jack interjects with a polite nod. “I already took care of it.”
You lose your breath almost instantly, for a reason you can’t quite name.
“…Seriously?”
He scoffs like it’s obvious and rises from the bed, towering several inches over you. “Well, yeah. I told you, sweetheart— You don’t have to worry about that stuff anymore. As per the arrangement...” he croons lowly, with a playful half-smile, before bending softly at the waist to press a fleeting kiss to your lips.
You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe to respond.
You struggle to finish the rest of your charting through the thoughts of Jack still plaguing your mind. You don’t think you’ve been so taken care of before; so seen, so held. You’re not entirely sure what to do with all of it now — these feelings that you’re harboring for your boss, of which you’re almost certain there is no room for in such an arrangement, as he so lovingly calls it.
Because he doesn’t take care of you because he loves you. He takes care of you so you’ll come over at the end of every night, and remind him what it feels like to be a little less lonely. And even still, you run hopelessly to his side anyway — half-ashamed because you don’t even care that he’s using you; half-ashamed because you like it.
“Have you seen Dr. Abbot?” Samira wonders through panted breaths, disrupting your distracted train of thought. She enters your tunnel vision from the opposite side of the desk, and all of a sudden, you’re back in the E.R. The distant droning of constant noise fills your ears when you’re shoved back to reality again. “I’ve been trying to find him for, like, ten minutes at this point.”
“Uh… No— Not recently, no,” you stammer.
Her chest deflates with an exhaled breath. “Shit…”
Your eyes narrow as they scan over her form, frazzled and sweaty, with dark curls falling out of her claw clip to frame either side of her face. “You okay? What happened?”
She sighs and leans her elbows on the desk in front of her.
“Nothing, I just… I should’ve planned this better,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. She talks with her hands as she rambles, “My patient doesn’t have any insurance. And he’s already in a mountain of medical debt as it is, so I was gonna send him home with some supplies, right? But then I lost him, and I was gonna Uber the stuff to his house, but then Dr. Abbot said he’d pay for it, and… Now I can’t find either of them, so…”
She trails off with a deep huff.
You forget that it’s your turn to respond, too hung up on the fact that Jack had offered to help her pay. It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, but it hits you like a punch to the stomach all the same. Because you weren’t special, Jack was just kind; and you’re only realizing now that this arrangement of yours was never exactly exclusive.
“Sorry,” Samira shakes her head. “I know I’m rambling. It’s just… been a long day.”
You blink rapidly, clearing the haze of hurt from your eyes. “No, I— I totally get it. You should check upstairs. He might be with Hiro in the O.R.”
“Thanks,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, that disappears the second she heads back for the elevator across the room.
You return to your charting when she’s gone, but forget to do any of it. You lose yourself in the void of the stark white computer screen, instead, while your hurt and distant jealousy scratches at your chest from the inside out.
Robby watches from afar, giving you a few minutes alone, before dismissing himself from the interns and shattering your cynical stream of consciousness. “How’s the charting coming along?” he asks in lieu of a greeting as he walks to stand at your side.
“Great,” you deadpan, muffled into the hands holding up your heavy head.
He scoffs out a quiet laugh. “Not to say I told you so, but… I did kinda tell you so…”
You turn slowly, peeking at him with one glaring eye as he leans against the desk beside you with his arm crossed over his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you question in a gritty monotone.
“I told you not to get involved with Abbot,” Robby shrugs. “Not until you were done with your residency— ‘cause you already repeated one year, and if you want that neuro fellowship, you can’t have Jack screwing with your head.”
“Oh, yeah?” you squint, feigning interest as you slouch back in your chair. “The same way you screwed with Heather’s? When you got her pregnant when she was your resident?”
You say it to hurt him, and you can tell that it does, though it doesn’t feel as rewarding as you thought it would.
“Yeah, actually…” Robby nods and scratches at the greying patch in his beard. There’s a hurt look swimming in his dark eyes that almost makes you cower when he peers down at you. “Look, kid. I don’t care what you and Abbot get up to in your free time. That’s not what this is. But I’ve known you since you were an MS3— and I know you’re gonna go off to do great things, because I’m the one that taught you, right?”
Your frown deepens.
He smiles wider. “I just don’t want some relationship getting in your head, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s not, so…” you trail off with a less than convincing waver in your voice.
“Really?” he hums, eyes narrowing in a challenging squint. “Have you checked in with that fellowship you wanted?”
You smack your lips against your teeth. “Not yet…”
“And why’s that?”
“When did you become my mom, exactly, Dr. Robby?” you joke and spin in your chair to face him. “‘Cause it feels a little like you’re reprimanding me here—”
“I am reprimanding you,” he tells you, only partially joking, before turning at the distant call of his name. He stands to full height again and flashes you a playfully stern look as he walks away. “Take care of it, alright? Or else I’m grounding you.”
“For how long?” you call after him.
“However long it takes to get your head out of your ass—”
You’re left reeling for the rest of the day, trapped in a merciless cycle of want and unwavering doubt.
Jack is not yet close enough, even when he’s all but smothering you in the center of his bed, pressing you into the mussed sheets below with his broad body propped on top of yours. He smells distinctly of sweat, stale cologne, and the steak dinner he took you to after your shift ended.
You wrap your arms around his freckled shoulders in a feeble attempt to pull him impossibly closer, careful to avoid the bandage still stuck on his left shoulder blade. You bury your nose in his greying curls while he sprinkles warm, wet kisses along the tendons of your neck, relishing in the salty tang of sweat staining your skin.
But even as he slots himself between your spread thighs, even as he marks his territory in the lovebites he litters on your collarbone, you can’t shake the feeling that he’d rather be somewhere else — that there’s someone else he’s thinking of, someone else he’ll call after you’ve left for home, someone else he’ll take care of when you’re gone.
The train of thought leads you inevitably back to the root of your cynicism, which you struggle to shake out of your mind once the visual has entered it.
“Did you ever find Samira?” you hear yourself ask, shattering the honeyed quiet of his lamplit bedroom.
Jack’s head is far too cloudy to hear you properly the first time.
He pulls away from you with a quiet smack and sits back on his haunches. Your hands fall to your stomach, clad only in a thin white tank top, while his rest over your bare thighs, propped on either side of his waist. Your cotton panties are the only thing keeping you hidden from him now, and his form-fitting boxers cradle a hardening length that threatens to make your mouth water.
He wears a swirled look of confusion across his scruffy face, along with his spit on his swollen, kissbitten mouth, as he asks, “Did I ever find what?”
“Samira,” you echo, brows raised to your hairline. “She was looking for you a little bit before we left— Said she needed your help paying for something.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Jack hums, pale shoulders bouncing in a lazy shrug. “Her patient needed some supplies Ubered to his house, so… I took care of it. No big deal.”
He bends down to kiss you again, but freezes with his nose pressed against the bridge of yours when he feels you tense below him. His heavy sigh fans warm across your jaw before he sits back again, features screwed in a faint grimace.
“And I’m realizing now that that’s probably not the best phrase to use, but… I was just helping out a friend— a patient, actually,” he rambles. “That’s it.”
Your eyes narrow in a playful squint.
“That’s it?” you echo.
“Trust me, sweetheart,” Jack scoffs and shifts between your thighs, lifting your hips with his wide hands cradling your ass and bending at the waist to press his mouth over the bow in the center of your underwear. “The only girl getting her student loans paid off by me, is you.”
He leaves another chaste kiss on the cotton of your panties, right over the place where you throb like a heartbeat for him. Your stomach blooms with warmth.
“Because I’m special or because you don’t have the money to afford anyone else?” you ask.
Jack squints, light eyes glimmering with mischief in the low light. “Because you’re special and because I don’t have the money to afford anyone else. How about that?”
You roll your eyes despite the soft smile hinting at the corners of your mouth. “Just get to work, Dr. Abbot,” you scold in a distant monotone.
“With pleasure,” he mumbles, right before sliding his fingers through the hem of your underwear, pulling them to the side, and kissing your glittering pussy the way he would your mouth.
The lamplit bedroom swells with panted breaths and the heavy scent of sex.
Jack slouches against the headboard, heavy-eyed and wearing a mixture of your cum and spit down to his scruffy chin. His toned chest is coated in a thin layer of hair and glittering sweat. You watch a rogue bead trail down his sternum from where you’re perched on top of him — with the sheets bunched around your hips, and your thighs straddling his waist. Your pussy still clenches with the aftershocks of your orgasm while his spent cock softens slowly inside of you.
His calloused hands trail slowly up and down the length of your torso — from your shoulder blades, down to your ribs, over the bend of your waist, and up again. His touch is softer than summer rain, warmer than the cum leaking slowly out of you now.
“Do you think you could write me a letter of recommendation?” you ask, tracing the freckles on his chest with your pointer finger. “You know, for the neuro fellowship we talked about?”
“Wow…” Jack croons drily, brows raised to his hairline. His words slur slightly together as he comes down from the remnants of his high. “No aftercare, huh? Not even a little pillow talk? Just… straight to the point?”
You flash him a playfully stern look from beneath your lashes, lips quirking in a shy smile. “‘M just asking a question…”
“Yeah, while I’m still inside you,” he scoffs a tired laugh. “You know you don’t have to sex with me to get what you want—”
You frown. “That’s not what I was—”
“—You can just ask.”
“I’m having sex with you because I like it, Jack,” you blurt, very foreignly stern with him, as your eyes harden in a glare. “And I’m asking you for a letter of rec because I respect your opinion—”
“And because you don’t trust Robby to give you a good one, I’m assuming?” he quips with an arched brow.
“Exactly,” you nod.
Jack laughs. You can feel it rumbling in his chest beneath your palms. “I’ll e-mail it to you later. How about that?”
“There’s no rush,” you assure him. “Seriously. I haven’t even applied for it yet—”
“Don’t worry about it. I already wrote it.”
He steals the breath from your lungs for the second, third, or hundredth time that day.
“You already wrote it?” you echo, brows furrowed. “When?”
“When you told me about it the first time,” he confesses, bouncing a bare shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I knew you’d need a letter of rec eventually, so... I wrote while I had some free time and just… waited for you to ask, I guess.”
Your face screws with skepticism. It burns somewhere in your chest, too.
Even with him softening inside of you, leaking out of you, you can’t help but feel slightly suspicious of his sincerity. You still can’t quite believe that he cares about you this much.
“…Really?”
“Yeah,” he laughs and squeezes gently at your sides. “Why do you look so shocked? I do care about you outside of… all this. You know that, right?”
“I didn’t…” you confess, painfully shy, and lacking the courage to meet his gaze for several long moments. You focus instead on your hands, and the shapes you trace along his chest. “Not until now…”
“Well, what do I gotta do to prove it to you, huh?” Jack asks within a huff as he rises from his slouched position against the headboard.
The mattress creaks softly as his weight shifts. His warm chest presses firmly to yours, smothering your breasts against his heartbeat, as he cradles you to his chest. His glittering eyes dart back and forth between the two of yours as he says, “I’ve already given you everything, sweetheart…”
“I don’t want everything,” you murmur with a shake of your head, unable to tear your gaze from his attentive one. “I just want you.”
Everyone be kind and supportive this is my first time sharing my work I'm so ill I cannot believe this omggggg who's gonna stop me omggg????
Includes: Fluff, slight flirting, Robby being rude af, comfort, age gap reader is mid 20's (hot), reader is a nurse, she/her pronouns used, tried to be an non-descriptive as possible.
Summary: Robby snaps when reader makes a mistake and is missing a patient, and sends her home. She's stressed and runs into Jack Abbot in the parking lot.
Enjoy!
·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:·
6:29 pm
"What do you mean?"
"He left. I came back from the sandwich cart and-"
"No. I meant what do you mean he left when you were supposed to keep an eye on him?" Robby says, exhausted and very short with you.
You swallow the lump in your throat before attempting to speak to him again. You've been working at the Pitt for over a year now, you should know better than to take your eyes off a patient who has had a long history of being difficult just from the two and a half hours he was here for. Even if he was demanding a sandwich and insisting he would be much more compliant if he just had something to eat. What a load of shit.
"I'm-I... I'm really sorry, Robby," You start, "I've been looking all over the department and I haven't seen him anywhere I- he must've left AMA I just-"
"I cannot believe this. Perfect. Just what I need," He's looking anywhere but at you running a hand over his hair, "I gave you one task, and you couldn't even do that?"
You just stare at him. You've been spit on, punched, elbowed, verbally assaulted. The list goes on and on. But these words coming from Robby had a much stronger effect on you than any patient's words have. You heard from around the ED that he was snappy today, and now you were wishing you had found Dr. Al-Hashimi instead. Actually, if you could go back in time that is exactly what you'd do.
"You know what, I want you out of my ER for the rest of the shift. It's obvious to me, and probably the rest of the department, that you...," He inhales trying to calm down, "You aren't competent enough to be here today."
"Are you serious?" You ask wide-eyed. Never in your time in the ED has he ever spoken to you like this, much less sent you home. You knew you had made a mistake. You knew he probably wasn't going to give you a whole lot of grace either. But sending you home was something you never even thought about.
"Absolutely. I'll let Dana know, just go. Now." Robby says sternly, and then walks away from you. You stand there in shock for a few seconds before walking over to your locker in a rush. Tears were already brimming in your waterline, face hot from the embarrassment of what had just happened. Shoes, bag, hoodie, go.
You make it out into the parking lot before you break, tears beginning to stream down your face. How could you be so stupid? How could you let a patient leave under your watch? You make it maybe ten feet from your car when someone stops you.
"Where you going in such a rush, huh?"
Of course. The one person who was going to catch you in this state was of course the last person you'd want to see you like this. All puffy eyed, cheeks wet with tears, lower lip curled. Dr. Jack Abbot just had perfect timing. You and Jack had worked together plenty in the ED. Plenty enough that you two became a distraction to your coworkers, and yourselves. Constant flirty behavior, joking around. A lot of bets too on which one of you would open your eyes and make a damn move already, unbeknownst to you two though.
You stood with your back to him, thank god, and wiped the tears from your face. You cleared your throat, "Just heading home early. 'M not feeling well." Your voice was still rocky as you haven't calmed down yet. You knew Jack could tell. He always knows when somethings wrong.
Jack's face turns more serious and he starts walking closer, "Hey, hey. What's goin' on, doll?" He asks with concern. You take a small glance over your shoulder meeting his eyes, and immediately he's at your side.
"Come here, talk to me." He opens his arms slightly, unsure if you were a hugger or not. You usually weren't, but with Jack everything was different. You immediately move and hide into his chest, crying even more at his kindness.
"Robby sent me home," You sniffle and Jack wraps his arms around you, "I was supposed to be watching a difficult patient, but then he wanted something to eat and insisted he'd be more compliant if he just ate. I left for a minute just to grab a sandwich and when I came back he was gone."
Jack kept his arms around you and gently swayed back and forth to comfort you. But now he wore a confused look on his face.
"Robby sent you home because of that? You're joking."
You start to calm down, breathing now under control, "He's been snappy all day, and I guess I was his last straw."
You inhale Jack's scent, wanting to stay in this moment for a little longer. He probably thinks your face is so warm from the crying, which isn't entirely wrong, but it was now mainly because of the embrace he was holding you in.
I wish I could stay like this forever.
While you were beginning to be content and now comforted, Jack began questioning Robby's judgement. He was also too nosey to not be questioning it anyways, wondering how bad day shift was to set him off so easily.
"How bad of a shift was it that he sent you home for that?" Jack asked while beginning to softly rub your back to further comfort you. Instantly you melted more into him.
Oh my god it gets better.
You process Jack's question finally and replay the shift in your head. It had been a long day. Starting the morning with a peds trauma case, continuing the day with a shooting over some stupid fight, an attempt, and 3 losses. None were preventable, everyone did everything they could. But that doesn't mean it doesn't weigh on everyone's mind.
"Bad." You answer. Short and to the point to avoid further thinking about it on top of Robby almost biting your head off. You suppose you got off easy compared to others he's bitched out.
Jack nodded his head in understanding.
"I'm sorry, doll," He murmurs into your hair against your head, "I'll chat with him when I get inside. You doin' okay?"
You nod pulling your head off of his chest and sniffled, "Yeah, I'm okay. I guess it could've been worse."
Jack scoffed, "No way he would've fired you over that. He likes you I swear," he says readjusting the backpack on his shoulder.
"Yeah, I'll believe it when I see it," You reply looking down at your hands, "Thank god I'm back on nights next week."
"Counting down the days I bet," Jack winks looking down at you, "You must miss me so much."
You giggle blushing slightly, "You know it. No good eye candy on day shift."
Jack smiles, "What are you doing tomorrow night, you're off, right?"
"Yeah," You reply maybe a little too quickly, "don't think I have any plans. Why?"
"Good, don't make any. Let me take you out for dinner. You've been so stressed with all these day shifts." He's smirking now looking down at you.
You try containing your smile which proves to be insanely difficult, and you know he can most definitely tell. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, a nervous habit you've picked up after years of carrying it.
"Yeah, that'd be great actually," You're smiling wide now, "Wanna text about the details? I don't wanna keep you up."
Jack looks down at his watch. 6:42pm.
"Absolutely," His eyes connect with yours again, "You get some good rest tonight, yeah?"
"Yeah."
He smiles, "Night, doll. I better not get any late night TikToks again."
You're both walking away from each other.
"No promises, hon," You say back, unlocking your car, "Have a good shift!"
You get in the car and lock your doors. And you just sit for a few minutes wondering if everything that had just happened actually happened.
"Holy shit."
You smile, and buckle up and start the car. Humming on the way home.
Later that night you're in bed scrolling on TikTok.
11:43pm
You hadn't noticed it was getting so late, but you were noticing how tired you were getting. Eyes struggling to stay open as you scrolled through endless videos. You've been watching a silly cat video and giggling tiredly at it. Of course this was a joy you had to share with your most favorite attending. Opening the share option you immediately found Jack's contact in your phone and pressed send.
Delivered.
You made it two more scrolls before you got a reply.
Senile n Hot like a message.
Senile and Hot: It's like everything I say to you
goes in one ear and out the other.
You giggle when you read his text.
You: Yeah pretty much
You: Except for all your compliments I soak those up like a sponge
Senile and Hot: So egotistical per usual 🙄.
Senile and Hot: Get some sleep, pretty. You've had a long day.
You couldn't help but blush reading his text.
You: Ugh okay fine I'll go to bed
You: Goodnight or whatever 🙄
Senile and Hot: Sweet dreams, doll.
Internally you are screaming, but your body is too tired to properly express that while being on the verge of passing out. You turn off your phone and close your eyes, drifting off in seconds.
·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨
Okay guys what did we think be nice plz omg. Also might do a part two guys omg let me knowwwww. I'll make sure to link it to this fic if I do! Also let me know if you'd like to see anything else from me or whatever tehehehe omg. Pic is from 'darling' on Pinterest!
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i want to write a langdon x reader fic that starts in season one. reader and langdon are married and have been for about two years. since langdon is the ken of the ER that makes reader barbie. they just recently got pregnant. reader thinks their lives are perfect (as perfect as it can be in the ER). reader obviously knows that langdon has been on edge but she chopped it up to her being pregnant/trying for a baby. but then readers world come crashing down on her after robby or dana tell them that langdon is stealing drugs. (i imagine her and dana being super close and dana is the only one who knows about the baby). reader had no idea and in one day her whole world falls apart.
and we go into season two but i’m not sure if reader and langdon would be separated bc he lied to her or something else.
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