You knew it was unprofessional but the moment his lips hit that sensitive spot on your neck, you lost all sense and only came back to it the next morning.

When once again, you lost all senses when you felt his bulge rub against your ass. It was all a mess.

You should have seen the red flags. But you chose to ignore them all.

Simon Riley for one was a huge red flag.

The entire man was a secret and you loved it. It was so exciting and interesting for you.

You knew Simon wasn't the relationship type of guy so you knew what to expect. You were ready for rejection at any given time.

But of course, it never came.

Not once did he reject anything you did, ask or told him to do.

Not even on the battlefield.

Simon knew you were talented so why would he question it? But now, now he had a question, a question he was afraid to get an answer to.

"What did you just say?"

"I'm pregnant."

Simon saw many terrible things, and done some himself, but that one word was the worst he had ever experienced.

A word that will change both of your lives and he wasn't ready for that. He was dead. Only a ghost, an idea, a machine.

Not a father.

"Get rid of it." he would reply in his panic. He honestly didn't even realize he said it out loud if it wasn't for the hurt in your eyes, he would have believed he didn't.

But he did. And it hurt.

He then turned away and left.

You promised yourself it would be the last time you saw him.

Because now, you finally could see all of his red flags.

All of them came crashing down on you.

But you also knew you won't 'get rid of it'. No, you will keep this baby.

And after getting a note from your doctor, you retired from the army, focusing on the baby and yourself instead.

Fuck Simon and his attitude.

Fuck him for not stepping up when you needed him.

Fuck him.

You will do better without him.

---

Living in a small apartment in a quiet place in London might have been the obvious choice.

But it was your choice.

You wanted to prove that you can provide for your child.

Thankfully you were smart enough to not spend the money you earned while in the army.

So, you had enough money for now.

Not for very long, but you could still get a little nursery done in your home.

You went to all of your appointments with that doctor.

Hearing the heart of your baby beating was like magic.

And then the announcement of the century, you were having a little girl.

A beautiful little girl who is yours.

Your daughter.

You needed many days to let that sink it.

Being pregnant and alone was a nightmare.

No one was there to rub your feet or to help with your cravings.

You told yourself you don't need anyone anyway… After all, who would want a woman who is pregnant with someone else's child?

There might be a couple men out there but you didn't need them.

You just needed you and your baby.

And that was enough.

When the time finally came, you could only stare at her, sleeping in her bed next to you in the hospital.

You swore to protect her from everything.

You swore to be enough for her.

You swore to love her forever.

For she was the love of your life.

Your little bundle of joy.

You gave her a name, a name you always wanted to have yourself, so you let her have it instead.

A healthy little girl.

Your daughter, Emily.

Bringing her home was possibly as challenging as it was magical.

You ordered some food for yourself before putting her to sleep.

You tried your best to remember everything the doctor and the nurses told and taught you.

There was a knock on your door, you stood up and walked to get your food.

But of course, instead of your food, a man stood in your doorway.

Simon.

"You got to be fucking with me." you said as he looked at you.

"Nice to see you too, Lass."

"What do you want?"

"I believe you have something of mine. Half, mine."

"Go fuck yourself Simon. This is all you can say? 11 months and this is the best you can do. Leave."

And you slammed the door into his face.

When your food finally arrive you did catch a glimpse of him still waiting in the hallway. But you didn't care.

Who did he think he was?

Half of his?

Fuck him.

How dare he?

---

From that day on, he was everywhere.

In the grocery store, in the park, in the restaurants. Wherever you and Emily went, Simon followed.

One day, you were sitting on a bench, Emily sleeping in her stroller when he suddenly sat down next to you.

"I'm sorry."

"That's a better start." you said, not looking at him.

"I was a complete idiot when I told you to…" he looked at the stroller as you watched him, you understood what he meant. "I have been watching you for a while now. I found you when you were five months along."

"So, you have been watching me for 6 months now?"

"About that much, yes. I died the day my family died. I am a ghost, a baby didn't fit into that."

"Then wear a condom." you said with a harsh tone, he knew he deserved it.

"I am not father material. I am a soldier. Having a child is… not for me."

"Why are you here Simon? Are you here to tell me, this time nicely, that you want nothing to do with me or my daughter? Fine, have it your way. Leave, I didn't need you then, I don't need you now."

"You were the best of us. 141 isn't the same without you. Price often said that you will be the end of me. He always joked about you and me… a quiet life, but I don't think he meant it as a joke. You fascinated me always. You are so beautiful and kind."

"Simon-"

"The day you were told you are having a girl, you were so happy. You went to a restaurant and ate so many things, then you went to the ice cream shop. The lady looked at you funny when you asked to only eat the pink ones. I followed you, I watched you."

"Why are you here Simon?"

"Price told me to find you, he told me to make things right, but he only spoke the words I have been meaning to do. I knew I needed you the moment you joined the team. I let you go because of my own doubts and fears. I do not know what I would do if anything happened to you or her."

His words were sincere. His eyes were filled with guilt and regret.

You would be lying if you said you weren't attracted to him. You always were and will be.

"I can't let you in Simon if you are only going to leave us." is all you could say, your voice, barely a whisper.

Simon was about to say something when Emily started to stir and cry.

You grabbed her and put her on your chest, slowly bouncing and calming her down. You looked at Simon whose eyes were glued to your little girl.

"She has your eyes." you said as he looked at you and then back to her. You moved her slightly, making her face him.

"She looks like you." he said. "Beautiful." it was something he wasn't meant to say, you could tell easily. "I don't want to leave, but I have to. It's what's the safest for you two."

"It's not enough. I am not going to just send you photos of her for every anniversary. I'm not going to tell her that her father wants to see her but can't. It will break her and me. Either you have us Simon or not. I'm not doing the tango with you."

"You were always the all-or-nothing type." he chuckled. He was looking at Emily and you could tell it wasn't an easy decision to make. But you couldn't let him have it his way. As if to help your case, Emily reached out her small hand towards Simon, you smiled at her but waited for his reaction.

He lifted his hand and let her touch his fingers.

Simon will never forget the feeling of his daughter's first touch. It was so warm and innocent. Her little fingers played with his much bigger ones.

Simon came with the intention of letting you go. But he couldn't.

When he first saw you, you were radiating.

Your belly was showing as you walked from store to home. Simon should have known it was a done deal after that.

He should have known he will never be able to let go.

"I will make this right." he said as he let Emily wrap her tiny fingers around his thumb.

He couldn't believe just how terrible he was towards you that day. Telling you to 'get rid of it', of his daughter. He will forever regret his words. No matter how much he will do in the future. You offered him a small smile and a simple nod.

You knew he will be able to make things right, the two of you will be able to figure this out.

Simon Riley might be a walking red flag with a tragic past, but when you handed him Emily, his eyes filled with love and suddenly, in the bright daylight those red flags looked more pink to you.

Taglist: @fleursirvart @greenarrowhead @thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @destynelseclipsa @spilledinkindumpster @capsiclesdoll @puknow @alwayshave-faith @alex12948 @lxdyred  @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @praline357 @trshngyn @avengers-r-us @violet-19999 @top1bbgloak   @manduse   @jacalineiscomingforyou  @mandoloriancookie @noname2246

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

You don’t respond beyond another sob of pain. 

“It’s okay!” Pool water splashes up to his mouth, soaking him to the bone. “Come here, I got you–” You scramble backward, eyes blown as Steve offers his hands. He has to swim toward the deep end. You seem steady, somehow, despite the depth, but you’re sinking and the blood is coming in blooms, now. 

Steve grabs you harder than he means to, feeling something sharp glance off of his arm. There must be debris in the pool. “Hey, I got you, I got you,” he says, hands under your armpits. 

Steve gazes frantically into the water for the wound and realises you aren’t wearing a thread of clothing. No top or bra, just naked skin. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, drawing you closer, not sure how you ever could’ve ended up like this and drawing horrible conclusions, “you’re gonna be okay, I got you. Let’s get you out of the water.”

You grab him back, and for a second Steve thinks you aren’t going to let him help, but he concentrates on looking like someone you could trust. “I got you,” he promises. 

The effort of treading water doesn’t hurt. It can’t take ten seconds to get you to the shallow end, but suddenly you’re pulling out of his arms and he’s glancing back at you, and you’re shoving him, not hard but enough to get him away from you, leaving him in a tangle on the shallow steps leading out of the water. “Wha–”

You let out a shaky sob and point down at yourself. 

Steve’s eyes trip over your bare chest and the red lancing of blood dripping down your navel to a sudden line demarcated into your skin. It looks like tiles. Like coruscated foil. 

It’s like scales. 

Steve gasps loud. It burns his throat. 

“Oh,” he says. 

You cry again. 

“Oh.” Steve shakes his head. You’re a girl, and you’re bleeding and you need help and you won’t get out of the water and you don’t have legs. “Okay. Okay, what the fuck.” 

Steve scrambles out of the pool. His feet slip on wet socks and puddles of water on the way to the sunroom. He yanks open the door, hears the shitty little padlock clink and the wood splinter as he forces it open and lets the wind slam it into the side of the house. The sunroom is too dark to see, but the towels are where they’ve always been in a hutch to the left. He grabs as many as he can and jogs back out. You’ve squandered back into the middle of the pool, a sorry, sad little frown on your lips. Your face is wet, but Steve can see you crying. Tears bumbling down your cheeks to gather at your chin. 

“Come here, then,” he says, kneeling at the shallow-end steps. 

You glare, untrusting. 

He resists the urge to glare back. “Come here,” he says again, gesturing with his arm for you to come. “You’re gonna bleed to death in my pool and– and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you after that.”

You come at his gesturing but you struggle. He can see now the– the tail of you, the body of it, not overly wide, about the width of you but longer than a normal woman’s legs would be, your dark pearlescent scales thick with blood at your navel and darker the further down they go. You scrunch yourself up some, but Steve can see that your tail (what the actual fuck) isn’t overly flexible, and you cant get up the steps without crawling on your elbows. 

“Can I get you?” he asks, holding out his arms, one of the towels toppling into the water in his hurry. “I don’t know how to help you.”

You go deeper into the water and push toward the inside of the pool’s kidney-bean shape, into deeper water. Steve’s knees cry out as he follows. 

You brace your hands on the side and lift yourself up. Not enough to get out of the pool, but– Steve doesn’t know what you want, but he grabs you and he yanks you out because he sure as hell isn’t about to fix your problem like this. 

You cry out, a pained, angry squeal as Steve drags you onto the stone floor. 

“I am so sorry!” he says, aware that he sounds angry and too flustered to correct himself. “I’m sorry, I need to look, and I can’t fix it in the water, can you just–”

He is beyond relieved that he can sit you up. You get with the program despite a complete lack of communication, throwing your hands behind you to lean back without falling. Steve catches a flick of softer material at the end of your tail —your fins, two thin, shining lengths of skin with tendrils still submerged. 

His ears ring. 

He isn’t sure how long he spends in a fuzzy haze, a few seconds at most, but he blinks out of it when you make another wretched sound of pain. 

“What is this?” he asks, murmurs, hand cupping your soft tummy where a mess of blood stains below a dip that must be your belly button. “What did you do?” 

Your crying is weird, out of water. Without the wet to dull its echo, it comes out like there’s something missing. It’s like you’re trying to talk to him when he asks, a sad murmuring as you gesture weakly to the blood running down your skin. 

Steve presses one of the towels to just under the wound. He can’t really tell what’s going on, but it definitely looks like a cut that needs pressure, down to the fat and gaping. You’re gonna hate him. 

“I’m really sorry,” he says, edging the towel closer, waiting until you meet his eye to nod encouragingly, “but I have to, okay? I have to.”

To his surprise, you lean into his side. He shifts to take your weight, holding you against him as you take the towel out of his hand and shove it over your cut. 

It probably needs stitches, but Steve can’t stitch. He can’t even sew. He doesn’t know anybody who can, except for…

Stop the bleeding first. 

Steve cringes as you let out another shaky cry. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, rubbing the length of your arm but careful not to jostle your hand. “You’re doing really well, you’re really brave. You’re doing a great job.” His eyes close against the sting of chlorine. God, your cut must be hurting like a bitch. 

“I got you,” he says, thinking wildly that he doesn’t have a thing, not a grip nor a clue, and that you are in the worst of hands. 

A demogorgon isn’t easily explained, but it is explained. Ever since they killed that loser in the Creel House and El closed the gate, the other dimension’s history and geography has been pretty well documented by the few who saw it in action. Steve himself has been asked for his first person accounts, and rewarded for his efforts with a pink-paper non-disclosure agreement. Nowhere in any of those interviews did the scientists mention mermaids. 

You don’t seem like a monster. Sure, you’ve got scales and little sharp fingernails and a weird belly button, but you’re lacking the five-petal death maw. You look like a girl, a pretty one when you aren’t ragged, probably, with the thickest eyelashes he’s ever seen and shiny mother-of-pearl at the corners of your eyes and the tip of your chin. Through your wet hair, he can see the shine of it on your earlobes, too. Would a demogorgon have earlobes? No! You’re one of the earth’s creatures, Steve decides, because he gets to be the authority. And you must be so cold. 

Steve grabs a towel and wraps it around your shoulders, covering the valley of your chest but not the wound. “Fuck, what are we gonna do?” he asks you. 

You meet his eyes. There’s something there. Not an understanding, he’s pretty firmly assumed you have no idea what the fuck he’s saying, but recognition at least. You offer a weak, what he thinks is appeasing murmur of a language he’s not sure exists on land and let your weight lay heavier against his side. 

After a soggy minute, you pull the towel away from your wound tentatively. The bleeding is far less aggressive than before. You turn your face to his and chirp, like you’re saying, Hey, look! 

Steve stares around at the water and the bloodied towels and doesn’t know who to call first. Not Dustin, lest they have another D’Artangan event. Not Robin, who told him very seriously after their shift that she would be sleeping and not to wake her up, no, not even if he saw something on the TV he wanted to rant about. Not Nancy. He honestly can’t be sure she won’t bring her shotgun. 

“What do I do?” he whines pathetically. 

You look sympathetic. Your next chirp is kind of adorable. 

“I’m gonna get you some waterproof plasters,” he says, because it’s all the options he’s got. “Okay? Even though I’m sure you… um, mer-girls heal up somehow. Do you?” 

You tilt your head. Steve tries to move and your curiosity rockets into fear, hands grasping his bicep as you give a sad, “Ah!”

“I gotta get it for you! And I can’t stay wet, I’ll get pneumonia again.”

“Ah!” you say, more like a warning this time. 

Steve furrows his brows at you. “Do you know what I’m saying? I have to go.” He points at the house. 

You shake your head up and down like a frantic nod, but when Steve goes to stand, you let out another sad little cry and grasp at his arms. 

“Okay!” He says, slamming back down, his sweatpants slapping the floor with a wet plop. “Fine, Jesus. Don’t sound so sad.” 

You trill under your breath. 

Steve grabs the ends of the towel around your shoulders and brings them together again firmly, covering the peaks of your breasts. “I thought you were supposed to have shells.”

You take one of his hands and put it on your hip. He doesn’t get it, how could he? But he lets you rub his hand against your scales and remarks at how gentle they are under his hand. They don’t look like they would be. 

Then you fill your mouth with spit and let it dribble into your hand. 

Steve steals his hand back, scared you’re gonna make him take the big glob of saliva you’ve gathered into his palm, but you raise the towel from your wound and transfer your saliva in a move that is oddly methodical. Then you press the towel back and offer Steve a smile, as if to say, See! 

Steve does not see. 

“Where did you come from?” he asks. 

You mumble back at him. 

“Do you know?” he asks. “How did you get here? How did you end up in my pool, of all places?”

Your mouth opens wider, and the sounds you make are closer to words. You’re speaking in your own language, high-pitched but not overly loud. Then you nod again, but you’re frowning, and Steve figures there’s nothing he can do here without Robin and her translation skills. Does knowing three languages help when it comes to deep sea creatures? 

Maybe he needs a whale song dictionary. Do scientists even know what whales are saying? Not that you’re very whale-like. No, you seem far more agile. 

Your hands are so human. Your arms. You have the soft fat on your upper arms and the same bones in your wrist, the only difference is your fingernails and their light pearlescence like the shine on your cheeks and chin. 

Where you’ve brought your hand up to spit into your fingers, you’ve transferred blood onto the delicate skin under your bottom lip. He grabs another towel, drier than the rest, and brings it to your face to rub it away. 

You close your eyes. 

Steve’s own widen in surprise. How totally still you go. How sincere your trust is, even though you don’t know him, as he wipes the towel over the planes of your face, drying the pool water and washing away the blood. 

He dries your neck, too, then the lengths of your arm. You let out the funniest sound yet, a laugh without laughter, just huffing breath through a little smile as the fabric runs down to your hand. 

“Guess you’re not still hurting,” he says. 

Your eyes open. 

They’re unlike anything he’s ever seen. You have white sclera like his own, but your pupils are bigger. Even dilated, Steve doesn’t think that a human’s pupil would ever be so big. It’s subtle but uncanny. And you have a phosphorescent glow running around it; there isn’t colour to your iris —the pupil and the iris are both black, but separated by a faintly glowing line that’s broken up like dabs from a tiny paint brush. There are tinier tines coming out radially from the line, uneven and seemingly without pattern, though they aren’t noticeable at first glance. You could get away with being stunningly human, really. Your eyes are beautiful, and only foreign to his species upon further inspection. 

You press your tongue deliberately to the back of your teeth and force air from between them in waves, repetitive and nearly melodical, like a whistle that hasn’t formed. You do it a few times, then wait for his response. 

Steve doesn’t know what the fuck to do, so he whistles. 

Your shock is immediate. You say a single word he decides to mean, What?

Steve whistles again, three low notes. 

You answer with the weird breathing thing. Steve does not understand.

“How’s that cut?” he asks, pointing deliberately at your stomach. 

You pull the towel away to show him a bloody, neat line. The skin has pulled back together. It doesn’t look healed in any capacity, skin inflamed furiously and crusted maroon with your blood, but there’s no longer a gap between the two edges of the wound. It’s like you’ve glued yourself closed. 

Steve grimaces, biting the bullet as he begins to fake-sniffle for you, pointing at the wound. “Hurts?”

You point at the wound and sniffle back. 

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, drawing a line down his cheek with his finger to demonstrate the path of a falling tear. “Ow?”

“Ow,” you say, slurring. 

“Yeah, ow.” He takes stock of the situation. “Okay, well, how about we stop sitting on the floor and work out what I’m gonna do?” 

Steve ignores your protesting and grabbing as he stands. He is uncomfortably wet in his boxers, and his toes are frozen now despite the previous warm rain. He takes them off and lets them fall in lumps on the floor, then holds out his arms for you, offering an awkwardly gentle smile. “Let me hold you?” he asks.

“Me?” you echo. 

“Yeah, let me pick you up?”

You hesitate. He doesn’t actually think you’ve understood ‘me’, more that you’d echoed the easiest word of the four he said, but Steve figures there’s time, now you aren’t bleeding to try to communicate. 

“You,” he says, pointing at you emphatically but only once. Then slowly to himself. “Me. Let me,” —points again at his chest— “hold,” —gestures to grab under your arms and lift— “you.” He points at you again. 

You hold up your arms. “Hold,” you say, which he thinks is extremely good progress. Robin couldn’t deny how smoothly the exchange went if she were here to hear it. 

Steve picks you up under the arms and carries you toward the pool chair. He’s glad he didn’t give up on exercise completely when he realised the tail makes your weight distribution harder to handle, but he manages, going slow so as not to hurt you as your fins feather along the floor. His back is screaming as he lays you out in the chair, but you lay down and give him your best smile yet. Inarguably a smile, meant to share joy, or delight, or pleasure. It’s the most human expression you could’ve made. It’s why Steve realises he’s suddenly in the deepest of deep shit.

Steve wraps you in towels and scurries back into the house, up the stairs to his room, where he very unceremoniously kicks out of his wet boxers and sweatpants, hurling them toward the en-suite floor. He pulls a different pair of sweatpants on from the dirty laundry because they’re the first thing he sees, then a shirt, before shoving a pair of socks into his pocket. His closet proves fruitful with a miscellaneous t-shirt that looks bigger than your size, but then he’s standing there paralysed wondering if you need pants, as if any of his pants would fit over your tail, so he spins back to the bedside table for the booster bottle of Ibuprofen and runs back downstairs. He grabs a bottle of water from the pallet and then he’s back outside, in the mostly dark, stepping over bloody towels and puddles alike to get to you. 

You don’t seem half as urgent. 

“Hold?” you ask, offering your arms to him. It’s not quite right, like, if Steve were dreaming, that’s the kind of tone he’d expect the people in his dreams to use. That could be an excellent explanation for all this, actually. Maybe he hit his head or took too many of the booster Ibuprofen before bed. Maybe he had a brain aneurysm and his dying brain has summoned a strange story for him where he gets to be the hero one last time. But this seems needlessly bloody, and your eyes aren’t something Steve’s subconscious could have summoned. He’s not that imaginative. 

“You can stay there,” he says, gently lowering your arms with one of his stretched out to get both at the same time. “I brought you some painkillers, for the ow,” he adds, pointing at your tummy. 

“Ow.”

“Yeah, ow.”

He shakes out two ibuprofen and gives them to you. You glance at them for all of two seconds before you put them in your mouth. And you wince, but they’re gone fast. Steve hadn’t even cracked the lid on your water. 

“Oh, good. Good job,” he says. “Okay. Drink?”

You don’t need instruction for the water, either, he thinks, as you bring it to your mouth. That is, until you lean back and tip the rest of the bottle down your stomach and over your arm. 

“Wait!” Steve says. 

You do not. Your spine relaxes as you wrap your newly wetted arm over yourself, a shiver of pleasure rocking you so viscerally that Steve wonders if it’s polite to be watching. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit. You're probably not used to chlorine, huh? I… shit. I gotta have a bucket around here somewhere.”

You watch from afar as he wanders off to the dark sunroom. There’s a bucket tucked in the rarest corner full of pool noodles Steve and his friends used to play with when they were kids. He dumps them out, patting the bottom of the bucket to loosen any old dust, then jogs back to the kitchen to fill it at an angle in the kitchen sink. He gets water all over the floor as he yanks the bucket from under the faucet. 

“Here,” he says, lugging the bucket to your chair. “Water. Fresh water, no chemicals or dead frogs.”

You chirp again, hands dunked and then cupped to bring messy handfuls of water over your skin. You pat it all over. Steve maybe shouldn’t have dried you off? You don’t seem angry with him, in any case. You beckon him forward and bring his hands into the water with yours, wetting his arms, sending curious looks at his sleeves. 

“I’m alright,” he says. “I’m supposed to be dry. I’m sorry, I– I thought I was helping.”

You hold out your hand. Steve doesn’t know what you want. 

“Huh?”

You open your mouth and bring your hand to your lips. 

“I–“ He goes a little hot all over. “I gave ibuprofen to a mermaid. Shit. Shit, what if you get super sick? Shit.” 

You frown. He frowns worse. 

“Ow?” you ask. 

Steve brings both hands to his face, rubbing until his eyes go itchy. He might’ve killed the mermaid. 

“Ow?” You grab at his hips, which has him flustered and attentive in seconds. After a moment, you pull Steve toward you and rest your face on his tummy, your hand at the small of his back, and you pat him gently, murmuring softly in the language he still doesn’t understand. 

You’re trying to make him feel better.

Steve cups your shoulder, struck dumb. 

Fuck, he thinks, for a whole new catalogue of reasons. 

“Hold,” you mumble.

At least you didn’t try your gluey-spit thing on him.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Truth be told, Jack jumped at the chance to take Howard to Presby - itched for it, even, and he had the decency to feel a shred of guilt at his selfish reasons as to why. 

It had already been a hell of a day: a preemptive shut down at the Pitt, his shoulder was killing him, and he was running on fumes of adrenaline and sheer will. And in his mind, his fucked up mind, the central reason for taking Howard to Presby was because he knew it’d be quicker than getting sucked into the chaos of the Pitt - and the quicker he managed Howard’s case, the quicker he could go home, because, man, he missed his wife. 

The close call earlier that day had done something to him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His chest felt tighter every time he thought of the graze on his shoulder, his lips twisted themselves into a grimace and he felt that odd sensation of impending doom weigh his body down. 

At first he attributed it to stress. Then he decided it was simply because this was his first close call since the Middle East. Then (he’d been self-reflecting because it had been eating away at him; he knew he hadn’t quite pinpointed the mystery to this sudden, knee-jerk ‘no’ reaction to the mere thought of volunteering for another SWAT shift), he concluded that maybe he didn’t have to figure it out in the mess of the 4th of July day shift.

That being said, however, the entire journey to Presby, amid a rather jolly conversation with Howard (he knew the chances of sleep were slim anyway), he felt…off. The muscles in his back were tense, and his skin prickled with goosebumps despite the hot weather - like he was anticipating the next disaster with every corner they turned.

He shrugged it off, tried to shelve it, but the sight of your car by the ambulance bay seemed to yank everything to the forefront of his mind. He froze for a second, double-checking the number plate, but…definitely your car.

Howard noticed. To say the man was bed-bound, he was remarkably observant.

“Are you okay?” The robotic voice snapped his attention back to his patient, and Jack blinked, swallowing harshly, unable to help it when his eyes darted back to your car. Not too outwardly worried - there were plentiful reasons as to why your car was here - but a little concerned nonetheless. Confused, maybe.

Neither of you were supposed to be working today, but somehow those plans had both derailed within hours of your last shift ending.

Jack nodded, clearing his throat, “Peachy.” Fuck it was hot outside, “You ready for this? Presby’s attendings are real pieces of work.”

He didn’t bother mentioning that said attendings were aware of their oncoming patient, nor did he mention one of the attendings was his attending, but he knew Howard got the gist of everything. 

He watched the man’s face closely as his eyebrows lifted, as much of a smile as he could manage softening his eyes, “Put me in, coach.” The reply came after a short delay, and Jack chuckled a laugh, eyes scanning the madness. It was significantly less disorderly than the Pitt, but still nigh on the busiest he’d ever seen it here. Patients lining the corridors, a cool room on the go, staff everywhere. At least you guys still had your systems up and running for the time being, but it was clear you’d also received some less urgent cases from Westbridge.

No sign of you, though. That realisation coincided with striking disappointment.

“See, you say that now.” Jack leaned down to whisper, rather loudly, in Howard’s ear.

It was only when he’d handed Howard off to the Presby radiologists that he stopped. Simply stopped where he was in this ED that was a reflection of his, yet lacking something distinctly homely, and scanned the sea of faces for yours. 

He twiddled his wedding band restlessly, before wandering over to the nurse’s station and flagging down Julie. She’d just slammed the phone down and logged onto one of the screens at the desk.

“Hey, Julie–”

“How–Jack?” The charge nurse blinked behind her glasses, eyes scanning over his form, before something clearly registered in her mind, “Did you bring the patient over from PTMC?”

“Yeah.” Jack shook his head, wary that he was cutting it close with time, “Really sorry, but is she–”

“She’s in on-call room three.” Julie smiled warmly at him, and Jack tried to give her one back. It fell short. Tight around the edges. He ran his hand across his chest, massaging at the weight that had settled there.

“Perfect, thank you.”

Chest tight, mind racing, heart thudding. His fingers remained attached to his wedding ring, spinning it constantly as though it tethered his boots to the ground. He wasn’t sure where this carnal need to just see your face had come from; this incurable itch - he wasn’t usually this bad.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the SWAT mission. Stray bullets ricocheting as the robbers panicked, no doubt also attributed to the sight of camo uniforms and guns twice the size of their own.

A close shave for everyone. A close shave for Jack. His wound tingled once again, and he rolled his shoulder in an attempt to rid himself of the sensation.

He inhaled deeply, people passing him in a blur as he ducked his head down, steps quick and sure as he knocked on the door bearing a number three, before stepping inside.

Darkness. 

He exhaled softly, the metal of his ring clinking on the cold doorknob as it clicked shut behind him. He barely had time to compose himself before the sound of sheets rustling drew his eyes to the vague outline of a bed.

It hadn’t even occurred to him that it wasn’t you in the bed, but he could almost sense it. That tugging sensation: like the golden thread had suddenly been pulled taut at the close proximity. He felt his shoulder drop slowly, an inch, maybe. Felt the trembling of his ribs ease.

Then a light flicked on.

He blinked a few times, and so did you. 

You were sitting upright, but not wearing scrubs - only a pair of cargos and a grey vest. Whilst he was trying to decipher the sudden dissipation of stress symptoms at your mere appearance, you were staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

Your eyes raked over him, stood stiff as a board, jaw clenched tightly, a slightly wild look in his eyes. He looked more rigid, more rough than you were used to. Like he was thinking too much about holding himself normally. He wasn’t soft at the edges: there was a slight crease between his brows, and his hand was fidgeting at his side, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to do with himself. Like he’d been caught with it in the cookie jar.

It wasn’t a thought, more so an innate feeling that something wasn’t quite right. And maybe it was because you’d not been able to get a wink of sleep after he’d left for his SWAT shift, maybe it was because he was all you’d been able to think about, maybe it was because you hadn’t stopped worrying since he got the call, but you couldn’t quite believe he was here. Like you’d summoned him by sheer will, or something.

“Jack.” It wasn’t a question - it was devotion, vexation, love, and fear all poured into one mix like a promise.

His throat worked as he swallowed, and his eyes fluttered as he fought the urge to blink again. His hand fell from the doorknob with a soft swish. 

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t even have to for you to push yourself up off the bed. He met you halfway, his limbs feeling a little heavy as you wrapped your arms over his shoulders, mindful of his wound, and he buried his cold nose into your neck, his own arms finding their home on your waist before yanking - ever closer. 

“I just need a minute.” He mumbled, ever steady, ever sturdy, ever reliable, yet still folding completely in your presence.

“However long you want.” You corrected, one hand curling around to lightly scratch the curls at the nape of his neck, still damp with sweat. He hadn’t showered, that much was obvious from the smell coming off him, but after tending to a few of your own patients you’d grown accustomed to it.

He felt tense against you, and despite the rate your brain was working, you managed to keep every burning question inside until you knew he was ready. He just needed a moment to catch his breath. A little slice of peace with no duty to fulfil, no responsibilities to attend to. And who were you to deny him of that?

He readjusted his grip, thumb slowly gliding over the soft cotton of your top in timing with every breath you took - grounding himself as best as he could. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it from where you were pressed together, and his own body heat was slowly bleeding into yours.

And then you couldn’t take it a second longer, the worry tumbling out of your mouth, “Are you okay?”

You tried to rein in the concern that inevitably bled into your tone, but the last text you’d sent him asking for clarification on the ‘minor graze on my shoulder, all good x’ text had remained unanswered, and although you wouldn’t outwardly say that his appearance at your place of work worried you slightly, it wasn’t exactly usual for him to show up in this way.

He nodded, humming gruffly, but didn’t let go just yet, “Came in with a patient, he needed a scan but our machines can’t take his weight.”

“Okay.” You muttered the hand massaging his hair slipping to trace the freckled-spattered skin under the neck of his t-shirt, “Your shoulder?”

A beat of silence.

“Fine. Cleaned and bandaged. Small, shallow.” His voice was flat, listing off information methodically, like it hadn’t happened to him, but one of his patients.

You felt one of your eyes twitch, “Bullet?” Your voice sounded small, tinged with thinly-veiled apprehension. 

He raised his head a little, “Yeah.”

You felt something in your chest splinter, and you exhaled softly, hand stilling in his shirt, worry knocking against your sternum. You didn’t say anything, you didn’t even need to; he already knew how you felt about his extra-curricular, adrenaline-fuelled excursions, and with the way his heartbeat up-ticked at his breath of an admission, you figured it was that that had spurred this little meeting.

Shot at, a voice echoed through your mind, and you resisted the urge to get his top off and look at the damage for yourself.

He huffed a little breath, and you waited for him to speak.

“I think I want to stop with the SWAT stuff.” He mumbled the words into your neck, and your brain stalled for a moment.

Stop? Jack Abbot? 

Your brows furrowed of their own volition, and you felt yourself pull away from him slightly, just far enough to look at his face, read the unspoken words etched into the lines of his skin.

There was not a single trace of amusement on his features whatsoever. He looked stern, almost, his mouth set in a straight line, eyes looking straight into yours, the only hint of softness evidenced through the small crease in the middle of his forehead. He blinked, his cheek twitching under your scrutiny, before shying away from your gaze, eyes flickering to the floor.

“Are you sure?” You lifted one hand to his face, palm resting against the hollow of his cheek, thumb sweeping under the fragile skin of his eye, trying to wrestle his attention back to you.

To confirm that this wasn’t some cruel joke to get your hopes up.

He nodded, humming, before dragging his eyes back to yours.

“Can I ask why?”

His lips parted, and he readjusted his stance, eyes briefly darting to the clock on the wall, “I’ve got too much to lose to be throwing myself in the way of active fire.”

The breath in your lungs stilled, as did your thumb on his warm skin, but he hadn’t finished.

“And I don’t mean I didn’t know how lucky I was beforehand, because I did. I do. I just…Getting shot at really put things into perspective, and I…don’t wanna die.” He swallowed, before slowly nodding his head.

You raised your brows, head tilting curiously, “That’s nice to know.”

He hummed again, teeth teasing his bottom lip, “I thought so too.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Your hands slid from him, coming to rest at his hips, your fingers twisting the black cotton of his shirt.

“Promise.” He nodded, raising a hand to trace your brow bone - an unconscious, affectionate caress, “You coming home later today or pulling a double?”

“Coming home; I only came in to distract myself. I’ll follow your ride back to the Pitt and we can go back together. Good?” 

“Perfect.”

After a moment of silence, he sighed out of his nose, before stepping into your space like he couldn’t quite help it, and wrapped himself around you once more.

they’re all cut from the same cloth—high achieving, independent, confident. they rattle off the answers to complex questions and are caught up on the latest literature and they’re the ideal resident, each in their own way.

you are not one of them. you think robby tolerates your slowness and your occasional confusion and profoundly apparent lack of confidence because it’s been a couple months since the pittfest shooting, and he feels bad. 

it makes sense from the outside, you suppose. you are just an intern. you thought the whole point of this year was to adapt and understand and try to figure out where you fit in within the food chain that is the hospital hierarchy. 

day to day it depends on the senior resident you’re assigned to. you try, really hard, to stay caught up, to not let your mind wander, to have the right answer and make diagnoses as quickly as you can.

you think maybe there’s just something wrong with you. it hadn’t always been like this. you were getting better. 

and then everything happened and its felt like one step forward, two steps backward ever since.

robby is the one that finally caves and approaches you. he must have gotten enough complaints, or he must be fed up with your zoning out and freezing up, because he pulls you aside for a chat at eight in the morning.

“how do you feel about switching to the night shift for a little?” 

his idea, as he’d explained it to you, was that maybe being on the night shift would help your skills to grow. that the pace and the little extra time in between patients and dr. abbot’s tutelage might help you get more adjusted to the environment. 

i am adjusting, you want to argue, i’m trying my best. but your best is not enough when it comes to life and death. 

you know where your faults lie. slow to get to the answer, slow to move without thinking. even your muscle memory is slow—you feel like you’re always waiting for someone to tell you what to do, before you start doing it, just to make sure you’re not doing the wrong thing. 

it hurts your chest to think about it. you’d matched emergency medicine wide-eyed and excited. it’s hard to think about when you enjoyed the hustle and bustle, thought it was exhilarating to be in trauma rooms instead of terrifying, when you were excited to help people with their bad days and stopping them from getting any worse.

it’s you now that has the perpetual bad day. coated in embarrassment and anxiety, worried sick that you’re not doing good enough, that you’re going to be on the chopping block if you don’t get it together.

and then the rush of gurneys and yelling brings you back to the chaos of pittfest in an instant, and you think dealing with the triage patients’ burns and sutures is all the commotion you can handle for now. 

on your last day shift for the foreseeable future, you tell dana that you’ll see her at sign-offs tomorrow night. 

“you sure you’re doing okay, kid?” she asks, and you feel her concern like it’s something visible hanging in the air. 

you’re not doing okay. you don’t know the last time you felt okay. 

but you’re also not a nutcase. you don’t need any rumors at work that you’re not cut out for this—you don’t need to feel that burden weighing down on you, not on top of the others that are already there. you don’t think you could handle it, don’t think your own brain would let you process it. you might be close to giving up if that happens.

you snap out of it when dana repeats your name.

“i’m okay,” you lie, “just not sure about this sleep schedule. i need to set up my black-out curtains,” you say with a forced laugh, hoping she can’t see right through you. 

dana looks back at you a little quizzically, like she’s trying to figure out the real meaning behind your words, but she gets called away before she can finish her assessment.

“just let me know if you need something, okay?” 

“i will,” you lie again. it sucks—you don’t like lying to dana. she’s everyone’s work-mom and you know she actually cares.

maybe you don’t fully understand it yourself. you want to tell someone how you feel, but you don’t want to put your burden on her shoulders either, not when she already has so much going on, so much to worry about. 

it’d be unfair, you conclude as you head out for your walk to the bus-stop. 

it’d be unfair to put the task of helping you and listening to you and fixing you to someone else’s already long to-do list. 

and as you go to sleep that night, trying to stay up as late as you can to sleep in as much as you can, you think—and maybe hope a little bit too—that robby is right. maybe night shift is what you need.

𝜗ৎ

“she’s not doing that good,” robby admits, his eyes following you as you handle your triage sign-offs with parker. he turns back to jack. “she’s anxious. a little slow, but i’m not saying that-”

whatever robby is saying to him briefly fades into background noise. jack’s eyes go to where robby was looking—watching you for a moment.

he knows who you are. he knows your name, knows you’re an intern. he knows robby is mildly concerned about you, knows that he set you up in triage and chairs because you were having trouble with the trauma cases. 

jack knows that it’s not right—an intern needs to experience what it feels like to be in the thick of it. there’s no short-cuts when you become a second year and third year and beyond—you have to know how to conduct yourself. it’s a non-negotiable part of the residency program, it’s how their program creates competent residents and good doctors.

he follows you with his eyes again. you blink fast and play with your necklace while explaining the last of your cases. 

he knows you’re going through the pertinent history, the acute presentation, your assessment and treatment plans and what’s left to monitor for continuity of care.

it’s not what you’re saying. it’s how you say it. you look like your heart is racing, like someone’s about to cut your tether to the hospital if you say the wrong thing. like you’re waiting for someone to stop you and tell you that you’ve messed up.

even from the across the room he can tell something’s wrong. he feels something strange move around his brain and make its way into his chest. he dismisses it immediately—maybe it’s because he hadn’t noticed the issues you’ve been having himself. jack thinks he’s usually pretty good at that sort of thing.

when parker moves on to the next patient and cassie takes over, jack is still looking at you. your shoulders, which seem to be perpetually up by your ears, relax a little. you let go of your necklace and take a deep breath.

“jack?” robby’s voice says, and he doesn’t hear it until robby repeats himself.

“yeah?” jack answers, turning back to face robby. 

“so, what d’you think? does it sound like a good plan?”

“what plan?”

“have her come to night shift for a little while. show her the ropes. work her way back up. sounds good?”

honestly, jack can’t tell if it does sound good or not. on one hand, there’s less residents working on the night shift. there’s not as much cherry-picking, and everyone has to lend their hand equally. you would get to see everything you’ve been missing out on during the day shift. 

he’s sure that parker could guide you well. jack thinks for a moment that taking on another responsibility wouldn’t be a good idea, but watching your sullen expression as you finish sign outs, like you’re counting down the seconds until you can leave, he thinks it’d be better to get you help now, rather than delaying the inevitable.

jack almost snorts. he’s one to talk. 

he concludes that maybe this might be a good idea given that you’re only an intern and you still have so much to learn and you’re much too young to be stuck in this feeling forever. your sad expression lingers in his head even after you’ve walked back to the lockers.

maybe, just maybe, jack could help with that.

when he looks up at robby to respond, he’s half way across the room.

“thanks a lot, brother,” robby half-shouts, and this time, jack does groan. 

well after the day shift has left, he tries to think about the best plan of approach. he has to tell parker, obviously, since some of the responsibility will fall on her too. he’ll tell john the next time he sees him. 

he could start you slow. a step-up from chairs triage, starting with some urgent cases and working your way up. 

if too many people is the problem, you’ll be good as gold after a few shifts. he thinks about the rest of the plan, how he can get you started on incoming traumas and maybe if there’s something you can read to work on a step-by-step approach, if that’s where the issue lies—he doesn’t know since robby didn’t tell him anything else—but he gets distracted all at once.

your sad, pretty face hasn’t left his mind since robby pointed you out. jack can’t tell exactly why, but it feels unfair, almost. unfair to you that this is what you’re going through during your first year as a doctor. 

jack understands the nerves. he would expect you to be nervous, everyone is. it’s the fact that it’s not followed by excited. nervous and excited. 

nervous and excited and gaining confidence, all things you should be feeling. 

it’s the combination you have instead that worries him. nervous and anxious and sad and pensive. 

and well, if that’s what you’re going through, maybe he can help you after all.

𝜗ৎ

jack doesn’t know how much robby’s told you. he keeps it simple on your first shift of nights—tells you that you’ll be working on the remainder of the patients from the morning and then jumping on the most urgent of the chairs alongside parker until you feel (or he decides) that you’re ready to handle it solo. 

jack doesn’t know what he expects from you, if anything. 

it’s a colder night than usual, and you wear a cream-colored underscrub with the sleeves pulled over your hands. he notices a jacket on the chair behind you, baby pink. and just before he approached you, you set down a yellow water bottle.

but when he meets your eyes, the words go out the window. 

sad and pretty. you look at him with your full attention, like looking away would get you in trouble. you nod to everything he says, even though he knows you must be getting anxious at his words. you try to hide it well, but your hands—chewed nails, he notices—go to your necklace right away.

huh, jack thinks. so that’s your tell. 

and just before he leaves, heading out to finish up with robby’s patients from sign-outs, you speak to jack abbot for the first time.

“i’m sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry you have to do all this for me.” 

jack swallows. you’re incredibly beautiful, and almost devastatingly sad. how can he respond to that—he hasn’t done anything, not yet at least. he showed up for work like any other day. he gives you an assignment like he would any other resident. there’s nothing to be sorry about, but you still are, and he thinks that he really needs to understand why. 

jack dwells on it for half a heartbeat, trying to figure out what to say, but you smile—half heartedly—and turn around to go find your next patient.

oh no. 

𝜗ৎ

the night shift is, like robby had told you, a little better for you. it hasn’t even really slowed down yet, but there’s something about the environment that just feels a little more digestible to you.

maybe it’s those things that you were trying so hard to bury—how your feelings of incompetence increase even further when the 4th years on their rotations seem to move faster than you, seem to have the answer quicker than you. 

maybe it’s extra worse because when you were doing your audition here—you had been that student. ever-eager, trying to prove your worth to whichever resident you’d been assigned to that day. you went home and studied rosen’s emergency medicine textbook and listened to case-report podcasts on your commute to the hospital. you answered questions quickly and you didn’t let it show when you got tired and you did everything right, just to end up worse than when you started.

you can’t wrap your head around it. there’s something deeper going on with you—bubbling beneath the surface of your skin, trying hard to rip through and make its way out. you’ve been suppressing it ever since that night, watching how everyone around you made their way back to normal, wondering why you’re the only one that’s lagging behind. 

or maybe they’re not back to normal. but it’s obvious to you that everyone is better at hiding it than you are. 

case in point—you’re the only one that robby shipped off to the night shift. 

you guess you need to earn your stripes back. the first mission towards that goal is convincing jack abbot that you’re not a complete dud. 

maybe the thing that’s been setting you off so much lately is that you have no idea what’s going to come in from those two doors. you can distinctly remember a few short months ago where that feeling was exciting, almost exhilarating. you were seeing something new every single day, the pages of your textbooks coming alive in patients that you finally got to treat, instead of waiting and watching and observing. 

that’s why working out of chairs feels so much safer. the list is endless—sprains and allergic reactions and lots of sutures. it was, at the very least, predictable. 

you smile at your patient—a little girl who was playing with scissors instead of finishing a school project, despite, you’re sure, the many times her mom told her to not do that. mom is heavily pregnant and watches you suture her hand, near tears herself even though the little girl is taking it like a champ. 

“all done,” you hum, wondering if you can go find a lollipop somewhere for her. “you did great.” 

you look up at mom, offering her a tissue for her tears before explaining the rest of the steps. you’re about to find the written suture care instructions just incase, when parker pokes her head in.

“incoming, five minutes. we’re up. meet you out there.” she’s gone before you can even say anything. you spend two of those five minutes making sure the mom gets the instruction paper she needs, and then you walk towards the ambulance bay.

parker is already gowned and gloved up, and dr. abbot is pulling the yellow material on, and you can even faintly make out the outline of his arms under it. 

standing there, it hits you all at once. your feet feel frozen to the ground. the ambulance is maybe sixty seconds away, and you can hear the sirens, and in the craziness of the day shift, the noise didn’t stand out as much as it does now. 

it almost sounds multiplied. like there’s a dozen sirens going off. you can’t fathom that your brain is making it up, so there must be some sort of crazy trauma with tons of patients and absolutely no time for you to shut down. you can almost hear it—the noise will fill the space soon. screaming and crying and that sound that tires make when the person driving slams the brakes too fast.

you are not ready for that. you thought dr. abbot said something about working your way up, slowly, that you’d deal with the lower tier cases before jumping back into incoming traumas. maybe you’d misheard him—you’d felt so embarrassed that he even had to have this conversation with you to begin with, and he was looking at you so earnestly.

he was probably wondering what was wrong with you. you’re asking yourself that question every day.

dr. abbot takes a few steps towards you, and for some reason, you take a step backwards. as if the extra foot of space would protect you from what’s about to happen. 

the part of your brain that’s always reminding you about how you need to get it together has momentarily gone silent. where is it, when you really need it, like right now? the part that reminds you that you’ve done this before and that this used to be something that excited you and that the person coming in that ambulance is counting on you to help save their life? where did it go?

you don’t know how you must look to him. a mess, probably. appearing like way more work than he signed up for. you should apologize again, maybe, like that might help your situation. you are on his night-shift for the foreseeable future. 

“um, dr. abbot, i-” your heart is pounding in your chest.

“that’s okay,” he says, taking a step closer, shrinking the space between the two of you. the sound of the siren gets louder and louder—

but he’s not very far from you. looking up at him, you see hazel eyes that are focused on you. his hair is actually curly—you hadn’t noticed before.

“i-i thought that-”

“you’re fine, kid. you’re not jumping on any traumas until you’re ready. why don’t you go find bridget and get started on something to present to dr. ellis?” 

your relief must be visible to him—your shoulders sink down, your heart slows down a little, and you blink like you’ve just been rebooted. 

“okay,” you start. “i’m sorry, i-”

“stop apologizing,” jack says, walking towards parker, towards the trauma, snapping gloves over his hands. he stops for a moment. “take a deep breath. come find me if you need me.” 

“okay. i will.” 

it’s like your feet need a minute to thaw before you can move. you stand there, processing what dr. abbot just said and your own feelings and why you locked up at the very sound of an incoming trauma for a little longer, as if you won’t spend the rest of your shift and all night and all day tomorrow thinking about it.

and you don’t catch it—but jack looks back at you before he steps outside. stuck for a moment, your fingers going to your necklace, before you turn around. and he turns around too.

𝜗ৎ

your next patient is a man who just flew back from england earlier today. his calf aches and his chest hurts. he tells you how he’s been worried sick since he got back home, and he’s never usually like that.

must be nice, you think, scrambling to find parker once her and dr. abbot leave the trauma room. their patient is going up to surgery and you see dr. walsh in the room.

you feel better once parker’s in the room with you, and then you think about how messed up that is. you should feel perfectly confident with or without someone beside you. you shouldn’t require a babysitter, and maybe you need to make your next goal figuring out how to gain some of that confidence back, but—

“so, walk me through it. what’s next?” parker asks, her gaze going towards the monitor to evaluate his stats.

“dopper ultrasound of the lower extremity. uh, CTPA, order a d-dimer. monitor stats to see if we need supplemental oxygen.”

“good. and?” she asks, and you blank for a moment.

“and?” you repeat. you don’t know why your brain does this. hurry up, you think, he could die while you’re waiting to figure out what else he needs. “and, um-” 

through the glass, you see dr. abbot walking by. he glances in, locking eyes with you for a second, and then he walks away, like he’s not worried about what’s happening in the room. 

“and we start him on anticoagulants after the imaging.”

“good,” parker says, nodding. she explains the next steps to the patient, and one of the night-shift nurses whose name you don’t know yet gets the bedside ultrasound ready. “hm.. let’s see. how about virchow’s triad?”

you shake the ultrasound gel bottle and warn the patient that it’s a little cold. 

“venous stasis, hypercoagulability, and endothelial injury.” 

“good job,” she states, and you appreciate the comment, just because it’s been a while since you’ve heard it. while you work the probe up, she monitors the screen with you. “now, what are we looking for?”

“a darkened area, where the veins don’t compress. no flow on the doppler.”

“uh-huh. bingo. see that?” 

“yeah,” you breathe. “i do.”

it’s a small thing, but handling the case with parker feels good. you’d already been taught times to never assume what the diagnosis is, even if everything is pointing in that direction. coming up with the answer—the correct answer—feels good. 

there’s nothing wrong with wrapping up ankles and stitching up lacs. but you feel a step closer to whatever goal it is that you’re trying to achieve.

the patient heads off to get a ct scan and you and parker go back out to find the next case. 

while you walk back to central, she brings it up. it’s inevitable, and you should have thought ahead.

“so…” she starts, and you swallow. “i didn’t know about the thing with the incoming traumas.”

“i, um,” you blink, heart rate increasing again. you feel your hand going to your pendant, moving it around your fingers. “i’m working on it.”

“that’s okay,” parker says, reassuringly. “well, you did great in there.”

“thank you,” you breathe. “i’m not sure what they told you-”

“don’t worry. abbot told me afterwards. no traumas until you’re ready, i got it.”

“he said that?” 

“you can ask him yourself,” parker says, her eyes going to somewhere behind you. you turn around to see dr. abbot walking towards the two of you. 

“how’s the patient?” he asks, though he’s looking at you. 

“good. um, he’s up in ct right now. we’ll start anticoagulants once we get the results. he was stable, though.” 

“good, good. who’s next?” 

“working on that right now,” parker replies. she turns to you next. “i’ll come find you.”

you nod, turning back to face dr. abbot. your eyes go to his badge for a moment, clipped to the pocket on his scrub top. jack. it’s hard to think of him like that when he’s only ever been dr. abbot to you, the shoulders you see from behind swaying as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, talking to robby at seven pm or the camo backpack walking out at seven am. 

you zone out for a moment, but dr. abbot snaps you back into it.

“you doin’ okay so far, kid?” 

you wish you weren’t the person that everyone had to ask that question to. the embarrassment alone is enough to make you want to work even harder to get back to day shift, to get back to the level you were at before.

“i’m okay,” you respond after a pause. your heart rate hasn’t slowed down. “i, i-i’m sorry about earlier. i don’t know why-”

“i told you to stop apologizing,” jack repeats, and it comes out a little sterner than he wanted. but it gets your attention. you look up at him, blinking quickly. 

“dr. abbot-”

“these things don't change overnight. you…you can’t expect yourself to get back to normal in a day.”

you go quiet, contemplating his words. without even meaning to, you feel your waterline brim with hot tears. 

“i feel like everyone else did,” you admit quietly. “i’m so behind. i feel like i’ll never catch up.”

you take a deep breath, and then you widen your eyes. these are things that you’ve never even admitted to yourself, never given your brain enough time to mull and mope on. and now they’re pouring out in front of your attending, a man you’ve had maybe three conversations with, most of which were today. 

“i’m so-”

“stop,” dr. abbot says firmly. “no apologies. you’re not behind in anything. thinking like that is only going to make you feel worse. you don’t have to say anything, just nod if you understand.” 

you feel your head nodding before you even realize you’re doing it.

“before you leave night shift, you’ll be caught up in whatever you feel like you’re behind in. okay?” you nod again. “good. i’m sure dr. ellis has a case for you, if you’re ready.” 

you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. your hands fall to your side. your heart slows down a little. you start walking towards parker but then you pause, turning back again.

“dr. abbot?” 

“yeah, kid?”

“thank you.” 

you smile at him again—that quick half-smile, and you’re gone before he can even try to stare. 

𝜗ৎ

your first night shift is, overall, a success. you don’t jump on any crazy incoming traumas, though you help treat a man who took a spill down some stairs around midnight that came in via ambulance. you mostly attend to the rest of the people in chairs, switching off between the lacs and dislocations to the more urgent cases as they come in. 

it’s almost four before you know it—and during one of the lulls, you go to the empty break room and make yourself a cup of tea. you try to get as much of your charting done before you see the next person and before your tea gets cold—the longer it takes you, the longer dr. abbot has to wait before he can review them, and the longer he has to stay after the shift ends.

you started yawning because you don’t think your body has adjusted yet, or even will adjust for the next few weeks. mid-yawn, stretching your arms, you had looked around and saw that dr. abbot was already looking in your direction. 

you turned quickly and went back to the charts. god knows you’ve already embarrassed yourself in front of him enough today.

despite whatever you think and assume, it seems like he can almost read your mind. you start feeling anxious when you notice everyone coming in for the day shift, going to the lockers and preparing to come back out. 

it’s your first time doing sign-offs for night shift. it’s clear to you that everyone knows there’s something wrong with you, and that’s why you made the switch. even if they don’t know, they’re about to find out. 

but before you can think too much about it, dr. abbot comes up to you. it’s quick, just in passing before he goes to robby, no doubt to tell him how you did. 

you feel doubly embarrassed that you’re even a topic of conversation for your two attendings.

jack abbot tells you you did great, kid. see you tonight, and walks towards robby. and the hand that was coming to play with your necklace falls to your side. when you do sign-offs, you forget to be nervous. 

for once, you think you had a some-what decent shift. and you know what, or rather who, is responsible for that.

but this is just one shift. you have a lifetime of them ahead of you. you need to take it day by day, hope for progress with each passing one. 

(when you go home and shower and then crawl into bed, with your gray curtains completely shut, despite the fact that light pours through regardless, and a sleep mask that you bought during medical school, you think, for the first time in ages, that you’re not dreading going to work tomorrow. it’s not dread. it’s not excitement either. it’s something in between, something that makes you want to get up in the afternoon because you know what’s waiting for you in the evening. or rather—who is waiting for you in the evening. someone kind and patient and who understands you without needing to say anything at all. and then, you fall asleep.)

𝜗ৎ

you’re back under the fluorescent lighting of the hospital before you know it. you elected to leave your house early today—you couldn’t sleep past two and you had time to do everything you wanted and then some. 

you made yourself a big lunch. you tidied up your apartment, put in a load of laundry. you paid bills and scheduled a dentist appointment that you can actually go to now. even with all of that, you still had enough time to leave early and buy yourself an iced chai before your shift.

you take sips of it while working on your charts once you find a moment to sit down. it’s mostly melted ice and milk now, but still, you’ll take any caffeine you can get. 

you’re mid-yawn, covering your mouth when he walks over and stands behind the computer screen. 

“oh,” you say, putting your hand down. “sorry, dr. abbot.”

“what did i say about apologizing to me?” his voice is gruff, but he has a teasing lilt to it. 

you wonder if he talks to all his residents like this.

“sorry,” you say inadvertently, and then you freeze, realizing what you did. “you know what i mean.”

and then dr. abbot laughs.

you can’t help the smile that takes over your face. his laugh seems contagious to you, and you start laughing before you can help it.

staring at his smile, you realize that you can’t remember the last time you had laughed in the hospital. it always felt like there just wasn’t any time during the day, with so many people to take care of, with so many conversations happening that you didn’t realize where you could even fit in.

it doesn’t really feel that way now.

“so,” dr. abbot starts, and you focus all your attention on him. 

you wonder if he’s going to want to talk about it—your freeze-ups and whatever blanks robby didn’t fill in for him. he must be curious, at least, why you needed the change so quickly, so out of nowhere. at least, that’s what you think, because surely, you’d be curious too if someone—

“-how’d you sleep last night?” 

you stare at him. the thoughts circling your brain shut up mid-sentence. 

“um, good?” you answer, tentative. as if you could possibly be giving him the wrong answer. “how about you?” you ask, brightening up a little, pleased that you can have a real conversation not only about a patient with someone at work.

“uh, fine,” he answers, his eyebrows furrowed like he’s a little confused. “i just meant, i know the first shift on nights is hard. hard to fall asleep during the day.”

“oh.” you want to smack your ipad against your forehead. “oh, yeah, definitely. i mean it was hard, but it was fine. i fell asleep eventually. and then i-i woke up and i couldn’t go back to sleep. so i left early to-” 

your eyes flick down towards your melty chai. the plastic cup’s left a ring of condensation on the station where you were typing up your notes. dana would have your ass if she saw water on the counter—

jeez. your mind is bouncing around at a mile a minute. what were you even talking about?

you look at dr. abbot blankly, and he looks like he’s suppressing a laugh, like your behavior is entirely amusing to him. 

“-i’m gonna… stop talking now.” stupid. stupid stupid stupid. you have one coworker who kind of gets you and he happens to be your new attending and you can’t stop looking like a fool in front of him and he’s staring at you with these hazel eyes—

“don’t stop on my account,” he laughs with a quiet laugh, and you feel your face burn. but you can tell he’s not laughing at you, something you’ve forced yourself be able to discern quickly. he’s laughing with you, or rather because of you. “i’ll, uh, let you finish your charts.”

“thank you,” you reply, a little too quickly. you just need a moment alone, maybe, like that could fix the things that are wrong with you. “sor-” you close your mouth before the word can come out. 

the look that dr. abbot gives you is a new one. you’ve seen a couple so far, notably the one by the ambulance bay and the one at sign-offs this morning.

this one is almost approving. like he’s pleased you’re listening to what he says. pleased that you’re doing what he tells you.

“try the black-out shades. those are really helpful.”

“oh, really? i-i will,” you lie between your teeth. the black-out curtains you ordered are sitting in a discombobulated mess by your window. you had tried putting them up for all of fifteen minutes before giving up and going to bed with your quilt pulled over your head. 

“yeah. i can’t sleep without ‘em.” 

“good. that’s good. i will,” you get out before he walks away. you release a breath and finish the rest of your chai before throwing it away.

𝜗ৎ

your shift is going just like the one from yesterday. maybe even slightly better—now that your apparent inabilities have already been broadcasted to the team, you don’t have to explain yourself or try to work up some twisted excuse as to why you can’t assist on traumas.

you take care of three fractures—two scaphoids and one pinky toe. you suture up a few different lacs and correctly diagnose a hot appy which gets sent up to surgery.

and right now you’re with a mrs. wilson, a sweet older woman who fell at her house. her daughter drove her in and you take her back almost immediately, getting her a ct and waiting for her bloodwork.

she’s got a small cut on her forehead from the spill that you’re using dermabond to repair when parker stops by.

“what’d we got here?” she asks you, and you rattle off the case information. “do you use a blood thinner, ma’am?”

“i never forget to take my eliquis,” she responds, and you smile brightly at her.

“that’s great, mrs. wilson.” you turn to parker. “her daughter just ran to get a coffee. uh, history checks out, head ct’s negative. labs are all normal. she’s on an anti-hypertensive. i think it was orthostatic.”

“agreed. what’s next?”

“-what’s next is that you need to get me that gentleman’s phone number,” mrs. wilson interjects. she’s staring past the open curtain towards central, and you move your eyes almost involuntarily to see what—or rather who—she’s looking at. 

you blink quickly. your mouth feels a little dry.

parker turns to look too, turning back with a laugh. 

“that’s our attending,” she says. “i’m sure he’ll be around to check on you shortly.”

“no, dear, i need his phone number-” she starts again, locking eyes with you. “unless, of course, he’s married-” 

you blink faster.

oh my god. mrs. wilson has just made you realize that you’re a complete idiot. 

you turn your head again to stare at him, waiting five seconds before he picks up an ipad with his left hand. dr. abbot has a black wedding ring that he’s been wearing this entire time. and here you are, staring at him and falling asleep thinking about him and looking forward to the night shift because he’s making your life somewhat easier, easier than it’s felt in months and months, and—

“i-i’m so sorry, mrs. wilson,” you stammer, a little too quickly. you can feel parker’s eyes move to you. “i think is he married.” 

the news seems like a hit to the both of you.

“aw,” she starts. “my daughter. she’s divorced. i’ve been trying to set her up for months, but, well, all the good ones are always taken, y’know, i told her—”

“actually,” parker says quietly. “he’s not. but, mrs. wilson, right now, we need to focus on your-”

your eyes go a little wide. it takes all your strength and willpower not to zone out again while parker discusses the next steps in patient care with mrs. wilson. 

her daughter comes back with that cup of coffee while you explain how to take care of the wound at home. and you hate yourself—hate—because you find yourself looking at her, groaning internally because she’s very pretty and very nice to you. 

and you file away the new information you’ve learned to a small, hidden part of your brain. dr. abbot is not married, but he wears a wedding band anyways. and then you go see your next patient.

𝜗ৎ

you think you’re beginning to find a rhythm. it’s hard, but with each passing day, it feels like it’s getting easier. 

(you bury thoughts of your attending deep inside your head and then you close the door and lock it up with chains, placing a mental do not open sign in front of it. it might be working.)

your focus should be on your medical education. you’re almost positive that’s the only thing dr. abbot is concerned with, anyways. 

at least, you think that’s the only thing he’s concerned with.

you groan as bridget hands you the ipad detailing the information of the next case. fifty-three year old man, chief complaint of priapism. 

“really?” you sigh, and she shoots you a sympathetic look. 

you think you’ve been doing better. you haven’t worked up to the level of severe incoming traumas just yet, and you know you’d be useless if there was a few back to back, but you’re trying your best for now. the night shift doesn’t have as many of those incidents as the day shift, so you’ve begun collecting back your confidence in bits and pieces.

this doesn’t phase you. you celebrate the small victory, that you can handle the urgent chairs cases alone, that you’re not stuck in that familiar pattern you had been only a short week ago. 

(you try not to dwell on the reason why you’ve escaped the pattern.)

your only concern for the patient you’re about to see is what he’s taken and how much he took. you know the procedure, having assisted once with cassie, what seems like forever ago. the order is nerve block, aspiration, irrigation, and then injection.

you’re thinking about where you saw john last. you’ll have to report to him and then both of you will have to do the procedure. you’re going to have to track him down—it’s getting to that part of the night where he’s on the hunt for a snack, once his coffee runs out.

you pull back the curtain and smile politely at your patient.

that might have been your first mistake. you introduce yourself, and while you confirm his name and date of birth, the only thing you can think is sleazy. this guy looks sleazy.

there’s a reason why he’s in the emergency room with priapism at two in the morning, and you don’t think you want to know why, though you’re about to find out.

and a little while later, across the room, jack is looking for you. it’s become his latest bad habit—he likes to have eyes on you, like he’s worried you’ll slip away if he’s not careful enough. 

(he does need to be careful, he thinks. it’s been a week of watching you get more and more comfortable around him. a week of watching you take on new, different cases and do your sign-offs without seeming frightened of the task. it’s been a good feeling. maybe, too much of a good feeling—)

“bridget?” he asks, approaching central. “have you seen my intern?”

his intern. the word comes out like a freudian slip. it’s supposed to be the intern. 

if she notices, she doesn’t say anything. though, jack thinks she’s looking at him a bit more oddly than usual. 

“priapism in bed ten,” bridget says. “i think she’s getting the history before—oh, speak of the devil.” 

he turns around and you’re approaching him.

whatever part of jack abbot understands you, whatever’s inside of him that always seem to know what’s going on with you and how to fix it, and whatever compels him to care so much about you even though you’ve only been here for a short while, gets triggered on high alert when he sees your expression.

he doesn’t even say thanks to bridget before walking up to you, meeting you half-way. 

you look uncomfortable. and jack has never seen you look like this before. it’s written all over your face and your body language. you don’t touch your necklace like when you’re anxious. no, you’re wringing your hands, rubbing your arms like you’re reminding yourself they’re still there.

“what’s the matter, kid?” he asks, and you look incredibly apologetic. he wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that. it makes him want to take care of you forever. 

whatever precautions he was thinking about taking because maybe he’s getting a little too worried about you and a little too pleased with your progress goes out the window.

“um, i need help with my patient,” you start. “i’m sorry, i-i-”

jack is too much in his head about you. his hand hovers over your back, leading you to an empty corner against a wall. it doesn’t look all that professional, though there’s barely any eyes that are paying attention to the two of you. 

he’s got a patient up in ct he’s waiting on for results. two people to discharge. and john is out there manning the front lines by himself for a few minutes.

but nothing else seems to matter when you need his help. 

“what’s wrong?” he repeats, and something in his chest starts to churn uncomfortably. like a hand squeezing his heart at the speed that yours must be going right now, undoubtedly. 

he wishes he could pick up your hand and feel your pulse, but he can’t. he knows he can’t. his fingers still twitch at the thought, though.

“um, my priapism patient is being really creepy. i-i don’t feel uncomfortable going back unless you come with me, maybe? or-or john. i know you’re busy, i-”

“what did he say?”

“um, dr. abbot-”

“what did he say?” 

your eyes go a little big. 

“he said something about… he’ll stay awake for the procedure if it’s me doing it, and…”

“and?” jack is beginning to see red.

“-and he won’t need the procedure if i would just help him out-”  

jack has always been pretty decent at handling his temper, especially in the hospital. people are scared, people are frightened, people are worried about their life and limb and say things they don’t always mean. he keeps it under check because he knows better.

most of the time. 

his hand turns into a fist while he’s talking to you. your eyes flick towards it before you go back to meeting his gaze. 

“dr. abbot?” you say quietly, blinking fast. 

“why don’t you go find bridget and find a new case to work on?” jack sounds surprisingly calm. 

you should have expected it—of course, he’s calm. he’s your attending, after all, all-knowing and knows how to keep his cool in a situation like this much better than you do.

you couldn’t even handle it yourself. you ran to get help as soon as you felt uncomfortable. a different intern might have been able to handle it. you’re not sure how exactly, but you know someone else could have figured it out, someone smarter than you. a different intern might not have needed help—

“are you sure, i-”

“i’m sure, kid. go ahead.” dr. abbot pauses for a moment, like he’s assessing you too. you want to shirk under his gaze. “if you need a break you can go sit down for a little-”

“no,” you interrupt, fiddling with your necklace, “i don’t need a break.”

you do need a break. that guy was so, so creepy. you need to go sit down and watch videos of cats playing with yarn and eat something before you can go see someone else. but that’s not how this job works, you don’t just get a break because—

“why don’t you go find a protein bar and i’ll come get you?”

“no, dr. abbot, i-”

“find something to eat. break room,” he says, and you want to protest, feel the words almost coming out, but before you can, “-now.” 

he walks away, leaving you in the corner, blinking stupidly at his back as you watch him go. you don’t know what it is—it seems like he can just read your mind, like your thoughts are out on display for him all the time. 

you don’t think you like it. 

you decide to be a good intern and listen to your attending. 

you head to the break room and nibble on a granola bar that’s been in your jacket pocket for god knows how long. you pick up your yellow mug with the intention of making a cup of coffee, but you can’t stop pacing.

you just need to work on getting faster. thinking quicker on your feet. if you could figure out what to say, instead of freezing up and running away, you could probably solve half of your problems yourself, without needing help.

and you can’t stop thinking about what dr. abbot said.

not even exactly what he said, but more of how he said it. like he wants you to listen to him, like he’s not going to let up until you do. like you deserve snack breaks and time to sit down and recollect your thoughts after a bad encounter. 

you don’t deserve that. a better intern wouldn’t need those things. a better intern would be out running head first into traumas, coming up with miraculous saves and not being too scared to answer questions and not feel their heart rate spiking every time they’re too close to the ambulance bay.

because on the night of the pittfest shooting, that had been where you—

“hey,” bridget says, and you look up quickly, snapped out of your thoughts. “i got a midnight fall two minutes away, and i can’t find anyone. are you—?” 

“yes,” you reply, setting your empty mug down onto the table a little too hard. “i’ll be right there.”

you leave it as it is, shoving the granola bar back into your pocket. you forget for a moment that dr. abbot told you to stay put, but you certainly can’t ignore the patient to follow his instructions.

(something inside of you feels uncomfortable at the idea of not complying, though.)

you walk by the closed curtain where the creepy patient was currently residing. you can make out two pairs of shoes, one being dr. abbot and the other being john, you assume, and the sounds coming from behind the curtain almost make you stop in your tracks. 

your mind wants to dwell on it for a little longer, but luckily, this time you don’t have a choice but to focus on your new patient, who is also fifty-three and tripped on a dog toy, courtesy of his new puppy, while trying to open the door to let her out. 

you’re pleased with yourself at being able to run through the entire thing with a few watchful eyes. bridget leaves to find parker while you order your head ct and x-rays, though you don’t think there’s anything serious going on. 

the thoughts are momentarily subsided—like each achievement can temporarily ease the burden they leave on your brain. the constant voice echoing that reminds you of how you should be doing better stays quiet while the patient smiles at you and thanks you for your help. 

and you even end up eating the other half of your granola bar a little later, sitting at your station and working on notes until you’re needed next. you drink water to distract yourself from your tiredness, being thrown off your usual routine today. 

john ends up finding you first. 

“well,” he says, leaning on the other side of the counter. he buries his head in his hands for a moment and then stretches. “that was fun.”

“i heard,” you reply, pausing and taking a breath. “i, um, i’m sorry that i didn’t-”

“no biggie,” he interrupts, before you can finish the entire apology. “that guy was a weirdo. better me than you.”

you swallow uncomfortably. 

“thank you.”

“i only have abbot to thank. he said we’re going to conveniently lower his pain meds and i said i was extremely in-”

you laugh, and then feel bad for doing so. while you try to come to terms with what john just told you, your head feels like it’s ringing a little bit. he didn’t have to do that, you think, feeling guilty about the patient’s pain. and then you remember the slimy way he’d spoken to you and suddenly you want to find jack abbot and give him a—

“so, you hold down the fort for us?” john asks, rustling through one of the drawers until he finds what he’s looking for—a packet of poptarts. 

“uh, i tried,” you say with a small smile. “incoming who tripped over his dog’s toy. i think it’s a broken tailbone. dr. ellis is waiting on the ct, and then i thought i’d catch up on my charts, so..”

“yeah, good idea. don’t wanna leave those until seven. abbot will-”

“i will, what?” you turn your head to look at where his voice came from, but you falter as  soon as you see it.

your yellow mug. in your attending’s hands.

if john’s confused, he doesn’t say anything. they keep talking and you hear laughter, see dr. abbot’s smile as he jokes around with john. your head feels like it’s ringing even louder, if possible. 

well, it’s not like you’d announced it was your mug, or anything. people in the hospital share stuff like that all the time. there’s other communal mugs too, you’ve seen them. you just usually keep it tucked away, but you left it on that table, and maybe he thought—

dr. abbot turns towards you and he puts the mug down next to your keyboard. you stare at his freckled forearm for a moment too long.

“i thought i told you to take a break,” he says, and your mind goes empty.

your gaze flicks between the cup of coffee, that somehow looks exactly like the cup you make every night, and your attending, who is staring at you.

“i…i did take a break,” you finally get out, quietly. you finally tear your eyes away from your mug to look at him.

dr. abbot has incredibly pretty hazel eyes.

“it’s okay if you need a moment. that would have been a lot for anyone.”

“i… yeah, i guess so.” 

he shakes his head, blinking at you. 

“not a guess. i know it was. did you eat something, at least?”

“yes,” you answer, suddenly breathless. “but there was just a patient, so i-”

“yeah,” john pipes up, and the two of you break the seemingly endless, prolonged eye contact. oh my god, you think. john’s been there the whole time, watching as you gape like an idiot. “parker’s with the slip and fall now. and young padawan here handled it all by herself.”

you feel like your chest is going to explode from the emotions swarming around inside. dr. abbot smiles at you, meeting your eyes again—

“good job, kid. drink your coffee.” 

“thanks, dr. abbot.” 

he walks away, towards the trauma room where parker is. you have to force yourself to remember that he’s your attending, not just some guy who’s been sweet to you for the hell of it. his whole job is making you better at this. your chest still feels warm and fuzzy and you have to ground yourself, worried you’d float away with your thoughts if you don’t.

his job is to check on you, all of you. you’re not special just because—

“huh,” john says, peering over the counter and at the yellow mug resting by your hands. “he’s never made me coffee before.”

the coffee becomes a regular occurrence. each shift, around a quarter past one, your mug is delivered to you by your attending, no matter where you might be at the moment.

he leaves it at the desk where you type your notes. he hands it to you when you’re coming out from behind a curtain, telling you to sit down and drink it before it gets cold.

and before you can reply, almost as soon as thank you leaves your mouth, he’s off, walking in the other direction and going to help someone else.

parker and john have noticed. they’d be idiots not to. (one thing you know for certain is that you are the only idiot on the night shift.)

you try to brush it off mentally, almost like if you admitted it, if you said it out loud or even thought about it for too long, the walls would come crashing in around you. 

you have so much on your plate as it is. you’ve just started getting better at this, having a better grip on your emotions, not spiraling every time you don’t know the answer to a question or getting nervous when someone looks at you for instructions.

you push it aside and decide it’s because you feel comfortable with your coworkers. not that you hadn’t before—but the fear of failure was so much more jarring with the day shift. the night shift seems decidedly more calm. there’s less people, so less opportunities to embarrass yourself. everyone’s been nothing but kind so far. 

you feel supported and encouraged. and when dr. abbot tells you that you’ve done a good job you feel every nerve in your body tingle with joy. and when you drink the coffee he made you, it tastes better than any cup you’ve ever made yourself. 

you used to have a countdown until your next day off, mentally ticking off the shifts, waiting for minutes and seconds to pass until you had a day of freedom, but now—

whatever jack abbot has done to you, it makes you want to work every day of the week. 

and much to your displeasure, that’s not how the schedule works.

𝜗ৎ

when jack comes in at six forty-five, he thinks it’s a little weird. something feels off. parker shows up at six-fifty. shen at seven on the dot with his iced coffee.

and you are usually here at six-forty, five minutes before him. you’ve usually put your jacket on that chair you always sit at and have your ridiculously bright water bottle perched under the counter, waiting to be pulled out when you start your midnight charting session. 

his eyes linger on your empty seat during sign-offs. he thinks he’s not being very obvious, until—

“even interns have days off, you know,” parker says, and john nods in agreement. jack hears the familiar noise of ice moving as john shakes his drink.

“actually, two. tonight and tomorrow night. golden weekend for the intern,” he replies, shaking his head. “where was mine when-”

parker and john continue chatting, but it fades into background noise. he doesn’t even realize they’re poking fun at him, that it must be obvious that he’s searching for you, even on your day off.

he’s your attending. he should really know about things like that. but you hadn’t brought it up last night, not even when he’d brought you your usual cup at two in the morning, right when he goes to get another cup of coffee—a little behind schedule this time. 

you had smiled at him. sleepy. tired. thanked him sweetly like you always do.

you’d made sure all your notes were submitted and reviewed before seven, regardless of how much you yawn while finishing them. 

and you are currently out celebrating your first few days off since you’ve started the night shift. you must be happy, he thinks, with two nights off in a row, and that too on a weekend. you must be celebrating all the small victories you’ve achieved, all the patients you’ve saved. he’d make you celebrate double for every patient you helped that came in on an ambulance, because even though the two of you haven’t talked about, it’s clear as day to him that—

you’re celebrating right now. and he feels oddly unhappy about it, because he’s not there with you. 

and a few hours later, his head perks up at bridget, telling him to get ready for an incoming. female, twenties, alcohol poisoning. not very far from here, that bar just a few blocks away.

and by the time jack walks up with parker, the ambulance is already there, unloading the patient. he’s just pulling on his gloves, about to ask what do we got? when he hears it—

your voice.

his stomach drops. his feet move even faster, and then he braces himself, getting ready to see you on the gurney.

“you can’t escape this place, can you?” parker shouts, over the blare of the sirens. you take the paramedic’s hand to help you get off the rig. 

“i guess not. gcs nine, i think. sorry, i had a couple drinks too,” you say apologetically, like you should be chastised for drinking on your day off, as if you should have been aware this would happen. 

for a moment, you look back at the ambulance, blinking fast, chewing on your cheek, rubbing your arms. jack almost misses your expression—but he’s relieved you didn’t catch him staring at you again. all your attention focuses onto your friend once you walk into the hospital.

the girl on the gurney looks delirious and tired. her head is rolled to the side and jack’s almost positive her eyes are closed. 

“so this is where you work?” another voice pipes up from behind you. another girl, someone your age, he assumes, walks behind you, staring around. when her eyes go towards the fluorescent lights, she winces and looks down. “jeez. that’s bright.”

jack’s first question in these cases is always how much did she have? and he looks up at you to get the answer—you’re still saying something to parker, filling her in on whatever happened on the rig—and then he locks eyes with you.

parker’s placing orders and setting up fluids when jack realizes he shouldn’t have done that. it’s the first time he’s ever seen you out of scrubs, and he can’t stop staring.

your hair is done up all pretty, a little mussed up from all the commotion. your eyelids are glittery and your lips are shiny. you’re wearing a short skirt and he realizes he’s never seen the skin of your thighs before—

his eyes go up, following your exposed thighs to the skirt that’s going to plague him, all the way up past your shirt, to your fingers that are playing with your necklace. and then you two lock eyes again. 

“i don’t know how much she took,” you say, chewing your cheek, like you want to say i’m sorry, but you know better. “we turned around for five minutes and she was downing shots-”

“that’s okay, kid-”

“well, i didn’t think she’d take all of the shots,” your other friend interjects, covering the light with her hand to protect her eyes. “we were supposed to be celebrating you, not her-”

“it’s okay-”

“it is so not okay,” your friend argues, and he feels an overwhelming amount of gratitude for her. 

because it’s not okay. 

it’s one of your two days off during the chaos of your intern year. you work the night shift now, which means you can’t just go out for drinks with friends anymore, because your schedule doesn’t work like that. 

and from everything he knows about you, he knows you don’t do things like this very much anyways, even when you were on days. he shouldn’t be annoyed, but he is, annoyed that your golden weekend was ruined. annoyed that you somehow ended up back in the hospital. annoyed that—

well, he’s not annoyed about that part. the fact that he gets to see you after he spent most of the last four hours grumbling internally about how you weren’t there certainly doesn’t hurt. 

the outfit you’re wearing—he can’t dream of being annoyed by that. the way you squeeze your friend’s hand and keep checking her vitals even though she ruined your night out. the way your other hand doesn’t leave your necklace.

all things he can’t be annoyed about.

bridget pokes her head in. 

“thought that was you,” she says, and you look towards her, turning your worried expression into a smile quickly. 

“what can i say? can’t go a night without my favorite charge nurse.” you stay smiling but shift on your feet, on what he assumes are uncomfortable, pretty shoes. 

“oh, i’m gonna tell dana you said that.” bridget’s eyes glances towards your friend, and then towards jack. he’s still staring. “you want me to bring you some scrubs?” she asks, facing you again.

“oh, no, that’s okay. we’ll just wait in here until she wakes up. thank you, though.” you turn towards your friend again.

and jack doesn’t need anyone to tell him that you’re nervous. that you feel bad. that you’re embarrassed that you’re here, that you couldn’t take care of your friend. 

“sure,” bridget replies, and then she looks at jack again. there’s something in her expression he can’t quite understand. “got another one pulling up in three minutes. let me know if you need anything.”

“sure. i’m coming,” jack says, though he wishes, momentarily, that he didn’t have to leave the room. he walks around the bed, next to where you are, and your eyes stay on him. “she’ll be fine, kid. you did everything right. and i’m not sure how much closer you can get to handling an incoming trauma than that, so-”

you interrupt him with a laugh and a smile. a winning combination in his eyes.

“thank you,” you say quietly. 

“we’ll be back after to check on her. you should get some rest if you can.”

“yeah,” you reply. “i’ll try.”

your eyes turn back to your friend, and he slides the door to step out, and just as he’s about to close it, he hears it—

“so,” your friend starts quietly, still shielding her eyes. “which one is jack?”

“oh my god, shh-”

he smiles the entire way to the ambulance bay.

by the time he makes his way back to the curtain where they’ve moved your friend for monitoring, he’s seen three and a half extra patients, not including the incoming he originally got called away for. 

it’s well past two, and jack feels a certain… displeasure bubbling inside of him. it started the moment he’d realized you would be stuck here all night on your day off, and hasn’t subsided since john had made a joke about giving you some scrubs and giving you a few of the overflowing patients.

the displeasure rears its ugly head, and turns into something worse, something he can’t describe, when he pulls back the curtain.

(yes, he’s supposed to be checking in on your friend—the patient—but it was really an excuse to see you. he tries to deny it, tries to reason with his subconscious that he spends every other shift making sure you’re okay, so tonight doesn’t feel any different. he’s not sure if he’s winning that argument.)

your other friend is asleep in the chair. the patient is still knocked out, snoring now, with stable vitals.

and you’re standing, looking between the monitor and your friend while you yawn and rub your eyes. 

you turn at the noise and smile instinctively, fingers going to your necklace right away.

“hey kid,” he says quietly. he gestures with his hand, motioning for you to follow him, and you do, quietly closing the curtain behind you.

“how’s it goin’ in there?”

“oh, uh, good. they both fell asleep, but, i guess it is late for them.”

“but not for us. congrats, you’re a real night shifter now.”

you smile and laugh. you are tired, he knows, because he can tell. you’re supposed to be asleep now too, back in your own bed, without any alarms to wake you tomorrow morning.

you should be doing whatever it is people your age do on their days off. he wouldn’t have any idea about any of that. you’ve mentioned some stuff and he’s overheard others in passing—something about the public library and a coffee shop and those heated workout classes that sound like a nightmare—

“dr. abbot?” you question, saying his name quietly like you feel bad for interrupting his train of thought.

“yeah. sorry, uh, just wanted to come check on you-” you smile again, a little wider, before he realizes what he just said. “uh, you and the patient. but it seems all good, for now.” 

“yes. yeah, it’s fine. i can monitor, too. i’m basically sober now.” your eyes travel—darting from him to your shoes quickly.

“don’t let shen hear you. an hour ago he wanted you on the floor.”

you laugh—which jack has come to realize is his new favorite sound.

“no, he just hates suturing. i’ll be back before he knows it.” 

“sorry this happened on your day off,” jack says, and without meaning to, he moves his head, trying to catch your eyes. you look up slowly, locking gazes.

“that’s okay,” you say, sounding much too close to a default, rehearsed answer. 

he’s positive that you won’t give your friend a hard time about this tomorrow. that you’ll neglect to mention how you paced for two hours and didn’t sleep or sit down until you were sure she’s okay.

displeasure turns into anger at the very idea that someone might take advantage of all of your sweetness, all of your caring and your anxious nature that doesn’t let you admit that it’s not okay.

it’s not okay, certainly not when he’s seen you freeze up when you take one step too close to the ambulance bay. how you try to hide how you really feel when you hear the sirens pulling up. why, even a few weeks in, he’s still easing you in to the noise and the chaos as much as he can.

“it’s not okay,” he says firmly, eyes latched onto yours. 

you blink fast, tears suddenly welling up at his words. that’s silly, you think, crying over your attending’s words. he’s just trying to make you feel better, like he always does. in that moment, standing in front of jack abbot, you realize that he doesn’t really have to try. 

he does make you feel better.

“it’s just that sound,” you admit quietly. you feel embarrassed but you can’t find the energy to care, not in your tired, barely-tipsy state. “the sirens. every time i get too close i feel like it’s that night all over again. it’s stupid, i know-”

“it’s not stupid.”

“no one else that works here feels like that. no one else lets it interfere with their work. it’s just me that-”

“it’s not just you. i promise it’s not. and there’s nothing wrong with needing to talk to somebody about it.” 

something in his chest burns and shifts, like lava seeping through his veins. you’re so young to be feeling this way—like you’re all alone in the world, with no one who can understand what you’re going through.

how can he show you that he knows? that he understands, probably better than anyone else in this hospital? that you should talk to him, not here, not even today, not in scrubs under bright lights too close to the source of your worry. 

somewhere else, somewhere quiet, where he could explain to you all the reasons why it’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. talk to you about how great you’ve been doing. show you that you won’t feel like this forever—and that he knows because he didn’t either. 

it’s an entirely unprofessional thought that lingers for much too long. in a few months, you’ll be back on the day shift and this will all be a distant, faded memory. a few months after that you’ll be a second year resident and maybe he’ll see you on nights again.

but right now you’re an intern that he has no business thinking so much about. yet, still—

“how do you always know?” you ask, blinking at him. your wet eyes gnaw at him. he knows he’ll be thinking about them long after you’ve finally gone home.

“know what?”

“what i’m thinking. how i feel. before i say anything.”

“i know a little something about how you’re feeling, kid.”

“really?” you breathe.

“yeah. that, and you have a tell.”

“i do?”

“your necklace. it’s a wonder that thing hasn’t fallen off yet.”  

you smile and he smiles too, and he’s thinking about what he could say next, when your friend says your name from behind the curtain. 

“go ahead,” jack says, before you can think about apologizing for cutting the conversation short. you step towards the curtain and he turns to walk away, when he hears you.

“dr. abbot?” 

“yeah, kid?”

“thank you.”

“you’re welcome.”

𝜗ৎ

just like you said, you’re back at work before you know it. monday evening at seven pm, you’re greeted by parker and john, who ask you how your friend is doing and joke about your brief interlude at the hospital this weekend.

and you tell them the truth—that she’s doing fine now, and has mostly learned her lesson about back to back shots past a certain age. 

what you don’t fess up to is how thoughts of your last conversation with jack have kept you completely preoccupied through the rest of the weekend. they don’t need the details of that, though you feel like you’re suddenly hiding something. 

you don’t like that feeling, either. hiding something usually means you’re doing something wrong, which can have brutal consequences if you’re not careful. and you don’t know if what you’re doing is wrong or not, though your moral guide is usually much sharper than this. 

the truth is that jack abbot makes your head spin. 

you feel suddenly breathless when he turns towards you to quietly ask you a question—usually revealing that he already knows something about you that you’ve been trying so hard to keep hidden. you’re close to lightheaded when he brings you your daily coffee. you get dizzy when you think about someone seeing, someone noticing what’s going on between you and the attending.

because that is wrong. you can’t justify that. attending-intern relationships are strictly frowned upon—you know this because they made you sit through a seminar at orientation with all the other first-years.

you also know this because you’re not that much of an idiot. you’ve watched the steamy doctor tv-shows. you’ve even lived it these last few months, when you overhear nurses gossiping about some resident upstairs who fell for the married attending.

john and ellis are still talking about something you can’t pay attention to when your heart starts racing. you think of how it might feel to be the intern that everyone’s talking about, for everyone to know that you have feelings for jack—

shit, you think. his name is dr. abbot. dr. abbot, your attending, not jack, the guy who seems to know you better than you know yourself. 

dr. abbot, dr. abbot, dr. abbot—

you conclude that you’d have to find a new job. you remember how overwhelming and scary the process had been to find this job, but you think there could be nothing worse than leaving right now.

you’d just began making progress again—the good kind, that makes you excited over small victories, and has you less and less nervous with each shift that you complete. co-residents that you feel comfortable with, that you can approach with questions easily. nurses that you can make silly jokes with. 

you feel like more and more of yourself is coming back with each night shift.

(you have to ignore why exactly that is, just to stomach the thought.)

you can’t possibly mess it up now, you decide, taking the ipad from parker and visiting your first patient of the evening for an evaluation of a burn. 

you repeat it to yourself while you debride the wound—you can’t mess this up when you finally have something to lose. you remind yourself of it when you finish up with the patient, trying to find john instead of dr. abbot to report back to. 

you almost zone out to your thoughts while bridget asks you about your friend from this weekend when she comes to help you with the discharge papers.

and you keep it going for as long as you can, doubling down even more when you hear gossipy chatter coming from somewhere behind you as you try to type up your charts during a brief lull.

you can barely deal with everyone knowing that you couldn’t handle the day shift anymore, much less the fact that you’re falling in love with your—

“hey, kid,” he says, and you look up so quickly that you feel your head rush. “you okay?”

the strength that was holding what little resolve you had melts down like ice cream in the sun. jack abbot, six hours into a busy shift, checking in on you during what’s likely his first opportunity all night to sit down.

“i’m okay,” you reply quietly, trying to move your eyes back to your computer. “just working on these notes. do you have a patient for me?” 

you try to change the topic, hoping he’ll do that thing he always does, read your mind before you’ve even fully spelled out the thought yourself. 

we can’t be something that people gossip about at two am, we can’t, we can’t, i can’t—

“not yet.” 

jack leans against the counter, forearms set up right near the edge of your monitor. your eyes move between the screen and his arms quickly. if you look for too long you’ll start staring at his freckles, and you definitely don’t want that.

“i just wanted to ask, uh, how-”

“oh,” you breathe, interrupting him, even though you know you shouldn’t. you know what he’s about to ask. “she’s fine now. feeling a lot better. i talked to her this morning, so…” you drift off and blink at him, trying to regain your focus.

it’s just so hard when he’s around you.

“oh. that’s good,” jack says, with a small smile that makes your heart thump loudly in your chest. “but i was going to ask how you’re doing?” 

you think that you must look like a confused fish right now—your mouth parts, your eyes widen, and you keep staring at him until you snap out of it. jack smiles like something’s funny about this, like it’s amusing that he turns your brain into a puddle of nothing with a few simple words.

you keep blinking, while a million thoughts run through your head. you’re so hardwired to worry about other people that you didn’t, for a moment, assume that jack was going to ask about you. 

and you’re so afraid of your own anxiety and the thought that you might be doing something to make your own life harder, that you spent a whole half-shift away from the one person that seems to have a knack for finding your off-switch.

“uh… kid?” jack questions, tilting his head in a mix of confusion and concern. 

“yeah?” you reply, the sound of your heart thumping in your ears. it’s getting louder with each passing second.

“how are you doing?” 

you breathe out and the sounds of the emergency department return all at once. monitors and the ceaseless chatter and even your foot tapping against the floor.

“i’m okay,” you answer, and for once, you’re being truthful. “really.”

“good,” jack replies, and for a moment, you stare up at him, wondering if he’ll say anything else.

the truth is that jack doesn’t need so many words to understand you. he stays like that for a moment, watching your shy smile and deciding that this time, he does believe you.

why you thought he’d be asking about your friend is beyond him. jack knows you took care of her even after you’d left the hospital that night. he has no doubts about that, not with the way you care and worry so deeply.

for a moment he lets his mind drift off and wonder how it might feel to be on the receiving side of it. 

“uh… dr. abbot?” you question hesitantly.

“yes?”

“i just wanted to say-”

“hey, abbot, just got a call about a multi-car pile up on the bridge. three incomings, five minutes out-” the shout comes from half way across the room. both of your heads turn immediately towards the nurse. you watch as john and parker move quickly on their feet towards the ambulance bay, and you even steady your hand on the counter, rising on your feet instinctively. 

jack says something back and turns to look at you. he takes a step closer.

“you don’t have to help if you’re not ready,” he says, locking eyes with yours again. 

the truth is you don’t know if you’ll ever be completely ready.

but you feel compelled to follow him, to help him for once, help the others, instead of being the one relying on help and strategic timing and praying for one less ambulance. 

“i-i’m ready,” you say, and once your feet start moving, they don’t stop. you follow jack to the ambulance bay, pulling out a yellow gown and blue gloves for yourself. 

if parker and john are surprised, they don’t say anything. they head outside first and while you quickly tug on the gown, you feel him standing behind you. jack ties the strings behind your neck and waist. warmth radiates from his touch and would make you a little feverish if you weren’t so anxiously awaiting the incoming.

you half expect him to say something about it being okay if you need to leave or tap out, because you know, even now, what he must think of you. you’re still figuring out your trauma skills and this is the equivalent of being thrown into the deep end, and still—

every time you think you know what jack abbot is going to say to you, you end up surprised.

“if you need something, just let me know, okay?” jack says quietly, and you find yourself nodding. 

he doesn’t seem like he’s doubting your abilities. he doesn’t seem like he’s worried that you’ll run out in the middle of the trauma or freeze up to the point that you’re politely asked to leave, like you had during the day shift.

it seems like, to the best of your discernment, that jack believes in you. he thinks you can do this and you don’t want to prove him wrong. 

you and jack follow parker and john outside, and as the sound of the ambulance sirens gets nearer, your hand creeps towards your neck. but when jack meets your eyes again, you feel it fall somewhere by your side. 

it must be silly, the way it feels around him. the noise of the sirens is dimmed. the voice in your head quiets down enough for you to hear and process your own thoughts. 

that’s exactly what happens. you end up on opposite sides of the patient, a woman who looks only a few years older than you. so far she’s got broken ribs from the airbag and a fractured leg. your job is on the e-fast, and you go through the views, glancing up at jack and parker for confirmation while you state your findings. 

you shift over to the other lung when you see it on the monitor, a black area that makes you stop in your tracks.

“there’s a huge hemothorax on the left-” you start, adjusting your probe to get a clearer view. 

“she can thank the airbag for that,” john comments. someone had read the vitals out just a few minutes ago, and you find yourself wondering how she’s still stable with this much fluid in her chest. a nurse pokes her head into the room, telling them that parker needs help, and john leaves, telling jack he’s got it. 

the thought comes up and around your head quickly—you don’t know everything. another one, more quietly—leave it to the real adults, you’re just an intern. 

but today is not the day to listen. 

because you’re not afraid of being wrong around him. because there’s no punishment for you if you say the wrong thing. there’s no one coming to drag you away. just the soft hazel of jack’s reassuring gaze on you.

“i think we need to intubate, because-” you’re interrupted by the blare of the monitor. another nurse reads off the vitals, her oxygen tanking quickly, and you watch as they bring the ambu bag to her face.

“good call,” jack says to you. “c’mon, kid. you up for it?”

you nod. 

you’ve intubated before—a few trauma patients and the dummy in the skills lab pop into your mind immediately—but this seems a little different. you position the scope into the patient’s mouth while the nurse pulls the et tube from a drawer for you.

and it’s almost like muscle memory. the patient’s head is tilted back, you move the tongue, and just as you’re holding the tube in your hand, scope heavy in your other one, getting ready to insert it, you freeze.

it seems like an eternity. the tube in your hand is moving in slow-motion, but your mind locks up. there’s a million thoughts in a second—starting and ending with the last time you intubated someone. 

it was a young girl from pittfest and though you’d thought she was stable, she wasn’t. you’d also thought you could do it, but just like then, you’d frozen up for a moment. that day, luckily, mel had been walking by and helped you. luckily, they got her up to surgery in time.

but it wasn’t because of you. you had almost failed her.

and you’d thought that some other day you’d be alone, without anyone to help, and you’d have to figure it out by yourself, and you’d fail. 

you’d fail yourself. fail your patient. let that poor girl die or get irreparable brain damage from hypoxia because you weren’t fast enough. 

they tell you that in emergency medicine, the difference between life and death is a matter of seconds. 

and this does take a second—one, maybe two—to think and process. to debate—flight or fight? which one will you step up to today?

and then one glance at jack standing next to you, looking at you intently, but not with concern, not with fear or worry, but rather something closer to trust. waiting for you to keep going. the safety net that he provides feels like a catch-all that could protect you through anything and everything.

you extend the neck further until you’ve got a straight shot down to the vocal cords. the tube glides in and by the time you secure the bag and check the end-tidal, the surgery team in rolling in to pick up where you and jack left off. 

another head pokes in—bridget, telling jack that john and parker need him, and he looks back at you quickly.

he says good job, kid, and leaves, and you stay there, a little stunned at yourself, filling in the gaps for the surgeons, answering questions and watching as they work quickly, seeing where you can help.

in that moment, there’s no time to overanalyze everything. you work as quickly as you can to do the best you can for your patient. you don’t stop to think that you’re doing the wrong thing, that judgemental eyes will cast down on you if you take an extra second to think about your answer.

it comes back like a soreness, the good kind, like a muscle you’ve been neglecting to train. 

by the time she’s been wheeled up to surgery, you take a breath and slump your shoulders. one of the nurses is on the phone, calling the patient’s emergency contact number, but you ask if you can do it instead. 

you call her parents, leaning against the wall while you tell them that she was in an accident and was brought to ptmc, and that she has a few broken bones, one of which punctured her lung. you tell them that the team was able to stabilize her and get her up to surgery, and the relief in their voice, and the feeling that you helped contribute to saving her, gives you a rush unequal to anything you’ve ever felt.

it’s almost strange, feeling adrenaline rush through you and causing this sort of reaction. usually it’s coated in anxiety, sticking to every thought inside of you, resulting in thoughts that you try to shove down and away.

today it’s a high. one that will likely only last a little while longer—there’s head lacs and chest pains waiting to be seen, and they don’t care that you were saving that girl’s life, just that you took so long to see them, and you’ll have to calm your beating heart when you start stitching people up, but for now—

for now, you want to find jack and thank him for believing in you. 

there were three gurneys that came from the accident on the bridge. your patient is wheeled upstairs, another gurney is parked by the nearest curtain, with the night shift nurse practitioner whose name you still don’t know suturing their wound. 

and the last gurney is in the other trauma room, parallel to the one you’d been in. you peak in, but whatever excitement had been in your body dissipates as quickly as it had seeped in. 

jack is doing compressions, covered in a sheen of sweat you can see from the window. but from the way john and parker look at each other, there was no reason to keep going. 

you step away from the glass, wanting to give them privacy. it’s entirely unfair—you get to feel good about your save, only for the universe to take that feeling away from jack and john and parker. 

it’s almost an hour later that you see him. parker had come by and you’d given her the update on your next two patients.

“so, how was it? back on traumas?” she asks, and you smile, but wish you hadn’t.

“reminded me why i’m doing this,” you answer sincerely. “i’m sorry about your patient, though. can i do anything?”

“no, but thanks. his family should be here soon.”

“do you want me to-”

“nah, don’t worry. we’ll work on these discharges. abbot will want to speak to them himself.” 

you swallow uncomfortably.

“yeah, of course.” you pause, tiptoeing the line between professional and self-serving. “do you know where he is?”

“if i had to guess, the roof.”

“w-why would he be on the roof?”

“uh,” parker starts, trailing off. you look at her with a quizzical expression, but before she can meet your eye, she’s looking somewhere in the distance behind you. her face changes too—into an expression of surprise. “to get some air. but forget i said that. he’s over there. and i think he’s looking for you.” 

“me? uh-” parker doesn’t wait for your answer, taking off towards the curtains.

when you turn around, jack is walking towards you with your yellow mug in his hand.

“oh. thank you, dr. abbot,” you say, as he sets down the cup. 

jack is mostly a mystery to you. you know him through bits and pieces, you think, through how he treats you and how he is with the others. he makes silly, stupid jokes and always reminds the residents to eat when they can. he’ll take over any trauma if it’s getting to be too much for one of you. 

and he never fails to make you the perfect cup of coffee. sweet and much too delicious for regular hospital brew, though he has managed to perfect it. it can’t even compare to the cups you used to make hurriedly in between one and two during the day shift. 

you’re sure that this cup will prove to be no different. you take a sip, feeling the warmth rush all over you, and when you meet jack’s eyes, you know it’ll turn from warm to hot, like always. his stare is as intense as they come, right now during the lull between patients and in the trauma rooms like you were earlier. 

intense. in a way that you have gotten way too familiar with.

but when you look up to meet his eyes, they don’t seem that way. 

jack looks, maybe for the first time, the closest you’ve ever seen to sad. 

and it’s heartbreaking. for someone that you know through bits and pieces, it pulls at your heartstrings immediately. there’s no smirking smile, no reminder for you to sit and drink your coffee and work on your notes or take a break. 

you don’t actually remember when or where you’d heard it. something about your attendings—robby and abbot—and the roof and getting some air after a bad patient. you hadn’t understood it at the time, mostly confused, thinking if they needed air, they should go out to the ambulance bay. there’s a tiny bench by the side of the wall, hidden from plain sight, and when you used to go and sit there and cover your ears, you should have understood what they meant about the roof.

but he didn’t go to the roof today. he went to make you a cup of coffee instead.

something hot and smoldering burns inside your chest at the thought. you want to say something, say the perfect thing, the thing that makes him feel better and makes him laugh and makes the horrible, aching feeling of losing a patient go away, even if it’s just for a few heartbeats.

but you’ve never been good at that sort of thing. that’s jack’s job.

“you’re not okay, are you?” 

the words come out softly. too soft to be spoken to your battle-hardened attending. there’s just the two of you by the desks at central, everyone else running around or looking for a caffeine fix. but suddenly, it feels like the entire hospital is empty.

“don’t worry about me, kid,” jack replies quietly, and you feel your heart sink. “i’ll be fine.” 

he won’t be fine. this is the sort of pain that gnaws at you for a while, keeps working until it’s through the skin and down to the bone. jack will move on and treat fifteen other patients before sunrise but when he goes home, he’ll think about the one he couldn’t save.

that’s always how it is. you know it firsthand. 

and maybe for the first time, you think there’s not that many differences between you and jack abbot.

and he—well, he always takes care of you. always. in the room with the trauma. with the patient who harassed you. with your own emotions that are always battling against you. 

maybe it’s your turn to prove to him, show him that you can take care of him too—

jack turns to leave, about to pick up his hand from where it rests near your cup, but you move faster than he does, putting your hand over his. he turns back around slowly.

“kid, i-”

“i know,” you say quickly, not wanting him to finish his sentence. “i know. but i can’t just let you be sad all by yourself. you never let me be sad by myself.”

“i’m not sad,” jack starts, taking a step back towards you. your hand burns where you touch his rough, warm skin. “i’m… i don’t have a word for what i am.”

how silly, you think to yourself, that a few hours ago you were worried about you and jack abbot becoming hospital gossip. it seems so small and inconsequential now, when you look into his pensive, pretty hazel eyes. 

you’re holding your attending’s hands while you talk about the patient he lost. this isn’t just hospital gossip, it’d be front page news if one of the blabbermouths saw the two of you. but it’s so hard to care.

so hard to even think about that when you know what he’s feeling. hard to process that your all-knowing, all-seeing attending, who can discern your feelings from across the room, might be going through something just like you right now. 

that you might be the only person here today that could help him through this. that you might be the reason he didn’t go to the roof.

“it’s okay,” you say, supplying words that he’s told you before. “you don’t have to know what it is. i don’t either, sometimes. but, you’re not alone. whatever you’re feeling. i feel it too.” 

“you don’t have to,” he says, with a sad, quiet laugh. “you did great tonight. you saved your patient.”

“but i want to.” the words slip out before you can stop them. 

“kid, i-” you interrupt him before he can finish.

“it’s not about being happy or sad. you’ve helped me every single time i needed it. why can’t i help you when you need it?”

jack pauses, his intense gaze boring into your eyes. then he looks down at your yellow mug, and looks back at where your hands are touching each other.

“you already did.” 

“because you didn’t go to the roof?” you ask, biting your cheek. 

it might be too bold, but you feel like you have to know, feel like there’s an answer that’ll make your head spin. 

and jack thinks it too, keeping the thought in his grip tightly. 

something about how when jack feels like this, he doesn’t want to go to the roof for air. 

he goes and does the one thing that gives him an excuse to see you. 

you, with the uncanny ability to make him think twice about his feelings. you, that he’s looked at for weeks, and wondered why you doubt yourself, why you feel like this, like he used to, when he’s there to help you through it. and so caught up in those emotions, he forgot that at the core of all of this, is the way you think about everyone and everything in this hospital.

think about what others are feeling, what others are thinking. what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. the overthinking intern that he wanted to coax into trusting your gut and calming your fears, while almost forgetting that it’s also your biggest strength.

you can see through jack in an instant. you see the worry and the pain underneath—the urge to take care of everyone stemming from a need to fix what he can, to make sure that the things he does have control over are taken care of. how uncertain it can feel when the things you thought you had control over fail you. when a patient doesn’t come back even though you did everything you could.

“because i didn’t go to the roof,” jack replies. 

“if it’s worth anything,” you start quietly, eyes fixed on your overlapping hands, “i’m glad you didn’t. i… i don’t know what i’d do if you went to the roof.” 

“you’d figure it out, kid.”

“maybe,” you reply, reflecting his sad smile back at him. your hand feels like it’s holding his a little tighter. “but i sure don’t want to find out.”

you use your other hand to take another drink, setting the cup closer to him. jack picks it up and takes a sip.

and he turns and leaves, going towards the viewing room and waiting for the family—a wife and two young kids. you stay there and finish your notes. 

and until seven am, the two of you don’t stop thinking about each other.

𝜗ৎ

robby finds jack at six-fifty am on a wednesday morning. the shift was no different than any other, though he has a harder time remembering the patients and the traumas now than he ever has before.

jack skims through his memories and picks up a few easily—the cup of coffee he made you at midnight. the way you took a sip and then offered him one. he drank it, even though it’s insanely sweet compared to the way he takes his—just plain black. he remembers bringing you a protein bar at three, your sweet smile followed by a yawn, and the faded purple of your underscrub today.

“jack?” robby asks, and he blinks. 

“uh, yeah? sorry. lost my train of thought.”

“no problem,” robby says, more confused than suspicious. “was your shift okay?”

it’s a harmless question which also carries the weight of a freight train. okay is relative these days, jack thinks, because there’s a bias forcing him to think he’s okay, even when he’s not.

or rather—making him think he will be okay, even if he’s not right now. you sit next to him for thirty seconds and talk to him in a soft, gentle voice like no one else should be allowed to hear what the two of you are saying.

and then you smile at him with reassurance, something you’ve had to work on since he got you here. it’ll be okay. we’ll be okay. 

“it was okay,” jack answers. “what’s up?” he stretches his neck, trying to see where you’ve gone off to. you had helped him with the last incoming car accident at six, who is currently stable and waiting in trauma two for surgery. you had done the e-fast, intubated, found a pouch of free fluid and two broken ribs.

and he found himself smiling on the way out, telling you good job, teasing you without meaning to. you feel warm and don’t say anything but you don’t stop smiling either.

you’re smiling now, talking to king and kwon about your sign-offs. 

it wasn’t even that long ago, he thinks, maybe yesterday or the day before. joy had come up to him around seven, groaning as she handed him the tablet he was searching for.

“get me out of here,” joy had said, and jack had looked at her with his usual, confused expression. her gaze is focused somewhere across the room, and when he looks to see what she’s looking at, jack finds himself smiling.

you. you’re talking to the new nurse—emma, he thinks—smiling and laughing with her. the two of you were wearing the same flower-patterned underscrub.

“what?” jack asks, and joy tears her eyes away from the two of you (mostly emma, he surmises), before groaning again.

“dr. bambi and nurse thumper. i didn’t realize i was working at the woodland animal clinic.” 

he turns back to look at you, finding himself agreeing with that assessment. dr. bambi can’t be the worst nickname he’s thought secretly in his head before. the others aren’t nearly work-appropriate.

“be nice,” jack says, though he knows joy doesn’t mean it like that. he beats around the bush—the two of them are two idiots in a pod, staring at that coworker they’re not supposed to be staring at.

“now those two could have saved bambi’s mother, i’m sure.”

jack snorts. even looking at you now, the memory feels fresh. dr. bambi—

robby clears his throat.

“uh, well, i’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to bring her back to days. what’d you say?”

jack whips his head back.

“what? she just got here-”

“it’s been almost a month. and it seems like she’s doing great. i mean, i’m noticing a big change. haven’t you?”

fuck. 

something in jack stirs, a sad, ugly thing that rears its head. he wants to lie, instantly, for purely selfish reasons. to keep you by his side a little longer, to protect the little bubble the two of you work inside of. a bubble made of late night coffee and early morning smiles and taking care of each other without really trying that hard. 

it’s always been easy for him, he thinks, to try and take care of you. he’s only just begun to realize that it might be easy for you too, to take care of him. 

and he’s selfish, he wants to keep you there forever. if not just for him—

he wants you where he can see you, can reassure you, can make sure you don’t go back to that place he just snuck you out of—full of doubt and fear and anxiety. 

but it is for him, at the same time. you push away thoughts that he once felt he could never escape from. teaching you a new procedure or complimenting your work gives him a rush unequal to anything else—your grateful smile is just one part of it.

he has been beating around the bush with it, taking his time, trying to protect you, protect this, whatever this is, not rushing things and regretting anything.

but now—

he can’t lie. 

lying would mean… saying that you’re not ready to leave. that you haven’t improved, that there hasn’t been any changes. that you’re not incredibly smart and competent, that you just needed a little push and a little encouragement and the safe space that jack abbot’s night shift team seems to provide you.

lying would hurt you. impact your education. if you found out that he said those things, things that he didn’t even believe, well, he might not be able to forgive himself.

he stares at robby, head swirling between the two ideas, wondering how, if at all, he can get out of this conversation. he briefly considers telling robby he’ll tell him later but right now he’s going upstairs, but robby’ll just follow him.

and you—well, you’ll follow him too.

“yeah. big change,” jack says, the words feeling painful to get out. 

get it together. she’s your intern. this is a good thing. 

right? 

“al-right, then. maybe starting up at the end of the week? friday morning? i can go talk to her before-”

“no, uh, i’ll talk to her. i got it,” jack says, and robby’s expression is more suspicion than confusion now, but he doesn’t notice.

and you feel it before you hear it—the noise of thunder outside, the strike of lightning. you’ve already had one car accident today because of the wet, slippery roads and heavy rain, and you’re sure it’ll only be worse as the day goes on.

you’re grateful again for the night shift, because now you get to go home and fall asleep to the rain.

(fall asleep and dream, because all you’ve been doing recently is dreaming. about your attending, about his kind words and actions and big hands that make your yellow mug look so incredibly small.)

you say goodbye to parker and john, watching as they disappear with their umbrellas to the parking garage. you usually walk to the bus stop, but you stand by the door, waiting for him.

for jack. it’s something of an unspoken routine—you wait for the other. he walks towards his car, and you walk towards the street, and you don’t say anything besides get some rest, dr. abbot, and he replies with, you too, kid. 

and that’s it—but it’s after every single night. and you’ve always been a creature of habit, so you wait, thinking he’s running a bit late. 

you stare at the rain—too heavy to brave it without any backup. you look through your bag for your umbrella, but it’s nowhere to be found. it would be obvious—it’s yellow, like your mug.

you must have left it at home. 

you unlock your phone, trying to find the rideshare app, scrolling when—

“hey, kid.”

“oh,” you breathe, your heart thudding in your chest, turning to face him. “hi.”

“i need to talk to you about something. it’s-” jack’s eyes flick towards your screen for a moment. “what’s that?”

“i, uh… forgot my umbrella,” you admit sheepishly. “and i didn’t want to get soaked walking to the bus stop, so-”

“you forgot your umbrella?” he questions, raising an eyebrow. 

you think a few weeks ago your face would burn at the line of questioning. silly mistake from a silly intern. now you know that everything jack says to you has an automatic layer of concern on top of it. 

it still makes your face burn a little bit, though.

“well, i-i didn’t realize it would be raining when we left.”

we. you shouldn’t have said that—it’s not even really the truth. you and jack leaving together every shift is not a promised thing. 

it’s just a coincidence, you try to convince yourself. 

you hope he doesn’t notice, and you start chewing on your cheek at the idea that may he does—of course he does—your hand coming to toy with your necklace when he responds.

“i can bring you home, kid,” he says, his hazel eyes staring at you with a different kind of intensity than you’re used to. 

he looks almost… wistful. 

you try to dismiss the thought—why would jack be wistful about driving you home? you’d be a filthy liar if you hadn’t imagined what it might be like to sit in the passenger seat of his truck, to listen to the music he likes, to watch his arms and hands while he—

“that’s okay, dr. abbot,” you respond before you completely give yourself away. “i can just call the-”

jack sighs, smiling a little, like he’s trying to hide it from you. but it’s not what his smile is usually like—sweet and amused like he’s watching a fawn walk on legs for the first time and resisting the urge to swoop in and help. 

it’s something you can’t quite place.

“c’mon. truck’s over here,” he says, and you drop the challenge immediately. you follow him out, through the door that you never go through, the one that you watch him disappear past every day when you leave for the bus stop. 

and stupid as it is, when you walk towards the passenger side of his truck, you notice that he’s following you instead of going to the driver’s side.

“oh. um, do you-?” you get out, a little confused. 

jack steps in front of you, opening the door. 

“oh. thank you.”

“you’re welcome, kid,” he says. you take a seat and he shuts the door, pausing for a moment outside the window while you put your seatbelt on. you meet his eyes through the glass for half of a heartbeat before he walks away.

when he takes his seat and puts on his seatbelt, you realize you’re terrible at this.

“are you okay?” you ask, staring at him.

it’s gloomy outside and the sky is painted in gray and white, the heavy rain making everything a little damp and slow. including your brain. 

but you can’t help it. something seems off about jack today and you need to know what before it drives you crazy. 

normally, you imagine you’d be beside yourself at the idea of sitting in his truck and soaking in the feeling of knowing that he’d drive you home even when it’s out of his way, but you can’t think of that when there’s something he’s not telling you.

“i’m fine, kid,” he says, and you don’t believe him for one second.

you decide to be bold.

you take your hand and put it over his, and he turns to look at you. you think this is what it feels like to melt. jack’s eyes reveal whatever he doesn’t want to tell you, and you feel your heart start to beat faster.

“what is it? it’s okay. you can tell me,” you say, starting to get nervous. 

his skin feels warm where you’re touching it, realizing this is twice in a week that you’ve held jack abbot’s hands in your own. 

the thought is… grounding. like there’s nothing that could be so bad as long as you have him with you to help you get through it. you think stupidly that you could do anything if you had him with you. 

you had already done everything with him beside you. 

“kid, i…” jack trails off, and your fingers twitch, rising for a moment, as though perhaps you’ve done the wrong thing.

oh god. had you completely misread this—was this something else entirely? 

you thought being in his car meant you were a step closer to whatever it is that you want to be, whatever it is that the two of you won’t put into words or even coherent thoughts. it’s just the semblance of hope that hangs in the air, that maybe, somehow, someday, this might be more than just an attending and his intern. 

had you misjudged him this badly? the thought lingers for a second, and you pick up your hand, bringing it back to your lap like a child who just got scolded for doing something wrong.

“i’m so sorry, i-”

“no, no, it’s not that,” jack starts, staring at you with those eyes again. he looks away, running a hand through his messy curls, and you watch, your heart dropping into your stomach. the light catches on his wedding ring.

“it’s okay. i-i can just walk home. we, um, we shouldn’t, if you don’t want to-”

“no, kid, it’s not that.” jack keeps his eyes focused on the dashboard, his hand tightening around the wheel. you watch the veins of his arms tense up. “robby, uh… robby wants you back on the day shift. i was trying to figure out how to tell you inside.”

oh. 

you swallow uncomfortably, not sure if this is better or worse. your mind starts to spin, creating two alternating scenarios that start to fight with each other. robby wants you back on the day shift. you’ve finally done what you set out to do in the first place, earned your way back, gotten better at this job the way you’ve always wanted to—

but it’s only because of jack. his gentle guiding. the way he doesn’t stop believing in you even when you’re having a severe deficiency in that area. the way he makes you coffee that tastes perfect every time. the way he knows when you’re feeling anxious before you can even process—

“hey,” he says, and you blink, looking up at him. “what’re you thinking?”

“i… do you think i should go back?”

“i-,” he pauses, taking a breath. “i think you’re ready to. you’ve been doing great these last couple of shifts. it’s not about what i think though. it’s about how you feel.”

and the way jack says it, with so much sincerity that it’s practically dripping from him, makes your heart thud around in your chest. the blood rushes to your ears at the thought—no more night shift.

no more sleeping in until the afternoon. scheduling appointments during the day and not missing them when the day shift runs over. actually having time to finish your charting instead of staying behind until eight pm to catch up.

no more jack abbot.

the realization hits you squarely in the chest, getting hard to breathe like walls are closing in around you. it’s not that serious but it is that serious. you even try to justify it internally while jack looks at you with what can only be described as pure concern in his eyes.

you’re just scared—no more jack means having to face your shifts alone. the safety net would be gone, and it’s just as well—it’s not like you could have relied on him forever. robby’s a different type of mentor. he’s not going to walk you through your freeze-ups or notice when you’re playing with your necklace that it means you need a break. 

no, robby couldn’t do any of that. nor, you think, is it his responsibility. his job is to run the emergency department and make sure that everyone inside is running too.

everything that has happened in the last month has been something special—something born of jack’s desire to take care of you, for whatever reason he had decided on. 

you hadn’t asked and he hadn’t pushed, it had just come together the way it did. and it was nothing short of perfect.

and now, it’s over.

“yeah, of course,” you reply, hoping your face doesn’t completely give you away. 

you take a deep breath and then release it, holding your hands firmly to your side. you don’t want to make it any easier for him to see through your lie.

“kid, you can take some time to think about it. it’s not an easy decision,” he says, and you turn your head to look at him, tearing your gaze away from your lap.

he’s got his elbow angled, leaning against the steering wheel. the tight, dark shirt he wears looks like it’s a size too small in the dim light of his car. or maybe you just feel that way because his arms look ready to tear right out of the fabric. his curls are mussed up where he ran his fingers through them, but the silver still reflects brightly.

and worst of all—his stupid eyes and his stupid smile. looking at you like they always do—filled with concern, like there’s nothing more important than making sure you’re okay. 

you’ve denied it long enough, but now, with the very real possibility that this—whatever this is—is coming to an end, the thought doesn’t seem to leave you as easily as it has on other days. 

“well i had to go back eventually, right?” you finally say, locking eyes with him again. 

“yeah, kid. i guess so.” jack looks like he’s about to say something else, but you suppose he decides not to. he puts on his seatbelt instead, his hand moving to the gear stick. “c’mon kid. let’s get you home.”

𝜗ৎ

you tell jack your address, and just like you expected, he already knows where it is. you have to remind yourself that he’s been living in pittsburgh for most of your life, that the street signs and neighborhood names aren’t just words you throw around. 

he’s probably got a memory in every street corner. a memory, you think sadly and a little selfishly, with his wife who isn’t here anymore. 

you’re not the person who’s supposed to be seated in this passenger seat. you’re just the intern he’s a little too nice to at work.

and soon, you’ll be known as that girl who went back to the day shift.

you watch the black of his ring on his hand as he grips the steering wheel. he puts his arm around the headrest of your seat while he backs up, and he’s on the road after. you stare out the window, listening to the harsh, loud raindrops as they hit the roof of his truck. 

his car is just what you expected. clean, though not in the way that would scare you off if he was a stranger. it feels weird to think, but his truck is almost… homey. there’s pieces of mail laying the console between the two of you. receipts tucked into the sun visor. dog tags, maybe intertwined with a necklace, hang from his rearview mirror.

and it smells like him. 

you close your eyes for a moment, trying to soak it in. it’s your first and last time being in this car, being with him, if you’re really going to start the day shift again. 

his truck has a cd player, something you might have commented on if it wasn’t for your current state of mind. 

you’re too sad to think of something funny to say, so instead you lean against the headrest, listen to his beatles album, and watch the city waking up for the day. 

it’s four, maybe five songs before jack says something.

“we’re almost there, kid. are you-” he stops himself, trailing off. “are you okay?”

“i’m okay,” you lie. “just thinking about it, i guess. it’ll be a big change. i was just getting used to the night shift, i think.”

it goes unsaid—i was just getting used to you.

“you’ve already seen it during the day. a lot longer than you did nights. it won’t take that long.”

“yeah. you’re right.”

“i think, uh…” your head perks up at his words, wondering if he’ll say what you think he’s about to say. “i think you’ll be just fine.”

“thanks, dr. abbot.” 

when the car slows down, the rain sounds louder. jack pulls into the lot of your apartment complex, putting his truck into park. 

you’re about to turn towards him, thinking of what you can say to make this feel different. to make it easier, but nothing comes to mind.

you’ll settle for whatever half-assed goodbye leaves your lips, when the heavy rain turns into a torrential downpour. 

“oh god,” you say, without even realizing it. the rain is hitting his windshield so quickly that you can’t even see the brick of your building in front of you. “can you drive home in this?” 

you turn towards jack, expecting him to be concerned about the shift in the weather. an annoying drizzle into the pittsburgh version of a monsoon. but when you look, he’s not looking outside. his eyes are on you.

“i’ll be fine.”

“maybe-” you start, a sudden surge of boldness overcoming your anxiety, for once, “you should wait it out. t-to be safe.”

“uh, kid, i-”

“you live across town, don’t you? i don’t think that’s safe. last thing you wanna do is end up back in the pitt at eight am.” 

he chuckles at that, and you feel satisfaction bloom inside of you.

“um, i can make us tea, if you want?”

“oh,” jack says. “i was just going to wait it out in here.”

“oh,” you echo, feeling your entire face burn with heat. “sorry, sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize,” he interrupts. “i could… go for tea.”

“really?” you question, not sure if he’s trying to play into it to protect your embarrassed feelings from entering into utter humiliation. 

“yeah, kid. i… love tea.”

(jack abbot does not love tea. he doesn’t even drink tea. the only thing he knows about tea is from when he makes you a cup of hot water on days where you’re too wired to have a cup of coffee. you keep little packets of the stuff with you and it’s always a new, odd color when he glances into your yellow mug.)

you end up on either side of your kitchen counter with jack abbot, tea lover. you’re both soaked, despite running to the door of your complex. his curls drip water onto the granite of the countertop, his shirt clinging to him as though it’s a second skin.

you feel cold. you’re in your damp underscrub, your scrub top thrown into your hamper. you bring him a towel for his hair and try to dry yours, before giving up entirely. 

the only thing that might make you feel better is a long, hot shower once jack abbot leaves your apartment. 

whenever that might be. in fifteen minutes, the rain hasn’t let up even once. you can hear it hitting the windows, the gusts of wind that sound scary, even from a few floors up.

you rub your arms as the kettle begins to whistle quietly. mugs, you tell yourself, opening your cupboard. you glance back to see jack drying his hair, his arms flexed as he stretches, and you look back to your significantly less interesting dishware with a dry mouth.

you put two mugs on the countertop, opening the drawer of your tea packet options.

“um, do you know what kind you want? i have a bunch,” you say, and he looks at you blankly.

fuck. maybe he shouldn’t have lied about the tea. he’s about to get caught red-handed, when you interject again.

“i have chamomile. it’s caffeine free, if that’s okay?” you ask politely, and he swallows hard, nodding.

“sounds good.” 

you put the packets into the mug and pour hot water over them. jack glances around your apartment. the entire place is a testimony to you. it’s organized but comfortable, filled with clean clutter and warm colors. there’s a candle you’ve almost completely burned through on the countertop next to him, and enough books to fill a library on different shelves in your living room.

you hand him the mug and he can’t help but smile—

it’s yellow, a carbon copy of the one at the hospital. in your hands is a third duplicate, as you swish around the tea bag. he copies your motions.

“so,” he starts, a little stupidly, because he’s unsure of where the sentence is leading. “chamomile.”

“yeah,” you breathe. “they say chamomile is good for anxiety, so…”

there’s something else, a suppressed thought that you won’t let out hiding beneath the surface. jack’s determined to get it out before he leaves. 

when you take a small sip, he does too. the drink isn’t half bad—he prefers the taste of black coffee, even if it’s decaf, but jack supposes he could get used to this too.

the second thought fills him quickly—there is no getting used to this. 

this is about to end. this is the final act, the goodbye.

“kid, i-”

“no,” you interrupt, a little out of character. “don’t. i, um… this is hard enough for me as it is. i don’t do good with change. in fact, the only reason i even did good with this change is because of-”

you don’t finish your sentence.

“i just wanted to tell you that-” jack starts, but you don’t let him.

“i don’t think i wanna leave night shift,” you blurt out.

oh. 

“that’s okay,” jack says, his voice trying to stay calm and steady. something burns inside of him though, smolders at your confession. it echoes his—i don’t want you to leave night shift. 

“is it?” you ask, picking up your mug to take another drink. “because i’m pretty sure i’m not allowed to make calls like that. i mean, if robby wants me back, i have to go back, right?” your voice sounds pained, something he really, really doesn’t like. 

jack takes his cup into his hand and moves a little closer to your side of the island. your mug looks comically small in his hands here too.

“if you’re not ready, then i’ll talk to robby. he’ll understand,” jack says. the liquid is still too hot to drink, but he does anyways, just to give him something to focus on besides your pretty, sad expression and wistful eyes.

“that’s the thing,” you finally confess, tears building up before you can stop them. “i am ready to go back. i just don’t want to.”

“kid,” jack breathes. “don’t cry. please, don’t cry-”

“i-i was trying to not think about it. about you. but it’s so hard,” you say, those tears that are much too familiar to him streaming down your cheeks. it’s no fair—you’re even pretty when you cry. “i’ve never felt like this before. it-it can’t be that wrong, can it?”

“it’s not wrong,” he says, taking a step to bridge the distance between the two of you. he puts his hand over yours, and your skin feels like it’s burning where the two of you touch.

jack swallows when your big, teary eyes turn to look at him again. 

“i… i haven’t felt like this in a long, long time,” he admits, and you watch him with careful anticipation. “i just… it’s wrong but it’s not. when he asked me if you’re ready to come back, i almost lied. just so i could keep you with me a little longer-”

you don’t wait for jack to finish this time. you lean up to find his lips before your fear can stop you. 

jack’s lips are soft, and his grown out scruff is scratchy against your soft skin. it’s hard to care, though, when he’s kissing you.

jack abbot is kissing you. 

“oh my god,” you breathe against jack’s mouth, and he pulls away for a moment, his hands coming to cup the side of your face gently.

“what’s wrong?” he asks in that light, calm tone that drives you crazy. it’s barely above a whisper, his hazel eyes shining down on you. you’re so close that you can even make out the specks of brown—

you answer with another kiss, pressing your lips together again. your arms wrap around his neck, and his hands leave your face, wandering down to hold you firmly by your waist. his fingers sneak underneath the wet fabric of your shirt until he grips the bare skin of your hips. 

you moan into the kiss. the feeling of jack’s hands on you is close to unreal. it’s everything you thought it would be and more, feeling how hot his mouth is, how deeply he kisses you. you don’t think you’re breathing but it’s hard to care, exactly.

you yelp into his mouth when you feel his hands on the globes of your ass. he hoists you up, placing you onto the countertop, your legs wrapping around his while he keeps kissing you. 

your hands pull eagerly wherever you can—namely, his stupidly tight shirt. the two of you detach for a second, just to get the stupid thing off, which takes a moment since it’s melded onto his chest.

but once it’s off, you feel your body go a little weak and limp. jack’s shoulders seem even broader like this, his chest somehow wider, his arms somehow bigger. you can make out the veins that you’re always admiring in the shitty hospital fluorescents, where they start all the way to where they end. 

it takes all of your power to not start tracing them.

you’re snapped out of the thought when you hear jack’s low, rumbling laugh and the way his chest vibrates with it.

“you’re laughing at me?” you ask, a little dumbly. 

“you’re cute like this,” he says, leaning in close again, his shirt discarded on the ground. you bring the palm of your hand flat against his bare chest, soaking in how his skin feels against yours.

“cute like what?” you ask, but you don’t get an answer. jack leans in for another burning kiss, and your mind goes empty.

you grip his shoulder, finally feeling the muscles under your hand. they tense and flex as he keeps kissing you, and as he moves his mouth down to your neck, your nails leave little crescent shaped indents on his frecked skin.

that’s the other thing—he has so many freckles. they’re all over, hundreds more than you had expected. he must have spent all of his life shirtless in the sun, or something, you think, before it dissipates. 

jack works his way to your collarbone, pressing a warm kiss there, over the metal of your necklace, and then another right on top of the pendant. 

you sigh, your fingers tangling themselves in his wet hair. you don’t pull, rather enjoying the sensation of the strands while you follow his head wherever it leads. 

he doesn’t go any further. you hold back a whine, letting go to lift your shirt off, when jack stops your hands from moving.

“what is it?” you ask impatiently. your lips are swollen and your eyes are blinking quickly at him. jack brings his fingers to your jaw, holding you in place gently.

“are you sure about this, kid?” you nod eagerly. “we can stop whenever you want. we don’t have to rush this-”

“stop talking,” you breathe, crashing your lips against his again. you’ve waited so long to do this—to kiss your attending, to be left breathless and flushed by him, that stopping it to talk seems so stupid.

jack’s hands go back to your hips as he keeps kissing you, swallowing your soft moans and whimpers as he explores your skin. finally he holds you in his grip, lifting you off the countertop while your legs tighten around his waist.

he carries you, leading into the open door of your bedroom, a yellow-walled room with gray curtains. he sets you gently on the bed, hovering over you, still not pulling away.

jack’s mouth is hot on yours, and you sigh into him, your hands resting on his chest again.

“jack,” you whimper, as you feel his hands tease around the hem of your shirt. 

“easy, sweetheart. lift up for me,” he instructs quietly, and you comply. he peels off your underscrub and then your bra, working down until your scrub bottoms are the next thing to go. 

you’re bare in front of him, just in your panties that you had no idea he would be seeing. you would have made a wiser choice, maybe, if you knew this was even your last shift with him, just in case, but—

“jesus christ, kid,” jack breathes, and you feel your stomach flip into a jumping jack over and over again. “you’re perfect.”

“stop talking,” you repeat, leaning up to catch jack’s mouth again. this time, his hands wander everywhere, exploring the miles of smooth skin he’s revealed, feeling as your body trembles under his touch. 

you’re sensitive everywhere, he can tell, and he wonders how to explain to you that he needs to take his time with you. you don’t seem particularly patient right now.

he pulls away again.

“jack,” you whine, but he doesn’t pay attention this time. he starts kissing down the soft skin of your chest, working down until he’s at your stomach. he wants to take his time—tease your perfect, peaked nipples until you’re crying, kiss you all over until he’s memorized the taste of your damp skin. 

you won’t let him right now, he knows, but the thought still lingers. he’ll have to choose his battles with you, and this is not one he wants to fight right now.

instead, he moves your hands into place for you, just like he knew you’d like. he arranges you until you’re squeezing your tits, fingers playing with your nipples while he stares at you.

open mouthed, gasping from pleasure, while he watches. and then, once he’s finally ready to look away, he rubs his nose against your clothed clit.

“jack—!” you cry out, thrashing up against him. he keeps one hand on your stomach to hold you down, his eyes glancing up to tell you not to stop, to keep going, like he told you. 

you comply, going back to teasing your sensitive nipples while he thinks about what he’s going to do to you. 

he places an open-mouthed kiss against your cunt, lapping at the wet spot that’s already formed there. you’ll cringe with heated shame, he knows, but he inhales deeply, soaking in the scent of your wetness. 

there’s a thin piece of cotton separating him from what he really wants. he should really just slide it off, but it seems like too much work now, right when he’s got you exactly where he wants you. 

you look down to see jack ripping your panties, tearing the fabric into two pieces, letting it fall somewhere on the floor of your bedroom.

“you’re doing so good, sweetheart.” 

your head thuds against your pillow while you moan into the air.

“jack,” you beg, your legs beginning to shake. “please, jack, i-”

he doesn’t let you finish. jack dives in to lap against your leaking cunt, licking his way up and down until your moans fill the room. 

your entire body spasms when you feel his mouth tighten around your clit. 

“oh my god,” you cry out, fingers leaving your nipples to weave into jack’s hair. you keep them there, pulling his hair while you buck up against his tongue, feeling his nose nudge against your most sensitive parts—

until he stops.

“jack?” you breathe, your throat dry and scratchy. “what-”

he moves up slightly, just to take your hands out of his hair, and put them back on your chest, covering your tits again.

“oh,” you whisper. “i’m sorry, jack, i-”

“keep teasing your nipples for me,” he says, and your entire body feels like you’ve been lit on fire. 

your attending is saying those words to you, an hour after the night shift got out.

it’s something out of your wildest dreams, jack’s head between your legs, licking at your cunt like a starved man, his thick fingers—the very ones that you’ve watched insert chest tubes and plug bullet holes and save lives—are prodding at your cunt.

it’s hard to think about when he plunges two wide fingers into your leaking hole. you moan so loud that you’re sure your neighbor can hear you, before your exhausted, horny brain supplies you with the fact that no one’s home right now.

everyone’s at work. another perk of the night shift.

you listen to jack, teasing your nipples until sparks of electricity are coursing through your entire body. jack thrusts his fingers in and out, timing it with the way he laps the flat of his tongue over your clit, teasing you and giving you everything you want at the same time. that familiar hot, burning coil tightens in your belly, feeling even stronger when you feel jack’s brute strength keeping your legs pried open.

no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn’t be able to overcome him and the thought is enough to make you cum instantly, though you resist.

it’s not until you feel it—feel him talking to you, or rather to your cunt, that you begin to truly lose control.

his lips vibrate around your clit, the words coming out low and soft. the obscene squelch of his fingers fucking you fills the room, and you think this is the wettest you’ve ever been—and he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

“c’mon, kid. be a good girl for me. like you always are,” jack says, repeating the words until you feel the ground beneath to slip out from under you.

“oh god, jack, please, please can i come, please-”

“come on, sweetheart. come for me, come on,” jack encourages you, and everything goes white. 

that tense feeling in your stomach tightens, and then gives out completely, snapping until the white-hot sensation rushes through your whole body. 

and all you can think the entire time is that it’s jack abbot making you feel like this. the thought makes you sink into your bed, eyes fluttering shut, fingers going lax against his hair.

you feel boneless and tired when jack greets you with another soft kiss.

“hi,” you whisper.

“hi, kid,” he breathes. you smile before you can help it.

your eyes dip lower, looking at the waist of his scrubs. you can see the tent where he’s hard underneath, and your hands start to wander there, but jack stops you. he catches your wrist.

“what happened?” you ask, staring back at his pretty eyes.

“it’s okay. we don’t have to do anything-”

“but i want to,” you whine, looking determined. “don’t tell me after all of that you’re going to leave me hanging-”

he shuts you up this time, pressing a searing kiss to your swollen mouth. whatever you were saying turns into a sweet moan, one that he gladly swallows.

he listens intently, keen on remembering these noises forever. your hands stay pressed against his chest, your fingertips digging in around his pec.

when he pulls away to let you breathe, you sigh with contentment. 

jack sits up, smiling at your wide, eager eyes as you stare at his every movement. he sets his feet against the rug of your bedroom floor, his hands moving down to pull on the hard shell of his prosthesis, tugging until it’s fully removed.

you slide closer to him, leaning against his back, your arms resting against his as you watch intensely.

“can i help?” you ask, your eyes moving to meet his, and jack releases a rush of air—a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.

“no, kid, i got it,” he says, turning back once he takes off the liner. his pants are next, his hands fiddling with the belt and the zipper.

you smile eagerly, excitedly, but he notices it again—your fingers playing with that necklace again.

now he knows what that necklace feels like against his lips.

“are you sure about this?” he asks again.

in another world, maybe you’d think it’s because jack’s having doubts. but in this one, you know he doesn’t. he’s trying to make sure that you don’t. 

“are you sure?” you repeat, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth and biting. jack hovers carefully over you, and you slink down into your sheets, until the two of you are lined up, bodies melting into each other.

“i haven’t done this in a while, kid,” he says, and you bite your cheek to hold back a laugh.

“that’s okay,” you whisper. “i’ll be gentle.”

you and jack both laugh, the quiet sound filling the space of your apartment. it feels unreal—jack hovering over you, his skin against yours, feeling the soft breath of his laugh against your neck.

you lean up, pressing a kiss to his nose. 

“you don’t know how long i’ve thought about this,” you admit in the form of a whisper. the confession feels bold, especially for you, but it seems like there’s no better time for him to know.

maybe, you think selfishly, if you tell him he’ll move. do something, anything, than tease you like this, without even trying to.

the thought is striking. jack abbot is too good at taking care of you.

“yeah, kid?” jack says gruffly, and you feel your body shudder under him. he takes himself in his hand, stroking gently, and then roughly, and it’s all you can do not to moan out loud—

“yeah,” you breathe, continuing on. “i couldn’t decide how it would be. gentle or-”

“always gentle,” he interjects. the words are in the form of a moan. that feeling returns to your stomach, hot and tight and winding up again. “always gentle with you—”

jack prods the thick head of his dick to the entrance of your cunt, moving it slightly up and down to collect your wetness. your eyes snap shut, mouth falling open at the sensation—unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

of course it is, you think dumbly. how could anything, any stupid toy or your own fingers compare to this? 

you suck in a breath and it turns into a cry, one that comes out as jack’s name, as he pushes in just barely. even the tip stretches you open, a delicious, gentle burn that washes over your entire body. you feel it all over, your toes curling—

“jack, please, please-” you moan, not realizing that you had started begging. 

he thrusts the full length of his dick into you, and your moan turns into a scream. you hold onto his arms like they’re a lifeline, your eyes snapping shut.

your ears are still ringing from when he made you cum all over his tongue. this doesn’t help matters. jack is speaking to you, saying quiet things that you’re sure would make you lose your mind, but you can’t hear it right now.

all you can think about is the stretch of him. it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, and stupidly, you wonder how you were ever satisfied by his thick fingers. 

he thrusts in and out, his hips brushing against yours with every turn. it’s all too much—the fullness and the way you feel him in your stomach and your chest and all over, your skin burning as his pace increases. 

jack leans down to give you another kiss, hot and wet, and you finally hear whatever he’s been saying—

“you’re perfect,” he says, the words a stuttered, pleasured grunt. “you’re perfect for me-”

your eyes shut tightly, soaking in the words. you didn’t even have to tell him, you think dumbly, he just knew. 

isn’t that what he’s always like? somehow, he always knows. whether in the hospital or your apartment or inside your very mind, at the core of your being—jack abbot knows.

you meet his mouth halfway, lips colliding as hot tears stream down your face. it’s all too much—the emotions that are lingering behind every word, how jack stretches you out, how he’s ruined you for anyone or anything else.

you don’t let him pull away from the kiss, demanding more while the pace of his hips gets faster and faster. the noise is just as obscene as you imagined—filling your room, the sound of your wetness and the scent of you and him combined in the air. 

you pulse around him when he pulls away—murmuring more words of praise for you, making your stomach tighten and your cunt clench around him. 

jack moves a little and you whine—he’s suddenly too far away for a kiss. but you can only linger on the thought for half a second, before you feel his rough fingers tracing circles on your overly sensitive clit again.

your legs jerk up, trying to kick against him, thrashing as much as you can from the position. jack’s body weight still holds you down, while he fucks in and out of you, his eyes singularly focused on where the two of you are combined.

“oh, jack—!” you cry out, the sensation of his fingers and his thickness suddenly too much. 

“come on, sweetheart. be good for me,” jack says, and that’s all it seems to take.

he doesn’t stop even for a moment, working you through it while your entire body tries to jolt up.

it explodes through you, a match lighting a flame that leads to a brilliant, hot blaze that burns through you. it’s almost painful, how sensitive your entire body feels, your cries and moans reduced to a throaty breath, panting while you try to regain your senses.

the senses remind you that jack’s still fucking you, your sensitive cunt spasming around him, clamping down in a way that you didn’t know was possible. 

“jack,” you repeat, the noise coming out as hiccup and a moan in one. he leans over you, bringing your lips together again. “jack, please-”

you beg, though you don’t know what you’re begging for. but just like always, you don’t have to say it for jack to know what you’re thinking.

your nails dig into flesh of his back and you feel it—jack’s hips start to stutter, and he buries his face in your neck. he says your name and over and over again, until it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, and then—

“please, jack,” you beg. “i want to feel it-”

jack moans into your ear, his hips finally snapping almost painfully against yours, until you feel his body tremble. he finishes, hot spurts of cum filling you, making your eyes roll back in your head at the sensation. 

you can’t help but giggle when you feel jack’s body weight sink on top of you. it’s only a moment before he moves, but you think you could have stayed like that forever. 

he shifts the both of you until you’re nestled comfortably next to him, his thick arm wrapped around you, your eyes shutting again as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever.

“i think it stopped raining,” jack says, and you sigh against him.

“can you stay?” you look up to meet his eyes. he doesn’t give you an answer just yet, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to your lips instead. you smile at him and he smiles back.

you lean your head against his chest.

“of course i can.”

“jack?” you ask quietly a few moments later, from your place in his arms. 

“yeah, kid?”

“do i still have to go back to the day shift?”

“no, kid. don’t worry about it right now.”

“okay,” you agree quietly. “jack?”

“yeah, sweetheart?”

“can you help me put up the black-out curtains?”

You glance down the hallway where your daughter had been sitting earlier with coloring books Mel brought her from her locker after your ex dropped her off.

“She’s exhausted,” you say quietly.

Dana shrugs. “Welcome to emergency medicine parenting.”

You glance at the clock. Your charts still aren’t finished, and the ICU transfer still needs to be admitted.

“I just need another thirty minutes,” you say.

Dana follows your gaze down the hall again.

“Abbot just came in.”

You pause.

You and Jack have been together for almost a year now. Slowly. Carefully. A quiet relationship that grew somewhere between night shifts, bad coffee, and long conversations in empty exam rooms.

But your daughter is four and four year olds have opinions.

When Jack first started coming around, she had stared at him like he was some strange piece of hospital equipment.

Then came the judgment.

“You’re old.”

“You walk slow.”

“You’re not my daddy.”

Jack had taken it all with his usual dry patience, but you knew he worried about it more than he let on.

He had admitted once, late at night in your kitchen, “Kids usually don’t warm up to me.”

Your daughter hadn’t exactly helped prove him wrong.

Until recently.

Lately she had started sitting closer to him.

Talking to him.

Asking him questions.

You weren’t sure when that shift had happened.

Dana notices the look on your face.

“You want him to keep an eye on her?”

Jack finds the break room door half open.

Inside, your daughter is curled up on the couch surrounded by crayons and paper.

She looks up immediately when the door opens.

“Oh.”

Jack raises an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

She studies him for a moment.

“You’re the old guy.”

Jack sighs heavily.

“Fantastic.”

She tilts her head.

“Mommy said you’d help me.”

Jack leans against the doorway.

“Did she now?”

“Yep.”

Jack rubs the back of his neck.

“Where is your mother?”

“Doctoring.”

The answer sounds exactly like something you would say.

Jack steps inside the break room.

Your daughter is clearly trying to stay awake.

Her eyes are heavy. Her hair is messy. The long day is catching up to her.

“You tired?” Jack asks.

“No.”

She yawns immediately.

Jack nods slowly.

“Very convincing.”

She flops dramatically across the couch.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

Jack folds his arms.

“That’s not an answer.”

She looks at him like he’s the one being unreasonable.

“I need a story.”

Jack glances around the break room.

There are exactly zero children’s books.

Just coffee mugs, vending machine snacks, and a pile of hospital binders.

Your daughter pats the couch beside her.

“Story time.”

Jack stares at the ceiling for a second.

Then grabs the nearest binder from the table.

Trauma Protocol: Emergency Response Procedures.

He sits down beside her.

“Alright.”

She perks up.

“What’s the story about?”

Jack flips open the binder.

“…Blood loss.”

She frowns.

“That’s not a story.”

“It is tonight.”

She scoots closer.

Jack clears his throat.

“Chapter one,” he begins. “Massive hemorrhage protocol.”

She stares at him.

“That’s boring.”

Jack shrugs.

“Best I’ve got.”

She sighs dramatically.

“Fine.”

Jack begins reading in his calm, steady voice.

“If a patient presents with uncontrolled bleeding-”

Five minutes later her head slowly tips against his arm.

Her breathing evens out.

Jack glances down.

She’s asleep.

He keeps reading quietly anyway.

Because stopping might wake her.

The break room door opens a little while later.

You step inside carefully.

Jack is still sitting on the couch.

Your daughter curled against his side.

One small hand gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Jack is reading the trauma protocol binder quietly.

You lean against the doorway, smiling softly.

“You’re reading emergency hemorrhage guidelines to a toddler?”

Jack glances up.

“She asked for a story.”

You nod toward the sleeping child.

“She’s asleep.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still reading?”

Jack closes the binder slowly.

“She worked hard today.”

Your chest tightens a little at that.

He gently shifts so she stays comfortable against him.

“Your kid is stubborn,” he mutters.

You grin.

“She gets that from me.”

Jack snorts quietly.

Then looks down at her again.

“…She’s good, though.”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

You step closer, resting your hand lightly on Jack’s shoulder.

He doesn’t move away.

“You didn’t have to stay,” you say softly.

Jack glances up at you.

“She asked.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Your fingers brush the back of his neck gently.

Jack’s expression softens just slightly.

“Well,” he says quietly, “I’m here.”

You smile.

And for the first time in a long time, it feels like the three of you sitting in that quiet break room belong exactly where you are.

Your daughter shifts in her sleep and mumbles softly against his arm.

“My old guy.”

You laugh under your breath.

“All right, that’s not evasive at all.” You shift slightly so you’re angled more toward him, studying his face now instead of the screen. “You weren’t normal.”

“I was.” he says, like he genuinely believes it. “Normal and boring. Just, all right. I was fine. Went to school, did what I had to do, nothing interesting.”

“That still tells me nothing.”

He exhales, like you’re asking something unnecessarily complicated, and folds papers back into place before he leans forward to discard work onto the coffee table. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You glance back at the film for a moment, at the overly dramatic scene that’s still unfolding, and then back at him again, piecing together your own version instead.

“I bet all the girls really liked you.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he frowns deeply as he sits back and gets a bit more comfortable against your side. “Which is fine, actually. I didn’t like them either. Girls were icky.”

You stare at him for a second as he pulls you closer, trying to decide if he’s serious or not.

“I’m sorry, what? Girls were icky?”

He’s holding you suspiciously close for someone who thinks he can make comments about girls like that.

“Of course they were,” he continues, settling into it now. “Always coming up to me and being all weird.”

Joe makes a face like he’s recalling something genuinely horrific from his childhood before he wiggles a few fingers at his own face and says, “Going on about my eyelashes and things.”

You watch him for a moment, and it only takes a second for Joe to fill the silence.

“They’d be like, ‘oh my God, your eyelashes are so long,’ and then they’d just… stand there, batting their own sticky long fake eyelashes, expecting a response from me.”

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shifting so you’re fully facing him now.

“Joe, that’s flirting.”

He fully ignores you, even though you know full well that he’s heard you perfectly fine. His frown stays as he rambles on, “And then they’d do this stupid thing where they’d grab your wrist…” he’s already grabbed hold of yours to demonstrate. “And they’d compare hand sizes, like, ‘oh my God, look how big your hands are,’ yea, and? So what, I don’t know, that’s not my fault, is it?” Joe huffs.

You stare at him, genuinely baffled now. Is he being fucking serious? You can’t help the laugh that escapes you as you shake your head at him. “Oh come on, you cannot be that big of an idiot.”

“What?” he says, dropping your hand, though there’s something slightly off about the way he says it now, something that doesn’t quite add up.

You lean in just a fraction, watching him more closely. “You know that’s peak teenage girl flirting.”

He holds your gaze for a second too long, and that’s all it takes. There’s a flicker of something there, something amused, something aware, before he looks away again.

“Girls are icky anyway,” he says, shrugging it off as he leans back into the sofa. “You’re icky.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving sound, turning back toward the TV. “Okay, so you were a real loser in school. Got it.”

He doesn’t respond, but when you glance at him again, there’s still the hint of a smile he hasn’t quite managed to hide.

Yea, this dickhead wasn’t a loser. The fact that he’s trying to sell the idea to you that he was one is what might make him one, though. You don’t bring it up again though. You don’t want to fall into a trap where you end up arguing that Joe was cool when he was in school.

You’re back in your phone when the film finishes, and it’s a surprise to you both how quickly the time’s gone. It’s late by now, and you both have early alarms already set.

“I’m going to bed,” Joe says, like an afterthought, already moving.

You hum in response, scroll down to another social media post and watch him disappear down the hallway. You give it a minute before getting up yourself, more out of habit than anything else, trailing after him toward the bathroom.

Joe is stood at the sink when you walk in, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand braced against the counter as he brushes his teeth.

You lean your shoulder into the doorframe for a second just to look at him, taking him in through the mirror.

There’s not a chance this guy didn’t have girls fighting over him at lunch time, you think. There’s definitely the possibility that he didn’t know what to do with any of the attention, but, fuck off, he’s absolutely lying to you.

You suppose it’s nicer to be lied to this way ‘round, but calling you icky was… a choice.

Joe’s a choice too.

Your choice.

It’s annoying that looking at him now only affirms it, even though the bathroom’s a right mess and he’s got foamy toothpaste dripping down his chin.

“Y’know what,” you say after a second, pushing yourself off the frame and stepping inside, “I think I sort of get it…”

He glances at you in the mirror, briefly, toothbrush still in his mouth.

You move closer, slow and deliberate, watching his reflection as you go. “Why you were such a bad kisser when we first got together.”

He freezes, and then slowly turns his head just enough to look at you, eyes narrowing around the toothbrush. “–mmph?”

You smile, completely unbothered, stepping in behind him. “Yea, sorry, but it just makes sense a bit now… all those girls flirting with you and you’re just… completely clueless, missing all of it entirely.”

You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, quick and light. Just a little baby peck.

He makes a noise of protest, garbled by foam, tries to lean away a little because he doesn’t trust this tone of yours, but you’re too quick and get him again. Bit wetter that time.

“And then, eventually, I come along,” you continue, already aiming for his jaw this time, “and have to teach you everything from scratch.”

He pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth just long enough to try and respond. “Tha’s– noh–”

You kiss him mid-sentence, right at the edge of his mouth, quick and deliberate, kind of gross because you definitely got some toothpaste there too, but it’s fine. What’s cleaner than toothpaste?

Joe jerks back immediately, shoving at you with his free hand. “I’m b–ushing my teef–”

“Come here,” you’re fighting him now as you laugh, trying to pull him closer so you can kiss him some more, but Joe’s strong and he’s got a wet toothbrush for a weapon.

“Shtop! You’re being–…” he pauses to spit into the sink. “You’re being disgusting,” he finishes more clearly. He looks at you for a second, tries to get it across to you with just his eyes that he doesn’t appreciate being distracted from brushing his teeth whilst you make fun of him for being green when he was in school.

Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t work, but you stop trying to fight him for a moment which in turn makes Joe return to the job at hand.

You tilt your head a little as you watch him. “Didn’t you just say girls are icky?”

It’s his own fault really, all of this.

“Mmph–” he argues with his mouth full and his forehead in a deep frown.

You ignore him and lean in again, pressing another kiss just under his jaw, as wet as you can get it this time, mouth half open, tongue touching his unshaved face, pleased with the way his shoulders tense.

He plants his hand flat against your forehead and pushes you back, has to tilt his head back to not dribble toothpaste everywhere and manages a very foamy, “Shtay. Dere.”

“I’m just being nice!”

“I–ong cahr.”

You let him think he’s won, but only briefly, because the second he stops pushing you back so hard, you giggle, “You’re just mad I improved your technique,” and dip in towards his neck.

Joe nearly gives himself whiplash with the speed of which he jerks back, “Mm! Mno!” whatever he’s trying to say is completely ruined by toothpaste. “Nnyou’re– icky! Icky–”

You’ve got your hands around his neck to pull him towards you with all your strength. It works. You’re almost hanging from his neck, but it works, and you get close enough for another smooch.

It’s only at the very last millisecond that you change your mind.

Instead of going for a kiss, you’re quick to stick your tongue out and lick him from just under his jaw to just about his cheekbone in a quick swipe.

He freezes completely and lets his toothbrush hang from his mouth as he stares at you in the mirror.

You can’t help but be all smiles and all ego as you reach for your own toothbrush. “Yea, no, I see your point. Super icky, me.”

There’s a beat where he just stares at you. Foamy toothpaste threatening to drip from his chin as you casually uncap the toothpaste for yourself.

“Yea, okay,” Joe drops his toothbrush into the sink with vigour. “You’re not fucking getting away with that,” he says, already moving, grabbing your arm and pulling you back toward him with so much strength, your shoulder crashes into his chest. You think it must hurt him more than it hurts you, but before you can even say anything, the first cold and unmistakably foamy and wet kiss lands on your cheek.

Ew.

You make a muffled noise of protest as you try to regain some control, but this motherfucker keeps you close and presses his face to yours once more. It’s not even real kisses – he’s just trying to cover your whole face in his minty spit and it’s fucking working.

You’re screeching as you try to fight him off, but he just keeps going, completely unapologetic, pressing his lips to your other cheek, then your jaw. Your nose next before he gets your chin.

“This is your own doing,” he enunciates perfectly, completely careless about where all of the toothpaste inside of his mouth ends up.  

You twist away, half-laughing, but he doesn’t let you go until he’s also gotten you across your forehead, and when you catch your reflection in the mirror, there’s toothpaste smeared all across your face in uneven wet streaks.

It’s in your hair too.

And down your top.

You look at Joe and realise he doesn’t look much different; he’s covered in his own white foamy spit as well.

“Oh my God, what the fu– and I’m the icky one?!” you argue, and all Joe can do is laugh.

“Yea, look at you,” he muses, and earns himself an elbow in the side.

He jolts immediately, and you take the opportunity to lean in and press a quick, messy kiss to his cheek in retaliation. Joe easily lets you, since you’re both fucking covered in the worst of it already. When you lean back to see if you’ve done any more damage to his cheek, Joe takes hold of your face, cupping your whole head in both of his palms and kisses you square on the mouth.

“Mm,” you hum before you pull away and wipe at your mouth like it’s the most disgusting thing Joe could’ve done before turning back to the mirror. “Well done. I’ve got to wash my hair now.”

Joe exhales through a smile, and can’t help the schoolboy-naughty face as he says, “Nah, you’re in mint condition still.” which earns him a weak slap to the chest from the back of your hand. Laughing, he shakes his head at the look of you trying to brush the paste from your hair as he turns the tap on to give his face a wash. There’s a softness to the way he looks at you before he dips his head down to splash some water onto his skin, something wholesome and quieter hidden in his eyes that silences you in return.

Without any more funny business, Joe washes his own face first before he helps you wipe down yours. You fall back into routine after that, brushing your teeth without smearing any of it across anyone’s face. Every so often, your eyes meet in the mirror, and Joe will scrunch his nose up at you whilst letting his mouth pull into a small smile neither of you fully acknowledge.

When you finally set your toothbrush down, he glances at you, then steps closer and hesitates just briefly. You don’t shy away from him now that there’s nothing to gross you out, and when Joe leans in to kiss you properly, you’re fully there for it.

The kiss is clean this time, slower, and a lot more purposeful. Joe stretches it just long enough for you to lose yourself into it a little, both hands on your face at first before one finds the back of your neck to keep you in place. You find yourself gasping into it as your whole front presses against all of his. You don’t want this to end. Ever.

When he finally, eventually, pulls back, it takes you a second to properly come back into yourself. Your eyes take longer to open, and when they eventually do, they look right into his. With your lips still parted, your next breath catches strangely on the way in, like your body hasn’t quite caught up yet with what just happened.

Joe notices.

You see it happen in real time, the way something warm and pleased unfurls across his face, boyish and unbearably self-satisfied with what he’s just done to you. His chest lifts with the effect he’s had on you, pride settling into the slight curve of his mouth as he looks at you like he’s personally responsible for the state of you, which, annoyingly, he sort of is.

“Mm,” he says softly, clearly delighted with himself. “You taught me well.”

You blink at him, still a little dazed, then narrow your eyes as the meaning catches up to you. “What?”

Joe’s smile only deepens. “Got you so bad you forgot where you were for a second there, didn’t you?”

You let out a breath that is half laugh, half disbelief, and shove lightly at his chest even though it does absolutely nothing to fix the fact that he’s fucking right.

“Can’t help but ask now…” he says as his flat hand slaps the doorframe as he’s about to leave the room. “What were you like in school?”

You hum softly against your own smile as you make eye-contact with him through the mirror.

“Great question, actually.”

And Joe already knows what the answer is going to be just by the glint in your eyes and the way you have to bite into your lips to hold back your laughter.

“Icky.”

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-ontheinside, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr, @starry-swan, @royale1803, @andrearose89

1. Robby

Dennis Whitaker isn’t what most would consider a private person. His coworkers know about his brothers and his hometown and his nieces and nephews, he just never mentioned a love life of any kind. They had assumed it was because his love life didn’t exist. It’s typical with med students, focused on school and their internship. Too busy to find time for another person in their hectic lives. No one judged him. Really, they understood. Then, a few weeks after his graduation, Dennis walks into work with a gold band shining on his left ring finger. 

Most of his coworkers didn’t even notice it at first. The ED is a place where people wear gloves more often than not. Bare hands are rarer than covered ones. Robby is the first one to spot it. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just shakes Dennis’ hand and shoots him a quiet congrats, kid. It’s not until Trinity spots the new jewelry that everyone finds out. Because Trinity Santos cannot keep her mouth shut to save her own life.

“You’re married!”

“Um, yeah?” Dennis rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He’s not sure if it’s always been a habit of his or if he picked it up from Robby. What he is sure of is that he hates the way every single doctor and nurse within earshot turns to study Dennis. Like he’s their newest toy. The grin on Princess’ face almost makes him wish he had stayed in bed with you this morning. (He wishes that every morning, though.)

“When did that happen?” It’s Mel’s voice this time. No judgement. No gleam in her eye. Just genuine curiosity that makes Dennis want to hug her. 

“After I graduated. We, uh, we’ve been dating since high school.” And Dennis hates how much his voice shakes. He should be able to boast about you to anyone who will listen because you’re the most amazing person he knows. But his cheeks are hot and his throat feels just a little tight. Dennis can see Trinity open her mouth, no doubt about to make fun of him for marrying his high school sweetheart. Then Dana is stepping in front of him, shooing away nosy residents with a wave of her hand and a single noise. Robby’s hand is on her shoulder again. 

“If you ever want to bring her with you after work, feel free.” Robby’s voice is soft and deep, a smile on his face that says nothing except pride. Dennis nods slowly and Robby squeezes his shoulder once before pulling back.

Dennis practically stumbles through the door. It’s late. A bit later than he wishes it was. The shift ran long because of a multi-vehicle crash on the highway. They didn’t lose anyone, but it was a hard-fought battle. Dennis can still smell blood in his nostrils. 

“Denny? That you?” Your voice is like a balm on the exhausted open wound that is Dennis Whitaker. He makes his way toward the living room of your tiny shared apartment to see you sitting on the couch. The television plays some nature documentary that he’s sure you’re not watching. You look over the back of the couch and smile so warmly that Dennis thinks he might melt. “Welcome home, baby. Dinner is staying warm in the oven for you.”

“I love you so much.” He can’t help muttering as he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. You just laugh, reaching back to pat his hip before pushing off the couch. 

You follow Dennis into the kitchen, sitting at the rickety dining table with exactly two chairs at it. He pulls out the food you left in the oven, carrying it over to the table, just short of collapsing into the chair. You watch as he eats, crumbs falling back onto his plate, unable to hold back a smile. You’ve known the man for two decades and he still doesn’t know how to eat without making a mess. 

“So…how did it go?” You reach out to run a finger over Dennis’ wedding band. The gold is scuffed and scratched in a few places. You bought your rings together at a thrift store, old and used but no less loved. He flips his hand over, intertwining your fingers.

“Trin was loud. But Robby said you’re invited to our after-work hangout. If you ever want to.” Dennis pauses, running his thumb over your knuckles with such gentle reverence you would think he’d studied you in undergrad instead of theology. “They, uh, they want to meet you.”

“Do you want me to meet them?” You ask quietly, keeping your eyes on Dennis’ hand in yours. He squeezes slightly and you already know the answer. As much as Dennis loves his coworkers, there’s something about you being his and only his. Not having to combine his home and work lives. It gives him an escape. You just squeeze back, finally meeting his eyes. “Wanna wait a little longer?”

“I’m sorry.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against your joined hands. You just smile, running your free hand through his curls. He lets out a breath you’re sure he hadn’t known he was holding. “You are the most amazing wife ever, Mrs. Whitaker.”

“And you are the best husband I could ever want, Dr. Whitaker.” You pull back, standing from the chair with a creak of the old wood. “Now, come on. Shower, then bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

2. Dana

“What d’ya got there, kid?” Dana’s voice cuts through Dennis’ thoughts and he looks down at the large foil pan in his arms. Like, so big he needs both arms to carry it. He smiles that signature shaky smile and awkwardly readjusts the pan in his hold.

“Treats. From Mrs. Whitaker.” He can’t help the way he straightens up a bit when he says it. He loves that he gets to call you that now. Dennis told you at least five times the night before that you did not have to bake anything for his coworkers. You steadfastly ignored him as you carefully measured out the ingredients. He only stopped after five because you looked so cute with flour on your nose. Dennis peels back the lid to reveal chocolate and caramel and oats in some kind of layer bar, already cut and carefully arranged in the foil pan. Dennis doesn’t know what exactly went into them. He’s no chef. If it were up to him, Dennis would eat strictly fast food, takeout, and frozen dinners. “They’re carmelitas, I think?”

Dana reaches in and grabs one, taking a bite before Dennis can even say anything. She lets out a noise that Dennis really doesn’t want to hear from his coworker and shoves the rest of the square in her mouth.

“Whitaker, tell your wife that if she ever wants to divorce you, I am more than willing to take your place.” Dana mutters, grabbing another bar as she continues chewing. “Seriously, these things are gonna kill me and it’ll be worth it.”

“Aren’t you married?”

Dana just laughs, turning away without another word. Dennis can only shrug, continuing his journey to the staff break room to place the foil pan on the small counter by the fridge. He pulls the little paper sign you made out of his bag, placing it next to the tray before heading toward his locker. 

It takes about thirty seconds for every single nurse and doctor in the Pitt to realize they’ve been offered a sweet treat. Even the night shift stops by the break room on their way out. Dennis personally gets pats on the back from Dr. Abbot and Robby and about ten other people who he’s not sure he’s ever met before today. It feels…nice? A bit strange, to be thanked and congratulated for something he didn’t even do.

The day is dreadfully slow. As much as Dennis hates the idea of people in pain, it's starting to grate at him by the end of the day. Only two ambulances came in, one of which was from the nearby old folk’s home. And most of the people in the waiting room either ate something bad and are overreacting or are straight-up rude. It’s trying, but Dennis supposes it’s better than losing patients.

By the time he finally makes it around to the break room at the end of the day, hoping for a bite of the sweet treat you made, only crumbs are left in the bottom of the foil pan. He smiles. Not the shaky one he gives when people ask him questions (even when he knows the answer), but something soft and solid. Mostly because he knows how happy you’ll be when you find out that the staff of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Emergency Department are, on most days, hungrier than a pack of wild hyenas. 

“I think our grocery bills are about to go up.” Dennis murmurs against your head as he places his customary greeting kiss there. You look over the back of the couch to see him empty handed and you grin.

“Are you telling me I’m required to bake for your coworkers now?” You tease, turning to lean forward against the back of the couch. Dennis just raises a brow, grinning down at you. You two know each other better than you know yourselves some days. “I’m not complaining, baby. They can be my guinea pigs when I try new recipes. And you know me. I have no idea how to cook for less than twenty people.” Dennis laughs and you think it’s the most wonderful sound you’ll ever hear. “Plus, I’m not the one who pays for groceries.”

“About that—” Dennis tugs his phone out of his back pocket, clicking open the bank app. He grimaces at the Loans tab and focuses on his Checking. “I got my first paycheck. I thought I could help out with rent this month.”

You smile softly, reaching out to play with the longer curls at his nape. “Dennis, we agreed. I graduated and got a job so you could focus on your student loans. I pay rent and bills, you get groceries and my own resident fix-it man.” You press a kiss to his cheek.

“I want to help you out.”

“I know, baby. But I want to help you more.” Your eyes close as you tug Dennis’ forehead against yours. He hums out a long sigh and you laugh softly. He’ll bring it up again and it’ll go exactly the same. You think that’s okay if it means you get to hold him like this.

3. Trinity

Around an hour before his shift ends every day, Dennis starts counting down the minutes. It’s a bad habit. He knows. It disappoints him more often than not. When the shift handoff goes long or there’s some kind of last minute trauma. So, yeah, it’s a terrible habit to have. But he can’t help it. He’s not counting down until his shift ends. He’s counting down until he can see you again.

“Hey, Whitaker!” The voice that comes from behind Dennis is unmistakably Trinity’s. He’s honestly surprised she actually used his name. “The residents are going to the bar on Grant.” 

“Uh, good for you?” Dennis murmurs, glancing back at the clock. 6:52. He’s probably only got thirty minutes before he can leave if handoff goes well. Not likely, but he can hope. That means no more than forty-five minutes until he can see you again. Dennis loves his job. He just hates how often it keeps the two of you apart. 

“Huckleberry.” Dennis turns away from the clock, back to Trinity. She has the most unimpressed look on her face that Dennis has ever seen. “All the residents.” Dennis just tilts his head, nodding along slowly. Trinity sighs as he doesn’t answer and reaches out to grip his shoulders. “That includes you, Doc.” 

She says it like it’s obvious, but Dennis hadn’t actually considered the idea that he would be invited along. That he would go. He sees these people almost every day for over twelve hours. Does he really want to spend even more time with them?

(Yes. Dennis loves the people he works with. It took Dennis almost ten years to feel as comfortable around you as he does around his coworkers friends. Probably something to do with trauma bonding in a place where horrid sights outnumber the people who can help them.)

“Oh. Uh, sorry. Can’t. My wife is expecting me at home.” Dennis says, maybe a bit too quickly. It sounds like an excuse even to his own ears and Trinity has never been one to give up.

“C’mon, invite Mrs. Huckleberry along then. I, for one, would love to meet the woman who agreed to marry you.” She grins, jabbing at Dennis’ ribs with her shockingly sharp elbows. He can’t help smiling.

“I know. I’m lucky.” Dennis looks back over at Trinity to see her pretending to gag, fist in front of her mouth. He rolls his eyes and swats at her arm. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a wife. Don’t worry, it only took me twenty years.”

“Twenty—I thought you were high school sweethearts.” Trinity stares at Dennis with wide eyes, brow furrowed tight as she looks him up and down.

“Well, yeah. But we’ve known each other since forever. I mean, there was only one school. And our year had a really small kindergarten class. It just…took me a while to finally ask her out.” Dennis smiles fondly at the memory. He had been continuously tripping over his words when you grabbed his—admittedly very sweaty—hands and said you’d love to go on a date with you, Dennis Whitaker. It was like his entire world paused for that single moment, captured in your warm gaze. Not that Dennis could ever tell Trinity that. She teased him enough already. 

“Nevermind. I don’t want to meet her if this is what I have to put up with.” Trinity actually shoves at his face with her hands, groaning as he laughs. 

“Do you really want to meet my coworkers?” Dennis asks, lights off as you both lay in bed. His warm chest is pressed against your back as he holds you against him. You always have trouble sleeping when he gets home late.

You shift, turning to face him. Light from the city outside your apartment illuminates his face. The window has curtains, Dennis just hasn’t gotten around to hanging them up yet. Always busy with work or spending time with you. Things that are more important than a piece of fabric. You don’t mind if it means you can see his face like this. 

“I mean, you seem really close. And it’d be nice to put a face to a name.” You lift a hand, running your fingers through his curls. He showered when he got home and his hair is still wet. He’ll wake up later, complaining about the damp spot on his pillow and move even closer to share yours. You’ll pretend to be annoyed. “But if you’re not ready for that, I can wait.”

“God, I don’t deserve you.” Dennis’ voice vibrates against the back of your neck, humid breath warming the skin. He wraps his arms tighter around your waist, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You let him, even though you would never leave. You think that even if Dennis tried to push you away, you would stay glued to his side. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Those were the vows you made when you married Dennis Whitaker. You had been practicing them in your head for almost a decade. 

“You’re stuck with me anyway, love.” You lift one of his hands to your lips, kissing the back softly. Sheets rustle as you tug them up over your shoulder. You press back against Dennis’ chest and hum softly. “Now go to sleep already.”

Dennis doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you impossibly closer and lets his eyes fall shut. Approximately three hours later, he shifts you both on the bed so his head rests on your pillow, murmuring something about how his pillow is wet. You pretend to be annoyed.

4. Mel

It’s a quiet day in the ED. Not that Dennis would ever say that out loud and risk incurring the wrath of whatever deity watches over the hospital. If any. So he keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the charts he’s been avoiding. Dennis prefers to chart by notepad, so he always ends up transcribing for hours on end. It’s a great way to practice his typing, he supposes. 

“Hey, Whitaker?” 

Dennis glances over to see Mel at the computer next to him, wringing her fingers nervously. He hums in reply, folding his notes away. Any excuse to avoid charting. His eyes feel like they’re about to slide out of their sockets.

“Why didn’t you tell any of us you were getting married?” Mel’s voice shakes slightly in that way Dennis has learned is low-level anxiety. The kind that builds the more you ignore it. In the half second before Dennis can speak, Mel is opening her mouth again, ears pink. “I just—I mean, we were all so surprised. And…well, I’ve never been to a wedding.” Dennis can’t help the tiny smile that grows on his lips, just barely quirking up. “Sorry, that was probably rude.”

“No, it’s just…” Dennis has to think for a moment. He loves you. He wants to show you off, let everyone know that you’ve already been snatched up. But, at the same time, he doesn’t want you to be connected to this part of his life. He doesn’t want the blood on his hands to stain his time with you. You’re his oasis from the world of antiseptic and death that he lives in every day. Compartmentalization, he’s heard it called before. It feels ugly to call it that. He doesn’t want to keep you hidden away in a box. But how the hell does he say that out loud? “Do you have someone that makes you just forget about all the bad things?”

The ED feels like it stops. Mel doesn’t answer for a moment, but her face is easy to read. She’s thinking about it. Like she wants to consider her answer before responding. Like it’s important. It makes something warm bloom in Dennis’ chest. 

“Becca. My sister. She, uh, yeah.”

“My wife, uh,” Your name rolls off his lips and he realizes that Mel is the first person he’s said it to. It’s always been my wife or Mrs. Whitaker. To define you as an individual, not simply an extension of Dennis, loosens something in the tense muscles of his shoulders. “She’s like, a break from it all? I just guess I don’t want to expose her to all this, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.” Mel’s voice is soft as she rolls closer. Her hand hovers near Dennis’ arm like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch him. Dennis leans to the side just enough to make contact and Mel’s hand presses against his bicep. “I understand.”

And it’s that easy. 

The two don’t speak after that, silently typing away in a never-ending attempt to catch up with charting. Keys clack as doctors and nurses alike scurry by, busy with their own tasks and patients. It creates a pattern of background noise that lets Dennis fall into a rhythm in his charting. He glances over at Mel once. She smiles like she understands. 

“I think you should meet my coworkers.” 

He says it suddenly as you curl against him on the couch. The television buzzes quietly in the background, forgotten as you shift to look at your husband. (Oh god, he’s your husband. That fact still amazes you sometimes.)

“What?” Your voice wobbles a bit as you hold back a surprised laugh. Dennis moves underneath you, something nervous rumbling in his chest. You run a hand up his neck, carding your fingers through his curls. He leans into the touch “Hey, you mean that?”

“Yeah, I—” Dennis breaths in slowly and releases his breath with the same careful consideration. “Mel asked today. About why, y’know? I was explaining it to her and it felt…like an excuse? I don’t want to keep you in a box. Like I’m ashamed of you or something—”

“Den, Dennis. Look at me, baby.” You grab his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes shine wetly in the soft lamplight. The shadows on his face flicker as the TV continues to play, forgotten across the room. No matter how beautiful your husband may look in this moment, you hate to see him anything but happy. So you smile and press a soft kiss to one of his cheeks. “I know you’re not ashamed of me, Dennis.” You press a kiss to his other cheek. “And I get why you’re hesitating. It’s just been us since we moved here. It’s hard to change like that.” Another kiss, this one to his forehead. “But nothing will ever change that I am here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You are the love and light of my life.” Dennis’ lips press to yours softly and you both laugh into it. This is exactly how you think it should always be. By Dennis Whitaker’s side, both of you smiling like idiots. 

+ 1

Your phone rings while you’re at work. It’s not uncommon. What is strange is that it’s Dennis that’s calling you. He doesn’t call while you’re both at work, one of the many unspoken rules the two of you have. So when you see his smiling face light up your screen, you immediately answer it, panic growing in your chest. 

“Denny? What’s up?” You try to keep your voice even, taking long, deep breaths. 

“Mrs. Whitaker, this is Dr. Robinavitch at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. I’m calling about your husband.” The voice that comes through is deep and rough. A voice that wasn’t made for yelling but has adapted to it nonetheless. The panic writhes around in the pit of your stomach now, like a living thing. 

“Is Dennis okay? Did something happen to him?”

“Whitaker is fine. He was hit by a gurney and fell. He hit his head on the floor and has a mild concussion. We’ll probably keep him overnight just to make sure there are no complications.” The voice is stern and straight to business, but there’s a softness to the edges of his words. You hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “Dennis will be fine.”

You take a deep breath. Then another. The phone digs into your fingers as you grip it tightly. You take another breath and force your fingers to relax. Dennis is fine. He’s okay. Breathe. “Can I come see him?”

“Of course.”

Dr. Robinavitch quickly gives you directions to the hospital, even telling you which parking lot is closest and would have the most parking this time of day. You jot it all down as he speaks, messy handwriting you probably won’t be able to decipher later. Not that you need to. You call a cab to pick you up. Dennis had to get to work early, so you let him take the shared car and you took the bus. 

The line in the waiting room is long and the more you wait, the more panic grows up your throat. You scratch nervously at your neck as you glance around. It smells like metal. Red is everywhere. Drops on the floor from a kid with a bloody nose. Staining the towel of an older man as he holds it against his wrist. Blooming across a woman’s blouse as she cradles bruised knuckles. You look away. It’s not that you’re a stranger to blood, you just…prefer to be far away from it. 

“How can I help you, hon?” You hear. The woman behind the glass looks you up and down once. Then again. Makes sense. You’re not obviously injured. You feel your cheeks heat.

“Hi. Um, I’m visiting a patient. Dennis Whitaker? He works here.” 

“Mrs. Whitaker?” The woman brightens just slightly, the customer service mask slipping just enough for you to see a glint in her eye. It disappears just as quickly and she points toward the double doors. A young woman steps out, dark hair pulled back. “Santos! Mrs. Whitaker!”

Santos turns toward you immediately. Yeah, that’s definitely a glint. You suddenly know that this is Trinity. It’s the shirt under her scrubs that gives it away. Dennis has always liked that Trinity wears them. He always calls her in for pedes cases when Trinity’s shirt has a cartoon on it. Today you can see the tuft of Tweety Bird’s feathers atop his head.

“Mrs. Whitaker.” Trinity’s voice has a lilt to it that you recognize from Dennis’ brothers when they would tease the two of you. She seems to stalk closer and you meet her eyes slowly, anxiety still quietly simmering in your chest.

“You must be Trinity.” You hold your hand out for her to shake, offering up your first name. Trinity’s grip is solid, hard. Like she’s testing you. The thought makes you smile. Dennis’ oldest brother had done the same thing when the two of you announced your engagement. “Everyone keeps calling me Mrs. Whitaker. Must be confusing. You can use my first name.”

Trinity just shakes her head as she leads you toward the double doors. They buzz open as she scans her badge and it’s just as chaotic as it had been in the waiting room. More, even. Trinity swiftly guides you down a dizzying series of turns until you’re stopped in front of a room. You can feel eyes on you from the large desk in the middle of the open area. You try your best to ignore them, focusing on Trinity.

“That’s what Huckleberry calls you, so it stuck.” Trinity shrugs, pushing the door open. Another woman sits at his bedside, blonde hair braided back and glasses perched on the long ridge of his nose. Mel, maybe? Then, you turn back toward Trinity, one brow raised high. 

“Huckleberry?”

“Hey, baby.” Dennis’ voice comes from the cot on the other side of the room. You immediately turn toward him, surprised at the slow thickness of his voice. Your name rolls off his tongue and it sounds so sweet that you’re almost embarrassed. This is a mild concussion?

“Hey, Den. How’re you feeling?” The woman in the seat next to Dennis’ bed stands, letting you sit. You read the nametag, Dr. Melissa King. She smiles wide and bright. The chair is plastic and probably designed to be uncomfortable, but as you grab Dennis’ hand and he smiles up at you, you know this is where you want to be. 

“Been better. Why’re you here?” There’s a dinosaur bandage on his forehead, just above his brow bone. You reach up to soothe it softly, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the shiny plastic. Dennis leans into it, giving you that familiar soft smile. You can’t help smoothing back his curls.

“Dr. Robinavitch called me. Said you fell.”

Dennis just hums. You glance around the room and realize it’s just the two of you. You’re not sure when Mel and Trinity left. You think you can remember seeing Mel drag the younger woman quietly out of the room. But as your gaze sweeps across the window, you can see a few people gathered around what seems to be the main desk. They occasionally glance over at the room. At you two. 

You can name some of them. The older blonde is obviously Dana. You look down at Dennis to see him following your line of sight. You grin. “Dana, right? I don’t know, Denny…I might just have to leave you if she asks.”

“Don’t even joke about that. She’d probably take you up on it.” You both laugh softly, Dennis squeezing your hand softly. The door clicks open quietly and an older man steps inside. He’s wearing glasses that you can only assume are readers with how far down his nose they are. “Dr. Robby.”

The man steps closer, tablet held under one arm as he looks Dennis over carefully. “Whitaker.” His voice is fond. Soft and warm like a parent. Or maybe just a teacher who cares too much. Robby turns toward you, holding out a hand. You stand and take it. “Mrs. Whitaker. Nice to finally meet you. Michael Robinavitch, we spoke on the phone.”

“You as well.” The chair is just as uncomfortable the second time you sit in it. “Thanks for watching out for Dennis. He’s told me all about you. Really admires you and the work you do.” Dennis groans on the bed, cheeks red. You grin, squeezing his hand tighter. Robby smiles as he watches the exchange. You don’t notice, too busy watching as Dennis tries to hide his face with a pillow. You pull it away before he can suffocate himself. “It’s the truth, Den. Did you want me to lie to your boss?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Robby smiles easily, typing something on the screen in his hands before turning back to Dennis. There it is again. That glint. “Ready for visitors, Whitaker?”

Dennis groans yet again. 

The night is spent with you never leaving Dennis’ side. He groans and grumbles as his coworkers share embarrassing work stories with you that he had purposefully not shared. You respond in kind, telling them about his sweaty hands when he asked you out and how he somehow managed to get a calf to imprint on him. Dana proposes to you twice, grin sharp. You only blush a little. 

You think you get it, why Dennis is already so close with these people. You loved Broken Bow. Still do. But the people there were always pretending to be perfect, putting up fronts so the neighbors wouldn’t know their dirty secrets. Here, in this hospital, everyone is just themselves. They laugh loudly, bully each other playfully, smile wide. You think you get it. Why Dennis has never brought up moving back to Nebraska. Why he wants to stay here. You do too. With him. With this new family the two of you have created. 

“Hey, Mrs. Huckleberry. You’re comin’ with us next Tuesday. That place on Grant. Whitaker knows where it is.” Trinity says as she files out of the room. Something about patients and how every single doctor in the ED cannot be visiting with Dennis. It’s not a question. Not even a request. You laugh.

“Sure thing, Trin.”

Extra

“My sister just texted me. Her wedding is next September.” You mention casually. Dennis nods, pulling out his phone calendar and jotting down the dates he’ll need off. You grin as another text pops up. “She wants to know when you’re gonna put a ring on my finger.”

Dennis doesn’t even look up from his phone as he responds. “After I graduate. You should marry a doctor, not a med student.”

Your eyes widen just a fraction and you smile so sweetly it feels like your teeth are already rotting. You can’t help grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to the rough palm. 

“Yes.” You murmur against his palm. He tilts his head and you grin. “You can ask me again when you graduate, but I promise my answer will be the same. So, yes, Dennis Whitaker. I will marry you.”

“Yes, it’s me,” He responded as he walked into the living room, seeing you lying on the couch first and then spotting the empty wine bottles on the coffee table. “How drunk are you right now?”

“I promise I’m just a teeny tiny little bit,” You answered, pinching your thumb and forefinger together so that there was barely any space between them.

Steve laughed a little as he joined you on the couch, moving your legs for a second so that he could sit down, and then he placed them in his lap. “Where’s Robin?” 

“She went to the guest room to pass out like five minutes ago,” You told him, biting back your yawn and shifting so that you were lying on your back instead of your side. “You missed out on a very fun night. We decided to be classy and have wine like true adults, and we played a drinking game while watching Grease.”

“What was the game?”

“We had to drink every time they started singing.”

Steve shook his head and gave you an amused smile. “Your headache’s gonna be killer in the morning.”

“Hey, hey, hey, do not wish that upon me,” You told him, reaching out to poke his side. “I’m hoping to wake up tomorrow with only a minimal hangover.”

“That sounds like wishful thinking,” Steve said, and you flipped him off in response. “But I will give you aspirin and lots of water in the morning.”

“Thank you. You’re the best. I love you,” You responded, changing your attitude completely and giving him a smile that you hoped didn’t look as drunk as it felt. You were then remembering what he had been up to for the night and why he couldn’t hang out with you and Robin. “Hey, how was your date with Shelby?”

“Oh, yeah, um…” He trailed off for a second, and that brief pause should’ve told you what was coming next, but you didn’t see it. “We broke up.” 

“Oh,” You breathed out and tried to think of the right thing to say in this situation, but your mind was too fuzzy. “Okay, I’m so sorry, but I’m way too drunk to form coherent thoughts about this right now, so please just tell me how you want me to react in this situation.”

“If you could shed some tears on my behalf, that would be really nice,” Steve responded, and in your inebriated state, you couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “I’m kidding, you don’t have to pretend to be sad. I know you never liked her.”

“At first,” You corrected him. “At first I didn’t like her, but then she grew on me. Kinda like a fungus. Ooh, or a brain-eating amoeba.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Well, that pretty much sums up her personality to a tee,” You blurted out before you realized what you were saying. You slapped a hand to your forehead. “Sorry, too soon?”

Steve shook his head. “She broke up with me, so you can do as much shit-talking as you want.”

Hearing that she was the one who ended things slightly surprised you. “Can I ask what happened, or do you wanna save that story for the morning?”

“No, we can talk about it now,” He answered. “It was about you.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Or I guess technically it was about both of us. Our friendship,” Steve explained a little more. “She thinks it’s weird that you live here.”

“Did you remind her that my house quite literally got destroyed in the earthquake, aka the aftermath of Vecna’s fucked up curse?”

“Yes, I said that, without mentioning Vecna of course, but she still thinks it’s weird,” Steve told you, which made you roll your eyes; it wasn’t like you stayed in his room and you two shared the same bed, you were in the guest room down the hall from his bedroom. “And she also thinks we’re just too close.”

You rolled your eyes again. “Obviously we’re close, we've been best friends since sixth grade.”

It was an odd set of circumstances that led to the beginning of that friendship— seven minutes in heaven at Robbie Matthews’ house. 

Steve spun the bottle, and it landed on you, and you tried to pretend that you weren’t disappointed. Steve was cute, but you had a crush on the host of the party, so this whole thing felt like a huge inconvenience to you. Meanwhile, Steve had a crush on Mackenzie Adams, who had been sitting right next to you in the circle, so he wasn’t excited about this trip to the stinky closet either. 

Before you two could even think about actually kissing, you blurted out that you liked Robbie, and Steve admitted that he was into Mackenzie, which made you inwardly sigh in relief and also gave you an idea— you and he could lie about making out in the closet to hopefully make your crushes jealous. You walked out after the seven minutes were up with smudged lip gloss and Steve with mussed-up hair, hoping that it looked believable enough. 

It worked wonders for Steve; he and Mackenzie became practically attached at the hip the rest of the night, but it didn’t work that well for you; Robbie only gave you quick glances that felt completely inconsequential, and you had the briefest conversation that felt the same.

The night ended around nine o’clock, with parents pretty much coming one after the other, and soon it was only you and Steve, and Robbie and his brother in their basement. You and Steve both had barely there parents— your mom had two jobs and was practically never home, and Steve’s dad was always gone on business trips, and his mom never hesitated to join him— so you walked home together. His house was the first stop, but he insisted on walking you to yours, and instead of you immediately walking through your front door once you were there, you two ended up sitting on your front porch steps and talking for a lot longer than either of you had expected to. 

And the rest was history. You two had been best friends ever since. 

“I think I probably just talked about you too much sometimes,” Steve said with a sigh. “But, it’s kinda hard not to when you’ve pretty much been the one constant in my life for the past ten years.” 

“Do you want me to call Shelby and tell her that we’re just friends, and promise her that I don’t want to have sex with you?” 

Steve let out a laugh, which had been the goal when you said your words. “No, but thanks for the offer.”

“Here, you need to play catch-up,” You told him as you reached out to grab the last bottle of wine that had been opened but was nowhere near finished and handed it over to him. “What movie do you want to watch?”

“Weren’t you just about to fall asleep?”

You shrugged. “I’ve suddenly gotten a second wind.”

You watched and smiled as he took a long sip from the wine bottle. He then set it back down on the coffee table, and you got up so that you could go pick through the movies on the shelf next to the TV and put in something new, but the second you were standing, you realized just how inebriated you were because you quickly lost your balance. 

“Please sit back down,” Steve said, already grabbing your arm to both steady you and lead you back to the couch. “I’ll go put a movie in.” 

You nodded instead of arguing his words. “I’ll let you subject me to Top Gun right now if that is what your heart desires.” 

“No, I’ll choose something that we both like,” He told you and then held up his The Breakfast Club tape.

You gave him two thumbs up. “Brilliant choice.” 

Steve put the movie in and then joined you back on the couch. Your legs were in his lap once again, and he continued taking sips from the wine bottle as the movie played. 

Your initial tiredness ebbed and flowed over the next hour until it faded away completely because of how much you loved watching this movie, especially with your best friend. 

Steve let you finish the tiny bit that was left in the bottle, and then you reached out to place it on the coffee table with the other empties. 

“Can I ask a probably stupid question?” Steve asked, and you quickly took notice of his voice and the slight slowness to his words. He was definitely tipsy, and that was one of your favorite kinds of Steve. 

“Ask away,” You answered with a nod and an amused smile already on your face. 

“Have you ever thought, like, maybe, if… We tried something between us?”

Your laugh was immediate. “What? No, of course not. We would be horrible together.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed. “Really? You think so?”

“Yeah, we’d definitely end up killing each other,” You told him. You two were similar and comfortable with each other in the ways that were the most important, but different in small, random ways that told you just how incompatible you two would be in a romantic sense. “We work fine as best friends, but anything more and I’m a hundred percent sure it would end terribly.”

“You really think that?” 

You propped yourself up on your elbows and gave him a look. “What I think is that you just got broken up with, but you wish you could be in a relationship, so you’re just trying to dig at the bottom of the barrel.”

“You’re not the bottom of the barrel,” Steve mumbled, but you heard him loud and clear. “But, seriously, you don’t ever think about it sometimes? How different things would’ve been if we weren’t crushing on different people the night we became friends?”

You decided against asking him the obvious question, which was how many times had he thought about this, because it was suddenly pretty clear that it was more than just tonight. A part of you didn’t want to know that answer. 

“We would’ve awkwardly ‘dated’ for a week and a half and then never spoken to each other again,” You responded instead. 

Steve let out a laugh. “So, like, what happened with me and Mackenzie?”

“Yes, and what happened with me and Robbie after I finally got the courage to talk to him for more than thirty seconds,” You reminded him. “We did the right thing by becoming friends instead.”

And even in your slightly drunken state, you knew just how true your words were. There was nothing you felt more certain about than Steve Harrington being your best friend. The thought of trying something more might have fleetingly crossed your mind every now and again, but it was always just that— a fleeting, random, impossible thought. You didn’t want things to change because you worried that it would inevitably mess things up between you two, and the overthinking part of your personality had long ago convinced you that that’s exactly what would happen.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed with your previous words. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“And plus,” You started, deciding to send all of this home with one final point. “I’m pretty sure if we kissed, it would literally feel like nothing.”

“You think?” He asked, and you didn’t hesitate to nod. 

One simple little kiss would let you both know exactly just how silly it would be if you ever tried something more between you two. The kiss would feel awkward and weird and completely inconsequential, and it would draw the line in the sand right where it needed to be. 

And honestly, that was something that you wanted to prove to yourself just as much as you wanted to prove it to Steve too.

You pulled your legs off his lap and shifted on the couch so that you were sitting right next to him. “I’m positive.” 

It was almost comical how you were immediately proven wrong. 

The second your hand found his cheek and your mouths met halfway, it felt as if a bomb went off in your chest. You immediately felt grounded, even as your heart began to race wildly, fluttering harshly and bouncing around the walls of your rib cage. 

It was just supposed to be a brief kiss, nothing more than a simple peck, but it quickly turned into something deeper. The thought of this ending after only a quick second suddenly seemed so stupid. Your body started moving on autopilot; your free hand fisted itself into Steve’s shirt, and you pulled him as close as he possibly could be to you. His hands grabbed your waist and squeezed to steady himself while also drawing out the softest sound from you, which he reveled in. 

The only coherent thought running through your head in that moment was, “Why haven’t we done this sooner?” And with just that one question rattling around in your brain, you knew that a huge can of worms was about to be opened. 

“What the hell?” The abrupt sound of Robin's voice made you pull away from one another. “How drunk am I right now? Since when do you guys make out with each other?”

“We weren’t making out,” You responded automatically, even though you two definitely had been. “We were just testing a theory.” You turned to Steve. “You felt nothing too, right?”

He hesitated in such a brief way that if you hadn’t known him for the past ten years, you wouldn’t have noticed. “Yeah, absolutely nothing. You were right.”

“Exactly,” You responded, taking his words at face value instead of calling him out on his minor hesitation. 

He gave you a quick nod. “Yup, exactly.” 

You and Steve never lied to each other— with how long you’d known one another, it was kind of impossible to— so you silently wondered how long you two would be able to keep this one up. With how fast you two broke eye contact with one another and moved to opposite ends of the couch to make room for Robin in the middle, you quickly figured that it wouldn’t take long for this lie to eat you both alive. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Morning creeps into the apartment through half-open blinds, slow and honey-colored, warm in a way early spring only sometimes manages. The air smells like coffee and toasted bread and something sweeter you’re still deciding on. The kitchen window is cracked open, letting in a thin thread of breeze that smells like pavement warming after a cold season.

You like mornings like this.

Quiet ones. The kind that feel almost secret.

The kind where you can pretend the world is smaller than it is.

You stand at the stove barefoot, wearing one of his shirts that hangs too long on your thighs, stirring something in a pan while the coffee drips behind you. The rhythm is familiar. Automatic. Domestic in the way people write poems about but rarely mean.

Eggs. Toast. Coffee strong enough to wake the dead.

You think about the things you’d do for him and it feels less like a question and more like gravity.

Of course you’d cook for him.

Of course you’d keep the apartment warm and stocked and clean, fold the shirts he forgets about in the laundry basket, tuck the corners of the sheets the way he likes them even though he pretends he doesn’t care.

You’d do the little things. The soft things. The ordinary ones.

If he brought home the world in broken pieces, you’d sit at the table and stitch it back together.

If he asked for your heart, you’d hand it over like a receipt. No hesitation. No refund.

You flip the eggs.

Today is his birthday.

You didn’t say it out loud yet.

He hates the fuss. Still. You count anyway. Born in 1917.

It makes the number ridiculous when you say it in your head. Impossible. Something from a museum placard instead of a man who grumbles about coffee being too weak and steals the blanket at night.

One hundred and nine.

And yet somehow he still looks half asleep when he wakes up.

Right on cue, the floor creaks behind you.

You don’t turn around immediately. You already know how he looks. You can map him in your mind the way sailors once mapped constellations.

Heavy steps. Bare feet. Hair messy. Voice rough with sleep.

A moment later two arms slide around your waist.

One warm.

One metal.

His chin settles on your shoulder like it belongs there.

“You’re up early,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes slightly, though he can’t see it.

“It’s called morning.”

His grip tightens just a little.

“You making breakfast or building a five-course meal?”

“Depends,” you say, sliding eggs onto a plate. “Do you plan on complaining about it?”

“Probably.”

You finally glance at him over your shoulder.

His eyes are still soft with sleep, lashes heavy, mouth slightly crooked the way it gets when he’s trying not to smile.

You lean back into him.

“Happy birthday, old man.”

He groans immediately.

“Oh come on.”

“You’re literally over a century old.”

“I stopped counting.”

“Well I didn’t.”

“Course you didn’t.”

His nose brushes the side of your neck when he says it, and it’s such an absentminded gesture that it makes your chest ache.

He’s like that with you. Constantly touching. Like your body is something he keeps accidentally orbiting.

His thumb hooks under the hem of the shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, rubbing slow circles against your hip while you plate the food.

You don’t mention it.

He doesn’t notice he’s doing it. Or maybe he does. You set the plate down and turn in his arms. For a second you just look at him.

You think about how strange it is that the world gave you this man.

A ghost of a soldier. A relic. A weapon. A grumpy, stubborn, ridiculous man who pretends not to care about anything but will quietly fix the loose hinge on the cabinet at three in the morning because it woke you up once.

Your love for him doesn’t feel soft.

It feels like standing too close to a bonfire. Warm. Dangerous. Impossible to walk away from.

You kiss him first. Quick. Just the corner of his mouth.

He exhales through his nose like he’s annoyed, but his hand slides up the back of your neck anyway.

“You’re staring,” he mutters.

“You’re old.”

“You said that already.”

“And you’re still here.”

“Unfortunately.”

You snort.

He squeezes your waist.

The two of you eat at the small kitchen table with the window open, sunlight slowly spreading across the floorboards.

You read headlines from your phone out loud while he drinks coffee and pretends to care.

“The market’s down again,” you say.

“Shocking.”

“You’re supposed to be the one reading the boring business section.”

“I retired.”

“You never had that job.”

He shrugs.

“Could’ve.”

The conversation drifts like that for a while. Dry. Lazy. Comfortable.

The kind of silence people spend years trying to earn. And underneath it there’s always that current between you. That strange understanding.

You belong to each other in a way that doesn’t follow normal rules. Not ownership. Not sacrifice. Something messier. You take care of him. He takes care of you.

He fixes broken locks and carries heavy things, buys that weird pink spray you swear you hate but always secretly enjoy the smell of, and comes home smelling like motor oil, city wind and something uniquely him.

You cook. You make the bed. You fold the shirts that still feel warm from his shoulders.

The world outside might call it old-fashioned or strange. But the two of you made your own arrangement. Your own little system. A closed loop.

He leans back in his chair and watches you for a moment too long.

“What,” you say.

“Nothin’.”

“You’re staring.”

“Maybe I like staring.”

You narrow your eyes.

He smirks.

Later, when you’re about to head out for a walk, you’re halfway to the door when something drops onto your head.

Your vision disappears.

“What the—”

You shove the brim upward.

A baseball cap.

Bucky is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s sunny.”

“It’s barely sunny.”

“It’s bright enough.”

You try adjusting it. It slides down again over your eyes.

“Buck.”

He pushes off the wall and walks over. Without asking, he grabs the brim and tilts it down even further. Now you can barely see him.

“You look ridiculous.”

“You did that.”

“Still counts.”

You swat his arm.

He chuckles, a low, rare sound that feels like finding a coin in the street.

You reach up to fix the cap again but he stops your hands, holding your wrists lightly. For a second neither of you moves. The brim of the hat casts a shadow across your eyes.

He studies you like you’re something slightly unbelievable.

“Looks better on you anyway,” he murmurs.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.”

You roll your eyes. But he pulls you closer by the back of the cap before you can step away. Your chest bumps his. Your hands land automatically on his shirt.

“See?” he says softly. “Didn’t even fight it.”

“Shut up.”

He kisses your cheek. Then your temple. Then the corner of your mouth.

They’re quick kisses at first, almost teasing, but his hand stays at the back of your neck, fingers slipping into your hair.

You laugh under your breath.

“You’re clingy today.”

“It’s my birthday.”

“That’s not how birthdays work.”

“Hmm… Think it is.”

He presses another kiss to your cheek, slower this time.

“You spoil me,” he murmurs against your skin.

You tilt your head slightly, letting him.

Your hands slide up his chest.

“You deserve it.”

“Debatable.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. He still hasn’t moved his hand from your neck. Your fingers hook into his belt loops. Neither of you seems capable of stepping away.

It’s like magnets. Or gravity.

“Buck,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. It’s not a dramatic moment. Not thunder and violins. Just sunlight on the floor and his stupid hat on your head. But the feeling in your chest suddenly feels too big.

You swallow.

“I think I’d do anything for you.”

The words come out simpler than the feeling behind them.

He goes very still. His eyes sharpen slightly. Not surprised. Just… focused.

“Yeah?” he says.

You nod once. There’s something a little unhinged about the way you mean it. You’d cook. You’d bleed.

You’d hand over every piece of yourself if it meant he stayed exactly where he is.

In your kitchen. In your life. Looking at you like you’re the only thing worth looking at.

Bucky’s hand slides from your neck to your jaw. His thumb presses lightly under your eye.

“Good,” he says.

You blink.

“Good?”

He leans closer, moving the stupid hat out of the way, until his forehead touches yours.

“Because I’d do worse for you.”

You laugh quietly.

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe.”

His mouth brushes your temple again.

“But you’re stuck with me.”

You tilt your head toward him, bumping his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

For someone who has lived more than a century, Bucky Barnes has never looked more alive than he does standing in a sunlit hallway with his hand tangled in your hair.

You reach up and straighten the baseball cap. He immediately tilts it crooked again. You groan. He laughs.

And then he kisses you properly this time, slow, warm, impossible to rush, like the day isn’t going anywhere.

Like neither of you are.

When you finally pull apart, his arms are still around you. Your hands are still in his shirt. He presses one last kiss to your temple.

“C’mon,” he murmurs.

“Where?”

“Walk.”

You nod. But neither of you moves right away. Because somehow the apartment has shrunk again.

Just two people.

Sunlight. Coffee cups on the table. A quiet little world built by accident. Or maybe by choice.

You’re his.

He’s yours.

Strange. Intense. A little crazy.

Perfect.

the line rings once, twice, three times - and for a moment you think maybe he's not actually home. maybe he's off doing whatever the fuck he did when he disappeared and wouldn't contact you for weeks on end.

but then:

“what the fuck do you want?” it's flat, blunt - the tone of voice you'd come to expect when you inevitably ended up ringing him in the early hours of the morning.

but he still answered.

“can you pick me up? ride's bailed.” your voice isn't exactly slurred, but it's definitely not sober. you generally aren't when you call him anymore.

you can hear a sigh over the line. “we broke up eight months ago. you can't keep fuckin’ doin’ this.”

“we didn't break up. you have to be together to break up, si.” it's almost petulant. there's a pause and then, “please. s’cold.”

“fine.” you can hear the familiar creak of his sofa shift under his weight. “fuckin’ fine. where are you?”

you give him the address, a shitty place in a shitty part of the city - the kind of place he always got pissy with you for going when he was actively in your life. the kind of place he used to drag you out of by the scruff of your neck to fuck you against a wall in the alley behind.

his car pulls up - black sedan, same as it's always been. he doesn't even look at you as you climb into the passenger seat; you flick the seat warmers on and adjust the temperature like you still have a right to. he pulls away from the curb before your seatbelt is even plugged in, reaching into the back seat to shove his jacket at you. “put that on if you're fuckin’ cold.”

you do. pulling the familiar leather around your shoulders; the smell of smoke and aftershave and something that's always just been him filling your nose and making your chest ache treacherously.

you don't even make it to either of your flats before he's inside you. pulled over down some quiet side street; hauled across the centre console and the drivers side seat flattened out.

rough hands tugging the neckline of dress down under your tits, pressing them together so he can bury his face between them. “only thing i miss about you is these fuckin’ things.” it's like the words are dragged out of him against his will even though no one asked him to say it; rough and almost furious at himself for the admission. his mouth finds one of your nipples and you gasp as his scarred lips clamp round it; hot tongue flicking over the hardening peak.

“liar.” you hiss as you arch into the touch, already reaching between you for his belt buckle. “you miss my cunt as well.”

he makes a noise that could be a laugh, if he ever laughed, before releasing your nipple with a pop and pinching it between his fingers and thumb instead, just to hear your breath hitch and a whine build in your throat. “always such a fuckin’ smart mouth. just shut th’ fuck up.”

he doesn't give you a choice in whether you carry on running your mouth. fingers and thumb digging into your cheeks until your eyes go wide and your jaw drops open; shoving two fingers so far over your tongue you gag on them. your eyes flash with something dangerous as your jaws clamps down around him, teeth sinking into his fingers hard enough to make him flinch. a hissed “fucking bitch.” leaving his mouth as he tries and fails to yank his fingers free.

if you could smile you would, but you just flutter your lashes before flicking your tongue over his fingerprints instead; sucking on the digits as you shove your hands into his jeans. you release his fingers from your mouth as your hand wraps around his cock, “don't act like it doesn't make you hard, fucking prick.” you snarl back, squeezing your fingers around his swollen head; swiping your thumb over the pre cum already leaking from his tip.

the noise he makes starts in his chest and drags its way out of his throat unbidden, something half feral and completely needy. “fuck you.” he manages to bark out, hips jerking up into your touch.

"trying." your lip curls in a smirk.

one of his hands finds your breast again, pawing at the soft flesh as the other hooks your underwear to the side. “fuckin’ ride me then. fuckin’ callin’ me up any time you can't find some other poor fucker to fill you up.”

it's your turn to snap this time. “fuck you. cunt.” but even as the words leave you're mouth you're sinking down onto him; soft walls moulding around him like you haven't ever been apart. head lolling back as your breath catches in your throat when you feel him nudge against your cervix.

and oh god. maybe this is why you keep coming back. because no matter how many other people you've fucked; no matter how many people actually treat you like you're more than a passing thought - maybe you keep calling simon simply for the way your cunt feels stretched around him.

you take a second just to savour the feeling of being so full you can barely think straight, to grind your hips down against his just to see the way his eyes roll back in his head. “i. hate. you.” each word is punctuated by a roll of your pelvis, palms landing on his chest for purchase as you ride him. “you're a fucking asshole. i wish i’d never met you.”

his hands slam onto your hips, pinning you flush against him so he can grind his cock up into your cunt as deep as he can; until you hiss like a feral cat and shove at his chest- fists battering at the muscle. he doesn't even blink. “then why am I fuckin’ you again then, love?” it's almost mocking. he leans forward to sink his teeth into your neck hard enough to leave a mark before he smirks slightly; scarred lips crooking up lopsidedly. “why are you gonna see me on yer skin every time you look in the mirror for the next fuckin’ week?”

“prick.” another hiss, another shove; hips slamming down just as your elbow slams backwards and into the car horn. you both startle at the sudden hooooonk, eyes meeting the others with something other than sheer hatred for the first time all evening. something close to humour.

it's gone in a second. like it never happened.

one of his arms forms an iron band around your waist, hauling you down so you're flush against him. “silly fucking cow. anyone comes lookin’ ‘cause of the noise i'm letting ‘em watch.” his other hand finds your ass, blunt fingernails digging in so hard you're sure he breaks skin. “jus’ stay fuckin’ still.”

you don't exactly have a say in the matter; restrained against his chest as he fucks up into you with absolutely no finesse. the car fills with the noise of slick skin on skin and heated breaths; windows fogging up in a way that anyone would know what was happening inside if they glanced at it. you're nothing but hiccups and mewls and whimpers as he takes you apart and puts you back together again with each drag of his cock through your slick cunt; with every nudge of his head against all the spots inside you that make you stupid. he grunts every time you clench down around him, every time he feels your cunt cling onto him a little bit tighter. he's brutal, but he's efficient.

he knows your body just as well as his by now. he took the time to learn it and then he just… never bothered forgetting.

“si- fuck-” you manage to gasp out, “i’m- shit.” your hands curl into tights fists in his t-shirt, body stiffening in his grip.

“i know, i know love.” for the first time all night his voice doesn't have an edge to it. it's not soft, it's never soft. but it lacks any of the malice that's usually woven through it. “can feel you. s’perfect.”

he feels your cunt clamp down around him as soon as the words leave his mouth, feel your chest heave with a breath that might be a sob against his and it's so much it's enough to break him too. enough to make him pull your pelvis flush against his as he fucks up into you one last time. a low moan of your name and he empties himself inside you; warmth spreading even as he doesn't stop moving; as he grinds you down onto him until you're pliant and soft in his grip.

neither of you speak. neither of you move. not for a while. not for what could probably be considered too long. until finally he nudges your forehead with his nose, catching your mouth in the first kiss he's given you as soon as you look up at him with those soft, fucked out eyes. it's hot and desperate and altogether perfect - but over far, far too soon. both of you pulling away, adjusting clothes and seats until you're staring firmly out the passenger side window and he's starting the engine again; like that moment of softness never happened either.

“i hate you.” you whisper without looking at him; gaze fixed firmly on the blur of streetlamps outside as he pulls back onto the main road. this time there's something almost hollow to it, an echo of the vitriol that was behind the words earlier.

his hand finds your thigh and squeezes, “still easier than lovin’ me would ‘ave been, pet.” he says roughly. “let’s get you home.”

You seem to be everywhere. Ever since that first day, he hasn’t been able to shake you. Any corner he turns, every trauma room he enters, there you are. Even when he can’t see you, you still haunt him. He picks up the faint smell of your shampoo, sometimes. Hears your laughter ringing somewhere in the halls and can't help but turn his head towards it.

It’s worse when you’re next to him. You’re great at what you do, there's no denying that. But it's been difficult to work alongside you, elbows and arms brushing while you crowd over whatever patient is bleeding out on the table in front of him. His brain just can't keep up, sometimes. Not with the warmth of your body next to his. Commands come out a little slower than usual. He hesitates for a second longer than he usually does.

However, it's the worst when you’re batting your eyelashes at him when you finally have a moment of downtime. Handing him some coffee from the break room, letting your fingers linger on his for just a beat too long. Casually laying a hand on his bicep when you talk to him, leaving him tingling for an embarrassing amount of time after you leave. He knows exactly what you’re doing. That you know exactly what it does to him. He’s got scars older than you, but that doesn't stop his gaze from following you as you flit around the ER. And he knows you feel it. You’re real young, you’re real fucking pretty and you’re real fucking capable.

Which is why it feels like a cruel joke that you’re always flirting with him. Especially since he’s pretty sure you’d never actually see him in the way that he sees you. Honestly, it makes this inconvenient attraction he has towards you all the more complicated. Jack can't help but notice the way you chew your lip when you’re deep into charting. The curve of your neck when you adjust your hair. When you look up at him with those big eyes, just eagerly waiting for him to tell you what to do next.

Fuck, he’s hard just thinking about it.

His thoughts always wander in that direction when it comes to you. He finds himself at home, thinking of the way that you looked at him earlier in the day or when you swept a slow thumb over your bottom lip absentmindedly, lost in thought. Jack feels filthy when he thinks of you like this, but he still can't help but palm himself through his pants when the thoughts come. Which is more often than he'd like to admit.

When he thinks of you outside of that, however, he’s not entirely sure how he feels. It’s more than just something carnal. He wants to take care of you. And he does, sometimes. Leaves a protein bar by your hand when he hears you complain about how hungry you are, and steps in when patients start being rowdy or handsy with you. 

It’s an entirely different feeling while he watches a doctor get handsy with you instead.

It's the early hours of the morning, and the day shift has started to trickle in. It was always interesting, crossing paths with them. The night shift attracted a certain kind of person. Someone who prefers working under the cover of darkness. Jack noticed that the people on the night shift always played their cards closer to their chests, had a little more hidden depth. Maybe that's why they all worked well together, moving like a unit, fluid and unspoken. 

The day shift on the other hand was, well, bright, in a sense. They were all dazzling smiles and caffeinated energy, bouncing from one patient to the next. They clashed like nobody’s business, bold and brash. There were exceptions of course, like Mohan, who Jack had grown fond of and even attempted to convince to join the night shift on more than a few occasions. (She always said no.)

Then there were the textbook examples. And no one embodies the day shift more than Robby’s prodigal son, Frank Langdon. 

Frank Langdon, who was standing just a little too close to you, elbow propped on the nurse’s station as he gave you one of his signature smiles. Jack was too far away to hear exactly what he was saying, but he didn't miss the way his fingers played with your badge, the light glinting off it as he fiddled with it and examined your photo. Jealousy twists in Jack’s gut, but he can't make himself turn away. He just grips his tablet harder, listening to you giggle at whatever Langdon had to say. It’s the same giggle that you give him when he's just a little too sarcastic in an attempt to make you laugh. That was his giggle.

A hand on his shoulder snaps him out of his daze.

“What'd the tablet do to you?” It’s Robby, looking at Jack expectantly to begin their hand off for the day. Jack can't curb his jealousy fast enough and the other man follows his gaze right over to you and Langdon. He can see the gears turning in Robby’s mind, piecing everything together until he barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “You’re so screwed, brother.”

“I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jack grumbles, and Robby raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him. He’s still gripping onto the tablet, probably moments away from cracking the damn thing in half.

“Right…” Robby has to basically wrestle it out of his grip and Jack finally drags his eyes over to his friend, who looks thoroughly unimpressed. “So you’re just here, burning holes into Langdon for no reason.”

“I’m not,” Jack says, a little too indignantly for his liking. “He’s married. He shouldn't be flirting like that.” Robby laughs at him again, which is really starting to get on his nerves. He knows that it’s a terrible lie, but his mind is too foggy from his overnight shift to think of a better one. He wishes his friend would cut him a little slack here.

“Sure. And it’s got nothing to do with her, I’m guessing,” Robby nods over in your direction, and Langdon is still there. He’s leaning on the nurses station, still talking away while you nod, full attention on him. Doesn’t this guy have a job to do? A beat of silence passes, and Jack doesn't answer. “Okay, well, good luck with that then.”

With that, Robby takes his leave, but not before he grabs Langdon by the scrubs, wordlessly hauling him away. You seem shocked at the sudden intrusion, waving goodbye to the dark haired doctor just a moment too late.

It seems like his best friend can cut him some slack, after all.

—

You’re already two drinks deep when Jack Abbot walks through the door.

You’re in the day shift’s favourite bar, squished into the booth seat next to Trinity. She’s yapping away and gesturing wildly to Robby and Garcia who are sitting across from you, looking equally as squished. Truthfully, you’d tuned her out a few minutes ago; it was a story about Dennis and the farm girl she’s told you a million times before.

Your eyes are wandering across the bar, drifting over your friends who are scattered around as if they own the place. Samira and Cassie are perched on stools at the bar, Parker is trying and failing to teach Dennis how to play pool. Movement catches your eye and your gaze drifts towards the door, where John strides in, with Jack in tow.

You can't even pretend to notice Shen, not when Jack catches your eye right away. He’s got his typical black shirt on, tight in all the right places. His hands are shoved into his pockets as he saunters in, looking confident as always. You swear that you’ve never seen him look out of place before. Everywhere he enters, it feels like all heads turn in his direction.

Well, yours does at least.

And it’s really irritating how fucking good he looks all the time. Scrubbed up, in his civvies and in that unbelievably hot uniform that he rolled up in on the fourth of July. He really has you feeling a lot of things you definitely shouldn’t be, considering that he’s your attending. But that still doesn’t stop your eyes from wandering across his broad frame, up his freckled arms to the grey stubble on his jaw. You practically have to physically stop yourself from biting your lip.

“Oh my God, drool much?” Trinity says in a low voice. She’s clearly stopped telling her story, as Robby and Garcia are now engaged in a conversation of their own. Trinity has caught you checking out Abbot on multiple occasions and she never gives up an opportunity to bemoan you about it. “He’s like, geriatric.”

“Not geriatric. Kind of like, silver foxy?” You laugh, shaking your head. “Plus, I thought we kind of had a thing for older people?” You gesture not-so-subtly at Garcia, who’s taking a sip of her drink and nodding along to whatever Robby is saying. Trinity rolls her eyes at your comment and slips past you, out of the booth.

“Okay, well, I’m gonna get another drink,” She tells you, waving her empty glass. Before she leaves, she sneaks a peek over her shoulder and then leans in closer to you, her breath tickling your ear. “He’s heading your way. So try not to cream your pants, huh?”

That makes you sit up straight as Trinity saunters off and Jack comes into view. He’s looking down at you in a way that makes you squeeze your thighs together. He stares, but only for a moment before sliding into the booth across from you, next to Robby. Garcia seems to have slipped off to get another drink as well. What a coincidence.

‘Well, look who finally made it!” Robby gives Jack a slap on the shoulder as he settles in, whiskey glass in hand. He gives his friend a nod, glass extended in an invitation. Robby accepts, clinks his bottle against his cup and both the men take a sip. You can’t help but be drawn to Jack’s hands, much like you always were during surgery. There was just something about them — the way his fingers were nice and thick maybe, and you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly they would feel like skimming your body. 

You almost let your gaze trail down to his mouth, but you shake your head in a daze as Jack sets down his drink. He still catches you though, the ends of his lips quirked up in an almost smirk. Your heart pounds in your chest as you look down at your hands to avoid any further eye contact, but you can still feel the heat of his gaze on you. It’s dangerously enticing and fuck, are you enticed.

He opens his mouth to say something to you but Dennis plops himself in the spot next to you, interrupting. He’s looking around, beer hugged close to his chest. “I think if I missed one more time, Ellis would have actually killed me.” He says, and you glance over at the pool table where Shen has gracefully slipped into Whitaker's role instead, much to Ellis’ delight.

The conversation takes off again and you can't help but wonder what exactly Jack was going to say to you. He’s wrapped up with Robby and Samira, who has floated her way down to your booth and is looking as angelic as ever. She’s perched on the corner of the table, all long legs and sweet smiles. You watch the way Jack talks to her; smooth, easy and familiar. You’re sure your smile twitches and you give Dennis a tap on the shoulder.

“I think I’m going to get another drink too.” You say, both to Dennis and to no one in particular. You stand and Samira gives you just a bit of a liquored up grin as she helps you adjust your short dress. You thank her with a smile of your own, turning around. There’s hope blooming in your chest at what feels like Jack’s eyes on your back as you walk away, but you're too cowardly to look back and see for yourself.

Trinity is standing at the bar, looking about as dishevelled as you expected. She quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as you approach.

“Your drink is taking a long time, huh?” You nudge her with your shoulder and she just rolls her eyes. Ignoring her attitude, you rest your elbows on the bar, trying to get a look at where the bartender fucked off to. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Trinity is reapplying her lipgloss and attempting to tame her hair, using her phone to assess her reflection. You try to help and she gives you a grateful smile in return. She nods towards the bartender, who is still kind of ignoring you. “I already got one for you.”

“You’re the best,” You’re still smoothing down her hair, giving her a big smile back. “Should we, like, kiss?” You fake going in for a kiss, and she pushes you away with a laugh.

“Please. You wish,” The bartender finally slides two drinks towards Trinity, who hands you one of the glasses. The chill from the glass is definitely welcome against your warm flesh, flushed from the drinks previous. Trinity shoots you a smirk as she grabs your hand to lead you back to the booth. “Besides, don’t you have a silver fox to catch?”

The two of you arrive at the booth and in the short time you’ve been gone, the people seem to have rearranged themselves. Robby and Whitaker have disappeared and Samira has taken your place, McKay beside her. On the other side is still Abbot, nursing his whiskey. Heads turn at your presence and the pair of you are greeting with excited chatter and big smiles from the girls.

It takes you a minute to realize that the only open spot is next to Jack.

Trinity gives you a small push and you claim the seat next to him. Trinity slides in after you and it’s a bit of a tight squeeze, leaving you thigh to thigh with the attending you definitely don’t have an inappropriate workplace crush on. You can feel the heat radiating off him — his arms, his thighs. You swear you feel him stiffen for a second, but the moment is over as quickly as it happened. He smells woody and warm, and it’s got you basically swooning. Is that just the way he smells, or is it cologne, body wash? You resist the weird, perverted urge to take a sniff of his neck and take a sip of your drink instead.

Conversation comes easy for you guys, especially as the drinks continue to flow. People come and go: Ellis, Shen, Dennis — everyone shuffles through, exchanging seats and manoeuvring around each other as easy as they do on the floor of the hospital.

You and Jack though, you don’t move.

Your two stay pressed together, even when Trinity is long gone. Eventually, everyone thins out and spreads across the bar instead, leaving you and Jack alone together. It’s getting hard to ignore the mirth swimming in his eyes, your faces just a little too close together for the conversation you two are having.

You trace what’s left of the condensation from your empty glass with your finger, savouring the feel of the cool water. Is it hot in here? Or is it just you?

“How about I get you another drink?” Jack offers, the timbre of his voice lower than usual. “On me?”

 It feels like he’s getting closer, close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath. It’s probably inappropriate to want to kiss your boss, right? Especially one almost twice your age? The prospect of the situation makes you almost dizzy with want, especially when he’s looking at you like that. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol rushing to your head.

Yeah, it’s definitely just you.

“Actually, I think I need a smoke.” You manage to utter, like the responsible adult you are. You need to remove yourself from the situation, fast. He retreats from your space slowly, and you immediately feel the absence. It takes everything in you to suppress the urge to lean back into him again, instead giving him a shy smile as you exit the booth. Jack lets you leave wordlessly, and this time you’re certain his eyes are on you as you walk away. 

The cool breeze outside is a welcome reprieve from the overwhelming heat inside and you take a moment to let it wash over you. You press your back against the brick of the bar and pull out your pack from your purse and stick a cigarette between your lips, fishing around for your lighter. After some digging, you finally find what you were looking for and you cup your hand around the cigarette, flicking the lighter on until you see the familiar cherry red at the end. Things seem a bit less hazy when you take a deep inhale and exhale slowly, grey smoke curling around the dark sky.

You close your eyes and rest your head against the wall, feeling the tension leave your shoulders. Taking another long drag, you review the night in your head. You’ve always enjoyed flirting with Jack, sure, but Jack also flirts with anything that has a pulse. You never really expected anything to come of it, except maybe something to think about later in the night while you were alone. Lately though, it’s been feeling different. He’s always brushing against you, placing his hand on the small of your back as he squeezes past you. The way he looks at you recently is glimmering with something you can’t exactly place. The way he looked at you when Langdon was trying to charm you.

You lift your hand to take another drag when the cigarette is suddenly plucked from between your fingers. Your eyes flutter open and there stands the subject of your thoughts, Jack Abbot, who has your cigarette between his lips now. 

“Whiskey makes Jack a bold boy, eh?” You tease, watching as he takes a drag. It’s unfair how good he makes it look. He gives a small chuckle at your comment but doesn’t reply, letting silence settle between the two of you. Instead, he extends the cigarette towards you and you take it back. Something is painted on his face, like he’s mulling something over, but you don’t ask. You two continue this for a while, just enjoying each other’s company for a moment, taking turns until you finally hit the filter. It’s easy to admire him in the quiet you share. The flex of his biceps, the way he shifts his weight between his prosthetic and his good leg. He’s so broad and handsome, especially when he’s in his tight shirt and cargos. It’s got you wanting to drop to your knees right then and there.

You don’t miss the way he’s looking at you either, though. It’s common knowledge that Jack’s got a staring problem. It makes you flustered at the best of times and wet at the worst, but this stare was different. You can see the want in his eyes as his hazel eyes basically bore into your soul. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that he was giving you bedroom eyes. Every so often his eyes flicker down to your lips instinctively, especially when they’re wrapped around the cigarette the two of you are sharing. You’re sure that you’re probably doing the same.

“So, can I buy you that drink now?” He asks huskily as you put out the smoke, tossing it into the garbage can behind you. Your eyes flick between the door of the bar and your phone; the numbers flashing at you indicate that you’ve been out longer than you’ve anticipated and it was late.

“I was actually kind of thinking of pulling an Irish goodbye. I live pretty close,” You say sheepishly, tucking your phone back into your purse. He almost looks disappointed, and you revel in the feeling. You’re not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the way that he was staring at Langdon like he wanted to strangle him with his bare hands for flirting with you the other day, but the words slip out of your mouth before you can really think it through. “Want to walk me home?”

Your tone is shy but warm, an airy lilt at the end of the invitation. Or at least that’s what you aimed for. Realization spreads across his face, until it’s replaced with a smirk. You know it’s an offer he can’t really deny. Even if he didn’t want to fuck you, Jack Abbot was nothing short of a gentleman. He’d never let you walk home alone so late at night. “Of course.”

“Why thank you, Doctor Abbot.” You give him a smirk of your own as you push off the wall, enjoying the way that he watches you move languidly. He scoffs at your joking use of the professional title you call him at work, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You adjust your dress and you two look at each other for a moment; him staring down at you with that obnoxiously smug look on his face, and you staring up at him half lidded like you don’t know what you’re doing.

“Lead the way, sweetheart.” He gestures with a sweep of his arm, breaking your staring contest. You start off in the direction of your apartment, shooting him a cheeky look over your shoulder as he takes a minute to follow behind you.

“Think you can keep up, old man?”

—

He hangs back, just for a second, to admire the view as you flounce away, your heels clicking against the pavement. He can’t help but appreciate just how good you look, dress hugging your figure in all the right places. It doesn’t help that he caught a glimpse of your panties earlier when you left the booth, and he’s been thinking about taking another peek ever since. He’s so distracted that he barely catches the words you throw at him.

“Watch it, kid.” He warns, starting off after you. The night is just cool enough that he can feel the alcohol flowing hot through his veins as he reaches you, matching your stride. The nickname was just a slip of the tongue, something he calls you when you’ve made the right call when treating a patient or when you’re offering to refill his coffee in the break room. You give him that look that you’ve been giving him all night, the one that’s got him in this mess in the first place. Blinking through your eyelashes, like you want to climb him like a tree. It does make him feel like a bit of an old man in a way, chasing after a girl basically half his age. 

But you’re the one that invited him, right?

“I’m not sure what you mean.” You say innocently, another flutter of your eyelashes. He gives a chuckle at that, rolling his eyes. The night is quiet at this hour and the tension is thick between you two as you walk alongside each other. Jack’s got his hands tucked into his pockets, watching as you walk a bit unsteadily and he’s not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the shoes that you were wearing. Before he could ponder on it any longer, your heel skids and you stumble over a small lift in the sidewalk.

He grabs your waist instinctively, catching you before you go down. You’re closer to him now and the scent that he’s become so familiar with fills the air, masked a bit by the perfume you wear, all floral and ambery. The proximity between you two almost makes him stumble as well. 

“Careful, sweetheart,” He says, voice low, still affected by just how close you are. “Don’t think you’d like to make a detour back to work before your next shift.” He hauls you upright and you give him another sweet smile. Jack can’t help but give you one back.

“Why would I need to?” You recover much faster from the stumble than he does, smoothing your dress down with the palms of your hands. “You wouldn’t patch me up? I’d be in very capable hands, no?” You tease, smirking. He knows you’re joking but the idea of getting his hands on you, being able to touch you beyond the feather light touches you have shared, makes his heart beat in want.

“Yeah, you think so?” He smirks and you slow to a stop in front of a building that he assumes must be your place. You answer his question with a small nod, suddenly shy. He can see you scanning his face, looking for some kind of answer in it. You press your lips in a thin line and finally speak in a small voice.

“Walk me up?”

He should say no. Any sort of gentleman would leave it here, say good night. Especially one as old as he is.You’re staring at him, not breaking eye contact as you await his response. He should definitely say no.

“Sure.”

Goddamn it.

You give him a smile as you turn, pulling the door to your building and he grabs it, holding it open for you. The climb to your place is quiet, the click of your heels against the stairs punctuating the terrible choice he’s making. But the choice doesn’t feel as terrible as it should when he gets to watch you climb the flights of stairs, getting the flash of your panties that he was desperately wishing for earlier.

You approach your door, fumbling with your keys for a second before he hears the soft click of the lock. He’s got his forearm resting against your doorframe, watching as you slowly pull the door open. Jack catches a glimpse into your apartment for a second before you face him; it’s a small studio, lived in and inviting. It smells like you.

You’re just staring at him for a moment and he’s staring right back. The thought that this is a terrible idea is swirling in his mind somewhere, but the heat pooling in his gut as you look at him seems to be all he can focus on right now. You cock your head and enter your apartment, door still wide open. Jack’s body moves before he can even think about it, one foot after the other, crossing the threshold. Something he can’t take back.

He closes the door behind him with a gentle hand, like any loud noise might snap one of you out of a trance. You’ve got your windows open and you’re bathed in the moonlight, the same way you were outside the bar. That exact vision of you has hijacked his better judgement tonight and landed him in the apartment of a pretty young girl. He tries to push the thought aside.

Jack opens his mouth to speak, maybe even tell you how bad of an idea this is, but you’ve already hooked your fingers in his belt loops, pressing your lips against his before he can get a word out. He can taste your lip gloss and it makes his knees buckle a bit, the words suddenly dying on his tongue. You don’t hold back, all dirty and desperate, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He can feel you sigh and pull him closer, hands resting at his stomach now. Your nails scratch against the skin above his waistband and it makes all his blood rush downwards.

You let out a shaky moan into his mouth and his resolve just breaks. His hands finally move and take what he’s been wanting, cupping your jaw for a minute before moving down, rough, skimming down and pulling you flush against him, hands coming to a rest on the curve of your ass.

It’s intoxicating the way you kiss him, like you just can’t fucking get enough. Your hands are wound in his hair, carting through the grey curls. You pull away all too soon, chest rising and falling quickly in an attempt to catch your breath. It sends a shiver down his spine when he sees the sultry look on your face and you grab his hand and pull him deeper into your apartment.

He lets you lead him and come to a stop at your couch. Jack must be drunker than he thought, because you barely push his chest and he lands on the couch behind him. It’s a sight to see when you drop down to your knees without a word, dress rucking up at your waist. He can’t help the moan that slips out from between his lips as you look up at him, the same way you do at work. Waiting for him to tell you what to do. His legs part involuntarily and you slip yourself between them.

“Fuck, baby,” He can’t help but take in the moment, cupping your cheek as you lean into his touch. “ You want to suck my cock that fucking bad, huh?” 

You nod —eagerly, he can’t help but note— and he grabs a fistful of your hair loosely. He gives you a small nod, giving you permission to go ahead. Biting your lip, you trace a soft finger over the bulge in his pants and he can’t help but shiver. You take your time unzipping his pants and pulling him out, hand wrapped around the hard length of him. It’s fucking delicious watching you like this, pumping his cock slow, a wicked grin on your face.

You press a kiss to his tip and his hips stutter at the sensation and then you’re pressing the flat of your tongue against him, licking him from root to head. He lets out a loud groan, grip on your hair tightening ever so slightly. He takes in the scene in front of him, you on your knees just for him. It feels perverted in a way, like he’s way too old to be this undone, especially for a woman so many years his junior. But then you place him between your soft lips, lip gloss all smeared from the sloppy kisses you two had shared earlier and he can’t really bring himself to care. Your hands skim down the sides of his bare legs, not even pausing when you feel the heat of skin turn into cool metal on one side.

Your mouth is so warm and wet and it’s got him wondering what your pussy will feel like if your mouth already feels this good. Honestly, he can’t remember the last time someone has had him like this. Your hand is soft where it grips him at his base, spit dripping onto your knuckles and you take him deeper and deeper, until he almost hits the back of your throat.

“Such a good girl for me.” He drawls, voice shaking as you swallow around him. You’ve settled into a rhythm now and Jack is happy to hold you by the hair and let you take control. It feels so fucking good that he can’t help but thrust into your mouth, a crooked grin forming when you gag and drool for him. He can't help but praise you. “You look so pretty on your knees, drooling all over your tits like that.”

That earns him a moan from you and he can feel the vibration of it around his cock. He thinks it can’t get any better than this, and then you look up into his eyes, lips still wrapped around him and a guttural moan rips its way from his chest. This seems to invigorate you as you begin to suck harder, cheeks hollowed as your other hand sneaks its way up to his balls, rolling them in your palm. It’s sloppy and wet and loud —the only sounds in your apartment are the loud, filthy way you’re taking him deep into your throat, and Jack's soft pants and utters of your name. His brows are burrowed in pleasure and it takes all of his focus to not cum in your mouth. He’s basically dripping from your spit, wet all the way down to his balls.

He pulls you up by your hair, rough. You let out a small whimper, like you’re real sad that he’s not letting you suck his dick like you were trying to suck his soul out of it. His lips are parted and his pupils are blown with lust, the hazel of his eyes barely visible around the black. His voice is husky when he speaks next.

“Get on the bed, sweetheart.” The apartment is small, and the bed is just behind him. You’re still wearing your heels and the sound of them reverberates in the cramped space. You don’t bother to pull your dress down this time and he soaks it all in as he pulls off his shirt, trying his best to kick off his boots and pants that have pooled around his ankles at the same time.

He catches up to you in no time and he knows you’re teasing him, walking all slow and sexy like that. Then he decides you’re teasing just a bit too much and he grabs you by the waist and tosses you onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce on the mattress and he crawls on right after you, pulling you towards him.

He’s nosing at your pussy through your panties, the dampness forming for him to see. You smell so fucking good that it makes him throb and he can’t help but wrap a fist around himself and pump loosely a few times.

“You’re soaked for me,” He says gruffly and you mewl, desperate for him to touch you more. “Should I have a taste?”

Now he’s running his fingertips over your covered slit, and your hips buck. Jack can feel the heat of you just under the thin cloth, radiating through the lace and he briefly wonders if you’ll let him keep them after.

“Yes…” You breathe, and he takes a peek at you from between your legs. You look absolutely wrecked, propped up on your forearms, staring down at him through half lidded eyes.

“Why don’t you ask me nicely?” He coos and you groan, head tipping back. He loves having you like this, nice and pliant under his hands. You’re better than he imagined when he was alone, touching himself to the thought of you. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

“Please, Jack,” Your voice cracks as you plead, hips rolling, craving some kind, any kind of friction. “I want it so fucking bad, please…” 

“You always listen so well to me, sweetheart. So obedient.” Jack can’t deny you when you whine for him all breathy like that, so he pulls your panties to the side and does exactly what he said he would do, taking a taste. He laps at your pussy like a man starved, your wetness smearing all over his chin, gathering in his stubble.

He feels your hands grip his hair as you pull him in deeper, wordlessly asking for more. Obliging, he dips his tongue into your cunt and you tighten around the muscle, making Jack’s eyes roll back into his head. He’s sure he’s moaning just as much as you are, one hand on your hip, the other one stroking his cock roughly.

Once he’s had his fill of fucking you with his tongue he lets his fingers take over, sliding two of them into your sopping entrance. Your hips buck again at the intrusion and he lets out a deep growl. “You taste so good, baby —could eat you all fucking night. You like having my fingers buried deep in your cunt?”

The whiskey has worn off by now but he’s drunk with lust, his head spinning as he ducks his head back down, sucking your clit softly. He can feel you fluttering around his fingers, getting tighter as he fucks you rough. He’s caught you staring at them more than once and your little comment about his hands earlier hadn’t gone unnoticed by him.

He can tell you’re close by the way you’re moaning and the way you’re gripping his fingers; he can barely pull them out. The pace he sets is brutal and then you’re coming on his hand and face before he even realizes. The taste of your cum is heady and he’s licking it all up like it’s his last meal.

You’re catching your breath and he flips you over without a word, ass up for him. His hands are rough and calloused on your soft skin, pulling down the top of your dress to expose your breasts. You both moan as he tweaks a nipple between his fingers, before palming your ass and yanking your soaking panties down your thighs.

“Fuck…” Jack curses. He’s rutting against you, coating his cock with your cum, moving infuriatingly slow. You’re pushing against him, pleas falling from your lips as he places a hand on your bare back, pushing you deeper into the mattress. Jack has half a mind to hope that your apartment walls aren’t as thin as he thinks they are. He’s busy trying to sear this moment into his memories to care all that much about it though; you’re under him, moaning his name, begging for him. “Still think I’m an old man? That I can’t keep up?”

He’s throwing your words back at you, the frantic shakes of your head as you rut back into him going straight to his ego and his dick. Jack can't resist the sight any longer as he drags himself up and down your entrance, tapping on your clit a few times and loving the way you jump at the sensation. He’s barely got the tip in when you start moaning for him again, breathy and desperate. Ignoring your begging for him to start moving faster, he pushes in nice and slow instead, mesmerized by the way your pussy just sucks him in.

Gripping fabric of your dress that has bunched up around your waist, he sinks in deeper until he’s fully bottomed out. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size and schooling his breathing so he doesn’t cum embarrassingly fast. You’re so tight and he can’t help but think you’re one hundred percent better than what he imagined and one thousand percent better than his fist that he fucks into when he thinks of you. Sharp pain interrupts his thoughts, your nails scratching at his thighs as you try to get him to finally move.

“Feels like you’re made for me, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me.” Thoughts are spilling out now, pleasure taking over and loosening his filter. As much as he wants to savour this, savour you, he’s on the fringes of his self control. You’re gripping his cock in a way that makes his head spin and your small pants have him feeling downright sinful. He tries to start slow, he really does, but he just can’t resist. He’s been thinking about having you for so long, the way you would look under him, and now that he has you, he’s not letting you think about anyone else again. Jack wants you to think about him every time you crawl into bed without him.

He fucks you in earnest, the wet slap of skin on skin just spurring him on. He buries a fist in your hair again, yanking your head up so you’re on all fours for him, back curved. The frame of your bed creaks quickly in time with his thrusts, the same way his thrusts are punching small gasps out of you each time. He loves listening to the noises you make and he pulls your hips up higher, balls slapping your clit as he buries himself deeper. Your moans are getting louder, walls squeezing him tight and he pulls out quickly before his vision goes white.

“Jack, please!” He can tell you’re getting tired of the way he’s been teasing you all night, thinking that he just might edge you all night. But really, he just wants to see what your face looks like when you cum around his cock. He flips you over easily, biceps flexing. Before you can even muster out a squeal he’s back inside you, filling you up to the hilt. Your lips part and your eyes roll back into your head, and he can’t help but smirk as he begins to move once more.

This time the pace he sets is punishing, determined to make you cum before even thinking about chasing his own high. Jack can tell by the way that you’re squeezing him like you don’t want to let him go that it won’t be long. He allows his eyes to sweep over your body appreciatively, your thighs, your stomach, the way your breasts bounce, how absolutely blissed out your face looks.

It’s hard to resist the temptation to splay a hand just below your neck, gauge your reaction, so he doesn’t. His hand is so large against the base of your throat and the way your eyes flutter in pleasure makes his dick twitch. He lets it rest there for a moment, then dips two fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around the tips of them like it was around his dick just a little while ago.

Leaving a wet trail down your chest, he makes his way down to your clit, drawing tight circles around with rough fingertips. He lets out a growl at the noise you make, deep and primal. He glances down, noticing the cream gathering around the base of his cock, his happy trail covered in your slick. His legs shake at the sight, his climax suddenly a lot closer than he anticipated. He can guess that yours is too, judging from the way your cunt is fluttering around him and that you’ve seemed to stop caring who can hear just how good he’s making you feel. 

“You gonna cum on my cock, baby?” You’re nodding loosely, like you barely even registered the question. He loves seeing such a capable girl come apart in his hands like this. “Yeah? Cum for me then.”

And you do, as he should have expected, since you always do what he tells you to.

Your cunt is milking his orgasm out of him, and he can feel his hips stutter. He barely squeezes out the words, asking you where he should finish, half aware that he’s not wearing a condom. You look up with shiny wet eyes, fingers tangling in the curls at the base of his neck  and he nearly cums at the sight.

“I want you to fill me up.” You say, and yeah, that makes him want to cum even more. A few more messy thrusts and he gives a low groan, spilling deep inside you. He’s hutched over your form, body shaking in pleasure, loving the heat that’s radiating from your body. After a few moments the haze of sex dissipates and you two are left chest to chest, your nipples brushing his chest with every breath.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”

—

Jack cleans you up, all nice and sweet, with a warm rag from your bathroom. The action is tender, especially compared to the way he just wrecked you. It makes you feel taken care of, which is not something you would admit aloud to him for now. You’re a little confused about the position that this puts you in with your attending. The only thing you can really make sense of is that the entire situation has gotten about a million times more complicated than it was eight hours ago.

But when Jack looks at you, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen before when you offer to help him remove his prosthetic, you decide that you don’t really care. You’d give anything to have him look at you that way again.

And now he’s here in your bed, freckled back to you and breathing even. He’d fallen asleep soon after you asked him to stay the night, which you thought was sweet. Old man was up way past his bedtime.

Your phone vibrates on your nightstand and you flip it over, squinting at the bright light. You’d pretty much ignored it when you left the bar with Jack, pretty one track minded. You’d miss a flurry of text messages from everyone else: Garcia asking if she could bum a smoke, Samira asking if you left and then following up asking you to let her know you got home safe, Robby wondering if you had seen Abbot anywhere, Dennis just sending you a blurry picture of the bar floor, which you assumed was a drunken accident.

Trinity has sent you the most recent text, sitting atop of your stack of notifications.

You grab out your gun, aim it right over his shoulder, and shoot. 

The last swamp monster thuds into the water, and Dean stares at you with wide eyes.

“Uh, how close was I to bein’ a swap snack?”

You shrug, giving him a small smile. “Don’t undervalue yourself, dude. You would have been swamp dinner.”

Dean snorts, wading through the water to your side, and rests his hand on your back. There’s no real reason for him to do that. You’re standing up just fine. No serious injuries. No panic. 

He’s just touching you. Casually. The way he always has, without thought, because he trusts you enough not to turn around and try to cut off his hand. 

And it’s always driven you out of your mind. 

Dean’s casually put his hand on your body since you met him. Since the first hunt, where he and Sam saved the helpless little vampire victim, and you tried to shoot them because you didn’t know that the people carrying machetes were the good guys. Dean had put his hand on your upper arm and lower back, helped you to your feet, and been the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. 

You can still feel where he touched you, all those years ago. It’s branded a level right under your skin, the lightening and fire sensation of a broad, rough hand being so gentle on your skin. And every time he’s touched you since, you’ve still been able to feel it. Sinking deeper and deeper, spreading and growing with every accidental brush of his hand and shoulder bump and time you’ve been pressed right against him on a hunt. It’s going to burn forever. You don’t want it to go out, even if it drives you out of your mind. 

Days the bunker is empty, and you lock the door to your room with your legs spread. Whenever he makes you—and Sam, but that’s not important—breakfast. If you’re watching a movie, and he puts his arm over your shoulder because he’s comfortable. Every time he whispers a joke in your ear, grins so wide when you laugh. Every fucking night you have to spend in the same room with him, pretending you don’t feel like you’re burning alive with a light that won’t flicker out. 

Most motels don’t offer three beds. So there are times where the couch fits Dean—never Sam, and you’re not allowed to sleep on the couch because they’re dumbasses who think they’re gentlemen—and times where you just have to suck it up and share. 

Sharing with Sam is fine. You can’t grind into the sheets as the fire sweeps into your core—Dean likes to walk out of the shower without a shirt, and he might hate you—because fucking Sam is right on the other side of the bed. 

When you share with Dean, it’s… different. 

You can’t fuck yourself then, either. But it becomes unbearable. Your body seems to ache, just to touch him. Sometimes the light will be angled just right through the window, and you’ll be able to watch the passing headlights of the cars drift over his pretty face. 

Because Dean’s face is still so fucking beautiful. It’s one of those few things you know will never change. 

But you don’t want anything to change. Change is the thing that leaves you alone, dead in the water, trying to use the stars to guide yourself when the sky is pitch black. You’ve never been good at it. When you joined hunting, it took months for you to fully adjust just to living in the bunker. 

Dean had gotten you through that. Made you comfortable. Taught you how to hold a gun, and throw a punch, and made you waffles when you’d finally managed to knock him on his ass. 

“I know you went easy on me,” you’d told him, spraying the whip cream on your plate, and he’d chuckled. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” you’d shrugged. “Next time you can go all out, and I’ll still win.”

Dean had grinned at you, and you’d felt that heat rising to your cheeks. It wasn’t fair how he could do that. How you’d gotten so good at being around him and not acting like just one word in your direction made you feel high. At this point it had just been a crush, on the big handsome man who saved your life. 

Even then, it had still felt like a massive, consuming type of crush. The kind like a tree, that wouldn’t stop rooting into your heart and growing. The kind that you’d known would get you in trouble, if you weren’t careful. 

“Sure you will.” Dean had reached for the whipped cream can, and you’d whacked his hand with it. “Hey, c’mon-“

“I’m not done.” You’d finished the pile with a little swirl, and passed him the can with a smile. 

He’d stared at you, then the whipped cream mountain. “You trying to drown yourself?”

“Maybe.” 

Dean had reached forward, taken some on his finger—ruining the artwork, but it had been Dean, so you were never mad—and dabbed it on your nose. He’d laughed at your glare, and you’d tried to bite his finger. 

It had just made him laugh harder. 

“You look cute.” He’d said, lookin back to his own waffle, and it had been like being shot up with fire. 

He thought you were cute. Dean thought you were cute. And he’d touched you again. And maybe if you’d asked him to, he could have kissed you and you could run your hand through his hair and taste the salt of his sweat, and he could show you how to do a few other moves, right here at the table, and- 

“You good?” He’d asked you, and he’d sounded concerned. Not starved for you, just worried. Like a friend would be. 

And you didn’t want anything to change. This was already better than you could have dared to ask for. 

So you’d smiled at him, and nodded. 

And nothing ever had to be different.

Friends. 

You were so fucking lucky just to be his friend. The one-night stands came and went, and you were still here, with Dean. You could take that. 

Take it, and use it to kindle all that heat in your body. Burn it and burn it until it was ash. 

Keep pretending that your hunger and fever for Dean would ever go out, when you know that this is forever. 

You’ve known it was love since you were in a diner, almost a year ago, and he made the waitress get you the children’s coloring mat, because it had crossword puzzles and you didn’t want to ask. 

“Don’t bother her, Dean

“I’m not bothering her, sweetheart, it’s asking her to carry freakin’ paper-“

“No, it’s stupid, I’ll get a newspaper-“

“We’ll get you a newspaper after.” He shrugged, giving you a shockingly serious look. “But it’s not stupid. You’re not stupid. We’re getting that kids mat.”

You’d flushed, and nodded. And you loved him. 

Love him. 

Now, even in the swamp monster mess, his touch and attention do the exact same thing to you. It’s going to drive you out of your mind, one day. But you don’t want to try and stop it. 

That would mean moving yourself away from Dean, where he couldn’t touch you. And it might not even do anything, but make you miss him. Make things change. 

So you’ll lean slightly into his touch—just in case—and smile at him in the dark. 

When he smiles back, it’s like the whole world lights up. 

And you never want that to change either. 

“You think we need to clean this shit up?” He nods around you, making a face as a fresh wave of swamp-stench drifts through the air, and you shake your head. 

“Can I suggest an alternate plan?”

Dean nods. “You know I love a backup, sweetheart.”

You flush again, bowing your head to make sure he won’t see. “I vote we just blow it up.”

“That’s a plan.” He bumps your shoulder, and you can hear the joy in his voice. “I’m team blow it up.” He pauses. “Can I-“

“Yeah.” You smile at your feet. “You can do the work.”

“Awesome.” He starts to walk towards the exit, and all you can do is follow him. “Then we’ll get all this shit off us.”

You hum an agreement, and try not to pick apart his happiness too much. It’s always good when Dean is happy, but you’ve developed a bad habit of trying to pinpoint why. If he gets excited when you buy him pie because you bought him pie, or it’s pie. If he grins at you when he sees you because he’s happy to see you, or just to see a friend. 

If he just wants to use his grenade launcher, or if he’s happy you gave him a reason to. 

It never gets you anywhere, to think of that. And no matter what conclusion you draw, it’s never going to change anything.  

But it’s still a fun way to torture yourself. Watching him with a smile as he blasts the old cabin, and the whole thing goes crashing down. Returning his thumbs up with a smile, and giving him a high five when he walks back to the car. 

“Another monster, ganked.” He puts the launcher back in the truck, and you hum. 

“And it’s a swamp monster. Big day for you.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, guess it is. Didn’t really think about that.”

You blink at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, giving you an odd smile you don’t really understand. “Guess I was worrying about other shit.”

“Other-“

“C’mon.” He raises his voice over yours, grabbing your arms and starting to herd you towards the passenger’s seat. “We gotta get you back to the motel. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

“Me?” You frown at him. “You’ll get one too, Winchester-“

“Nah. I don’t catch colds.”

You snort as he closes the door behind you. You wait for him to get behind the wheel before you’re leaning forward, raising your brows. 

“Everyone gets colds, Dean.”

“Not me.” He winks at you, turning on the engine. “I run hot, baby.”

Jesus. 

That’s like being doused in gasoline and struck with a match. It is freezing outside—swamp monsters somehow ended up in Montana—and you are drenched in something worse than water, but all you can feel is the wired heat under your skin, as you play that over and over in your head. 

It’s just another moment, that means nothing to Dean and everything to you. 

But there are so many of them. They make up the tapestry of Dean, that lines your ribs. Remind you over and over that you love him, and every bit of his happiness—whether you’re the direct cause or not—is a rare, priceless gift he gives to so few people.

Dean does love you. 

As a best friend. 

You really can pretend that’s enough, just as long as it never has to change. 

Dean opens the door to the motel room for you, with a wide, smug grin. “You want first shower?”

“Sure, but-“ You flick a chuck of Swamp Monster off his shoulder with a pointed look. “I think you need it more.”

“I’ve been covered in worse.” He shrugs. “You go, I gotta call Sammy and give him the update.”

“Dean, he’s on vacation, don’t bother him-“

“He can pick up the damn phone at the beach.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Eileen won’t care. Go shower, sweetheart.”

You sigh, but give in. Once Dean decides something like that—you aren’t holding your pee for the rest of the drive, they will find a diner that serves Sam’s stupid rabbit food, this place does have a broken heater and Dean’s going to goddamn fix it—there’s no talking him out of it. 

And the shower is nice. Warm. The motel shampoo actually smells like something for once—flowers, nice, sweet flowers—and they water is loud enough that, if you lean against the wall and let your hand wander between your legs, Dean won’t be able to hear it. 

He never hears it. He doesn’t know that you’d get on your knees for him, if he ever asked. That you’d sleep in his bed and hold him through every nightmare, if he let you. 

Dean doesn’t know that you have to bite your tongue to swallow moans, as you think of his hands so easily on your body, and the deep sound of his voice as he said baby, and his eyes, shining on yours. You’ve pictured them above you too many times. Glinting and blown out, as he unravels you below him. Or under you, fluttering and squeezing tight as you ride him. And he’d buck his hips up into you, driving deeper and deeper, and when you moan his name he’d drag you down into a kiss, and all this heat would finally burst into a firework-

You shake, tossing your head back as your release hits. It’s a small one. You’re too tired to do anything properly, and even angling your clit under the water didn’t do as much as you wanted it to. You don’t manage to swallow the squeak of Dean, but the water is still running. You barely heard it. ‘

And as you walk out of the bathroom, Dean’s still on the phone. 

You’re in the clear. 

He scans over you with a tight frown, and you raise your brows. He just shakes his head, pointing to the phone, and you nod, shuffling over to the bed.

“Listen, uh- Sammy. Sam.” Dean shoots you another look. “I gotta go, man, shower is open- No, I’m not gonna- Sam.” His voice lowers to a hiss, and you smile to yourself. That’s the shut your face voice. Sam’s probably trying to convince him to do something. “No, I ain’t calling you after, bitch, I don’t- Fucking Christ. Yeah. I know.”

He hangs up, and you glance at him, having settled on your bed with a book.

“Not saying bye?”

“He doesn’t deserve it.” Dean grumbles, moving to his feet. 

“What did he do-“

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well,” you wrinkle your nose, leaning forward. “Now I am worried.”

He sighs, running a hand over his face. “It’s not a big thing, sweetheart. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Or, you could tell me now.”

“I, uh- gotta shower.” He makes for the bathroom, and you raise your voice after him. 

“Dean-“

“Tomorrow!” He calls over his shoulder, and closes the door behind him. 

You sigh, looking back to your book. It’s probably nothing. Dean doesn’t keep big secrets, not from you. If it was something for you to be worried about, he’d probably have told you already, to try and convince you to lay low at the bunker while he and Sam handled it. Your bet is on another hunt, that Sam’s trying to send you on. 

Nothing big. 

Just more time you get to spend, only you and Dean. 

Dean mutters your name from the doorway, and when you look up, your breath hitches in your throat. 

There’s steam, billowing out of the bathroom and casting in a halo-like light. His hair is damp and spikey and soft looking, his bare chest looking almost golden—you don’t know how he tans, when you all live in a fucking basement—and water running over his muscles. And you’ve dreamed about pressing your face into his pecs, or scratching at his abs while he kisses you, or kissing over that V before he grabs your hair and pulls you back and stuffs your mouth with- 

You cough, and force your attention back to your book. You can’t look at him too long, or you’ll do something really stupid like beg him to fuck you stupid. 

“Yeah, Dean?” Your voice isn’t steady, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I, uh-“ Dean coughs, and you risk a glance up to see him scratching the back of his neck. “You know we ganked those gross assholes real fast. Thought we’d be here longer. And Sam says there’s a story coming, tomorrow, so we’re gonna have to hit the road in the morning.”

“Storm? What storm?” You frown at him, and he gives you an oddly sheepish grin.

“Snow-storm. Supposed to be bordering on a blizzard or something. ‘Less we wanna be stuck here for least a week, we should haul ass soon.”

“Oh.” A week stuck in a motel with Dean doesn’t sound that bad. It would be torture, but the kind of torture that you’d get a thrill out of. The kind that could fuel a lot of dreams for months to come. 

Or everything could get fucked up. He’d get sick of you. You’d moan his name in your sleep. Too many things could change, if you were stuck together. 

It’s best if you go in the morning. 

“I, um-“ You bite on your inner cheek, watching him carefully. “Is that was you were talking to Sam about?”

Dean blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “That’s what we talking about, sweetheart. The storm.”

You narrow your eyes at him—he’s being weird, and you don’t believe him—but Dean only clears his throat and gives you another grin.

“And since we gotta go in the morning, I was ho- Uh, wondering. If you’d wanna get a drink.”

You frown at him again. “We have beers in the fridge, Dean.”

“Yeah. We do.” He mutters, throat bobbing, and you’ve never seen him like this. Looking at the floor a lot. Not walking around with a puffed-out chest and mastered, cowboy swagger. Like he knows how pretty he is, and he’s using it as a shield. Trying to flash bright enough that people won’t see anything but that smooth voice and boyish, charming grin.

You’ve been allowed to see beneath it. Because he’s your friend. Because he’s not trying to impress or trick you. Not trying to sell himself to you, even though you’re kind of already his. He doesn’t care if he gets your love or affection. Some part of you always wonders if he knows he already has it, and that’s why you get to know Dean, the perfect, sweet, broken but strong man, instead of Dean, the sex-god and hunter legend. 

And you don’t want to go out drinking with him. You love him. But if you have to watch him flirt with someone else the whole night, you’re going to go find another swamp monster and let it eat you.

You don’t get to open your mouth and tell him that, before he’s continuing on. 

“There’s kinda this bar I’ve been dying to check out, since we pulled into down.” His gaze feels like it’s buzzing over your skin. “And we should celebrate. So. Drinks.”

“Drinks.” You repeat, tilting your head at him. He gives you a crooked half-grin and nod, and you pull your lip between your teeth. 

He’s being so fucking weird.

“You can go yourself, Dean-“

“No.” He shakes his head, standing up a little taller. “You saved my life tonight. I’m getting you a drink.”

“You’ve saved my life more. And I never buy you a drink.”

“That’s different.” He dismisses you quickly, and you frown.

“How-“

“C’mon,” he drawls your name, his tone almost challenging. “One drink.”

Fuck. 

He’s got you. He must know he’s got you, otherwise he wouldn’t have pushed it. All he has to do is poke you, and you cave. Give a mumbled nod and agreement, and trying not to burn from within at his happy grin. 

And you don’t know if he’s happy because you said yes to getting drinks, or because he’s getting drinks. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He’s still happy. 

It’s a quick drive, from the motel to the bar. And it’s nice, but not the kind of place you think Dean would be dying to see. It’s just like all other bars you’ve seen, in every corner and county of America. Posters on the walls, dartboards and pool tables, and jukebox that really should be out of commission by now, and dirty, chipping wood tables. The drinks are strong, but no stronger than any other drinks. They’ve got pretty good maraschino cherries, and the bartender doesn’t seem to judge you when you ask for them—which is a plus—but there’s also a gaggle of girls in cowboy hats at the other end of the bar, and you know how this night is going to end. 

Or you thought you did.

But they’ve been giggling and shooting looks at Dean all night, and he hasn’t so much as turned around. 

“What else do you have on your list?” You ask him, playing with the stem of a cherry, and he frowns at you.

“My list.”

“Your bucket list.”

“I don’t have a bucket-“

“Don’t lie to me, Winchester.” You kick his shin lightly, with a small grin. “It’s not befitting of a lady.”

He snorts. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I’m not the one being questioned.” 

“Oh, I’m bein’ questioned?” He grins, leaning a little closer, and he smells like pine trees. You never should have gotten him that body wash, but you’d also found out he hadn’t been using body wash, and you couldn’t just let that slide. “What’re the charges, sweetheart?”

You shrug. “Lying about your bucket list.”

He opens his mouth, and you give him a flat look. 

“I saw it, Dean. You keep it at the bottom of your bag.”

“You-“ He shakes his head. “Why the hell were you looking in my bag?”

You flush, staring down at the cherry stem. The knot won’t stick. “You said I could use your shirt. When mine got vamp blood on it.”

“Right.” He gives you an odd look. “Y’know, I never got that shirt back.”

“Sorry. Forgot.”

You didn’t forget. You keep it in your drawer and sleep in it when you haven’t seen him in a few days. He doesn’t need to know that. 

Dean shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “It’s whatever. I got other shirts.” He gives you a small grin. “You remember what else was on that list?”

“Um,” you wrinkle your nose at the air, biting on your lower lip. “Meet Burt Reynolds, save his life. Give Baby guns. Try an Oreo pizza.” You swallow, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on your hands. “Have the sex.” You can’t look at him. Not right now. “Dean, I’m pretty sure you’ve had sex before.”

“Yeah. But this is, uh-“ He coughs. “Special sex.”

That makes you look at him. He’s picking at the label of his beer, a deep frown on his face. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with you.

“Well,” you mumble, tugging on your cherry stem. “I think you’ve got three options, if you want to go for that one.”

He glances at you, brow drawn. “What?”

“The cowgirls behind you.” You’re going to rip the stem in half. “I think they’d be down to have the sex with you.”

It’s meant to come out as a joke, but you mostly sound bitter. It’s sour on your tongue, because you hate being jealous. It’s not Dean’s fault he doesn’t see you like that. And you can’t place any claim over him, or even blame the cowgirls for taking him away from you. If you saw Dean in a bar, you’d do the exact same thing. And maybe then he’d give you the lazy, hungry smirk he always gives everyone else. If you could just be a pretty face. 

There’s a hollow, vile sneer in the back of your head that reminds you he might not even think you’re pretty, and that’s why you never stood a chance. You’ll drink it away, when he leaves you at the bar.

But he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t even look at them. 

He just keeps watching you. 

“Nah.” He shrugs, and you blink at him. 

“Nah?”

“I got better things to do, sweetheart.” 

You stare at him. “Like?”

Dean just grins at you, and that’s not fair. It’s making you feel molten and important, and he doesn’t even mean it like that. 

“Alright.” You let out a soft laugh, and that sounds bitter too. “Who even are you?”

“I dunno, sweetheart.” He shrugs. “You tell me.”

“I- I’m-“ You take a sharp drink of your own, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “So you’re not going to flirt with them.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not going to flirt with the dudes watching you.”

You snort. “There are no dudes watching me-“

“Yeah.” His tone has changed. Gotten firmer. Deeper. “There always are.”

“Dean.” 

“It’s true. You just never freakin’ see it.”

“What, and you do?”

His jaw tics. “Yeah. I do. Beard and flannel, 2  o’clock.”

You look before you can stop yourself, and he’s right. Over your shoulder is a broad, bearded man, wearing a green flannel and looking right at you. He winks, when you meet his gaze, and you swallow. 

“I, um-“ You look back to Dean, who looks oddly annoyed for having pointed the guy out to you. “That’s different.”

Dean let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

“It is. I don’t do… that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah-“

“So what do I do, sweetheart?”

He’s staring at you, something behind his voice that sounds like it’s important. It’s written all over his face, as well. He still hasn’t looked at the cowgirls. You’re not sure what the fuck is happening.

“I don’t know, Dean.” You murmur, wrapping the stem around your finger like a ring. “What do you do?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. And when you look back up at him, that strange expression has returned. You wait. You’d wait forever. 

And you don’t want to say the wrong thing and fuck this—whatever the hell this is, because he’s never looked at you like that before, but it feels like you’re being turned into starlight—up.

“We, uh-“ He cuts himself off with a frown. “You and me. We’ve known each other a while.”

You’ve felt like you’ve known him your whole fucking life. You felt like that almost the first time you saw him. Sort of like you’d looked at him, and known that this always ends with you falling in love. 

Another thing he doesn’t need to know. 

So you just nod. 

“Right.” He glares at the bottle, like it’s personally responsible for something bad happening to him. “And we’ve been through some shit together. I mean, mostly me. Causing you problems-“

“You don’t cause me problems.” You say before you can stop yourself, and he chuckles.

“I know. You always say that. But, uh- I got news for you, sweetheart. I cause you a lot of problems. And,” he raises his voice before you can protest again. “You never give up on me. Shit, I might of given up on me, but you didn’t. You’re always- No matter how shit this gets, it feels alright long as I got you.”

He’s looking at you like you’re supposed to know what that means. When you stare at him back, he just clears his throat. 

“You mean a lot to me.” He mutters. “You- Your trust means a lot. More than anyone.”

“Oh- okay.” You feel kind of dizzy. “Cool.”

He swallows. “Yeah. And I know I do go home with other chicks, uh, I- It’s not. It never means anything. They know that. And a lot of them have been in…” His ears go slightly red, his voice dropping lower. “Situations. And that ain’t for to them, or- Yeah. And I always go back in the morning.”

You’re lost. “What?”

He sighs. “I always head back to you, sweetheart.”

“I know, Dean, we live together-“

“No- I mean, yeah, but-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re kinda the best friend I’ve ever had,” he grunts your name, and you sit a little taller. “I don’t tell you that enough. And I was- Uh, I’ve been thinking- A lot.”

You’re going to chew through your tongue. “About?”

He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and you wait. 

Dean takes a deep breath, his gaze darting over your shoulder, and he shakes his head. 

“Nothing, sweetheart. Never mind.”

You frown. This doesn’t feel like a never mind. “Dean-“

“You want some help with that?” He nods to your cherry stem, giving you a bright grin. “I can do it with my tongue.”

His tongue. He can do things with his tongue. And it’s flicking out over his lips, and he’s grinning at you, and you’re the best friend he’s ever had. 

Friend.

Best friend.

“I’m okay.” You mumble, fiddling with the stem and dropping it in your glass. “Thank you, though.”

His jaw twitches again, and he opens his mouth, then closes it. The cowgirls seen to have wandered off to another corner of the bar. The music is playing quietly in the background, and it’s not a bad song, but it feels like nail scratching your ears. You just don’t want to hear anything right now, other than what Dean decided not to tell you. 

You know he wasn’t building up to the fucking cherry stem. But if you ask, that would be pushing it. And it might not be something you want to hear. 

So you let it go, and give Dean a small smile as you stand up.

He frowns. “Where’re you-“

“Bathroom.” You shrug. “Be right back.”

Dean’s hand flexes, like he’s going to try and reach for you. But he doesn’t. So you walk away. 

But you smile at him, because you’re pathetic. Smile and squeeze his bicep. 

You’d like to run your hand through his hair. 

That’s not a friend thing. 

The bathroom of the bar is just what you’d expect. Flickering lights, cheap looking stalls, a toilet seat that you’re careful to wipe down, because you really don’t want to round all of this off with an infection. 

It hasn’t been the most shit week. You got the monster. Hung out with Dean. Broke your own heart over it, almost every second, but that’s nothing you haven’t been doing for years. And maybe he’s not going to tell you whatever the hell he was building up to, but maybe it’s another thing that’s just not about you. Dean’s being weird because he and Sam are fighting about something stupid. Dean had sounded tense on the phone, earlier. 

So it’s not about you. Tomorrow, Sam will probably call you bitching about Dean, and ask you to talk some sense into him. Sam seems to be under the impression that you’re the only person in the world that Dean listens to without question, but you’ve been in multiple situations where that proved not to be true. The time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone, when you asked him to borrow the car to go into the city—which is something he lets Sam do all the time—the kitchen indecent, when he wouldn’t let you help him figure out how to bake a cake for your birthday, the other time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone- 

“You should totally go talk to him!” A girl’s voice cuts through the air, and you freeze. 

You’d sort of forgotten other people could, hypothetically, use the bathroom. 

“No, it’s okay. There are plenty of hot guys in the world, right?” Second voice. Different girl. 

“Not hot like that.” The first girl says again. “I mean. He looks like he fell right out of the fucking sky. That’s once in a lifetime hotness.”

Dean. They’re talking about Dean.

Fuck.

You should make your presence known. You should just cough, or say yeah, he’s hot, but he’s got a weird penis. Which would just be possessive—which you’re not doing, you’re not—and a straight up lie. You’ve heard the reviews, from girls in the morning. You’ve heard the sounds, when he used to get separate rooms just to rail women in. Sam would put in headphones with a sigh, and you’d try to pretend it wasn’t happening until you’d heard screams of Dean, and you’d decided to find whatever bar was closest and had the highest cut off.

These girls could be the ones screaming, tonight. 

Unless you embraced the jealousy thing, and told them he has a weird penis-

“Yeah, he’s hot, but the woman he was with,” the second girl sighs, and you freeze. Too late to make yourself known. “I think she’s like his girlfriend or something.”

You gape at nothing, and third girl pipes up. 

“No, actually, I agree with that. Don’t talk to him, he’s got a girlfriend.”

“Are you kidding me?” The first girl scoffs. “That was not his girlfriend.”

You scowl. She didn’t have to say it like that. She’s right, but she might not have been, and She didn’t have to be rude about it-

“Why not?” 

“Because if that’s your boyfriend, you don’t leave him alone in a bar.”

The other two girls make sounds of disagreement, and that shouldn’t make you feel as good as it does. 

“No,” the third one says. “Maybe he’s just like, a loyal guy. And she trusts him.”

“Please,” girl two laughs. “Men who look like that aren’t loyal.”

That almost makes you stand up. Dean’s loyal. Arguably, it’s his worst quality, because it’s nearly given both you and Sam multiple aneurysms. You manage only to curl your fists, though. And the second girl continues. 

“Like yes, she was really pretty too. And they looked to be having a serious conversation-“

“Which isn’t what people just hooking up do-“

“I know that. But like, he wasn’t touching her. Maybe they were sitting really closer together, and he ordered her those cherries before she asked-“

“That was really cute-“

“Yeah, but, maybe they’re just like friends!”

“Kaylee.” The third girl says, voice flat. “Did you see how he looked at her?”

“No. You’re the one who pretended to go the jukebox.”

“Well, it was like a puppy dog face. He love loves her.”

You feel like you’re being shot. The girls don’t stop talking. 

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah, just pretend to walk past them later. It’s super obvious.”

They leave a few minutes after that. And you have to remember how to move your legs, but a lot of things are crashing around in your brain. You’re pretty. You and Dean look cute together. 

Dean looks at you like he loves you. 

It feels like you’re floating, when you make your way back to the bar. Dean’s fidgeting with his sleeves, mostly staring at his bottle, and when you tap his shoulder, he looks up at you with a frown. 

It quickly turns into a grin. And he holds up your folded cherry stem with a proud grin, puffing out his chest. 

“Did it while you were gone. In one shot, by the way. You can, uh- Keep it? I dunno. Didn’t think past doin’ it, I guess.”

You give him a softer smile, and tuck the cherry stem into your pants. “I’ll keep it. Thank you.”

“Course.” He shrugs, glancing around the mostly empty bar. 

The cowgirls are watching you. 

Dean’s hand is resting on your wrist. You’re not sure if he knows he’s doing it, but it’s warm and electric over your whole body.  

And when you scan over his face, there’s nothing on it that screams he loves you. That’s just Dean’s face. Maybe the third girl just had too much to drink, or is rooting for him to be in love with you, which is very sweet but overall useless to you-

“You wanna head back?” Dean squeezes your wrist, giving you another easy, causal grin. “We should get our three hours, before we beat the storm.”

You sigh, giving him a tight smile. “It’s eight hours.”

“Yeah, if you’re a health nerd.”

“Dean-“

“It’ll be six hours, if we go now.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, and he just grins back. It really is the same grin he’s always given you. But you hear the cowgirls giggling, when you pass them. They’re probably reading into Dean’s hand, on your back, way too much. You know you have.

But reading too deep into things is what you’re best at. 

And now that they’ve mentioned how Dean looks at you, it’s impossible stop. 

You’re picking it apart, for the rest of the night. For the entirety of the drive, as you analyze every shift in his face, when he glances your way. How he smirks at you, when he opens your door with a dramatic, sweeping gesture. How he laughs when you roll your eyes, and the face he makes when you mumble that you’re getting changed. Then the face when you come back, and he looks up from the TV. 

“Dean.” You lean over the back of the couch, making your voice as firm as possible. “Six hours. You promised.”

He groans, but turns off the TV, and flicks your nose. “After all I do for you, sweetheart, you’re gonna make me sleep?”

“Yep.” He’s so close. You can see every handsome feature of his face. “Go to bed, Dean.”

He grunts and his gaze is trapped right on yours. His eyes are so fucking green, and they’re shining on yours. His breath is warm on your face, and in the cold of the night, it’s impossible to ignore. How all the heat is coming from Dean. You could move. Just an inch. Press your lips against his, and see what it does. Maybe he’d pull you over the couch and into his lap, kiss you until he’s all that you can feel. Until you’re burning alive, but he’s burning with you.

Or it could change everything. And you’d lose your best friend. 

You pull back. And don’t look at Dean again, as you go to bed. You need to stop torturing yourself. You’ll do it enough on the car ride tomorrow. 

Dean’s true to his word. He goes to the bathroom, takes another shower, then gets into bed right after you. Enough for six hours, even if he’s up first. 

He doesn’t wake you up, as he gets ready to go. Packing his bag, then yours, then the remaining supplies. You mostly just drift in and out, listening to him shuffle around the room, pause, then move again. At one point, after you hadn’t shifted around in a while, his hand rests on your brow. And because he thinks you’re just sleeping, you nuzzle into it. 

He lingers. 

Fingers trace over your face. Your cheeks and nose and eyebrows, then up into your hair. 

He sighs, and moves away, and there’s another thing to over think. He could be disappointed in you. Annoyed with you. Tired of you. Just tired overall, and that was a yawn. But Dean doesn’t really yawn.

He also doesn’t just touch people’s faces. 

But- 

“Son of a bitch?”

Your eyes shoot open, and you sit up in a second, reaching for your gun. No one seems to be in danger. Dean’s glaring out the window. 

You rub your eyes, pushing up to your knees. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

“Come look.” He mutters, and you shuffle to your feet, peering out the window.

“Oh.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“Yep.”

You didn’t beat the storm. 

The storm beat you. The world is all gray and white, falling snow and sheets of white over the whole world. 

So you’re trapped in the motel. With Dean

———

“We did try to leave early.” Dean grunts into the phone and you sigh, holding your knees to your chest on the bed.

It took five hours for the storm to clear enough that Dean could call Sam. Another hour for Sam to pick up, because he is on vacation. 

And you’re not sure how you’re going to survive this. 

Not the storm. The storm will be easy. You’re what Dean’s called paranoid—but is proving itself to just be prepared—and there’s no possible way you’re going to run out of food. The water is still running, as it electricity. The heater did break again, but Dean’s spent the last two hours on his knees, trying to fix it.

Most of his tools are both for cars, and in the car. 

He’s improvised. 

And he’d given you this big, boyish and proud grin, when he’d realized he could use the wire hooks without being electrocuted. And that’s why you’re not going to survive this. 

You’re trapped with Dean. And his smiles and voice and body and general everything. It’s one room—two if you count the bathroom—and it’s just you and Dean. No buffer to stop you from saying something stupid, like how you love him. No distractions, because the electricity is working but this motel only has cable, and that’s down. Just you and Dean.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” Dean mutters under his breath, shooting you an odd look.

You mouth what back at him. 

He rolls his eyes, and mouths back Sam, before speaking aloud. “Yeah, I know how waitin’ out storms works, Sam, I freakin’ taught you- We ain’t gonna run out of water, this isn’t a drought, we can drink the snow- I’m not drinking it right now.”

You giggle, and Dean gives you a flat look. You only shrug in return, and that eye roll is for you, but you don’t really care. At least it’s for you.

“No.” Dean turns back to the heater, his voice having dropped. “I ain’t doing that. No- Sam. Shut your face or I’m calling Eileen and telling her she’s got a funeral to attend. Not mine-“

Dean groans, running a hand over his face, and you climb out of the bed. The blankets have to stay wrapped around you—it’s fucking freezing—but you can still help. You kneel down at his side, holding out your hand and nodding to the hanger. Dean frowns at you and shakes his head, and you flex your fingers, giving him a pointed look. 

He pulls the phone away, covering the speaker—Sam’s voice muffled through his hand—and grunts, “I got it, sweetheart. Go back to bed.”

“Dean.” You sigh, just grabbing it out of his hand. He doesn’t fight you, just staring as you shift on your knees. “Finish your phone call.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then sighs, and nods. He squeezes your shoulder, as he moves to his feet, and you watch him walk to the other side of the room. 

You’ve been studying his face all morning. The cowgirl’s words haven’t stopped replaying. He looks at you like he loves you.

But you really don’t think he does. 

He’d given you tight smiles all morning, until you’d finished sorting the supplies and decided that you’d easily survive this without eating each other. 

“If we don’t have enough,” he’d said, hanging over your shoulder. “I want you to eat me.”

You’d sighed, and whacked his thigh. Better not think about how firm it had been. How if you turned your head, you would have been at perfect eye level with his bulge. And it had been freezing, but that was the kind of heat that was going to kill you just as much as it made you come alive. Now, trapped in a motel during a blizzard, was not the time to test the waters of how much Dean would want you. You’d rather turn to ice than have to spend a whole week, awkwardly pretending you hadn’t come onto Dean and gotten rejected.   

“I’m not going to eat you, Dean.” You’d muttered, and he’d shaken his head. 

“I’m telling you to eat me, sweetheart.” He’d dropped at your side, and you’d focused on your sorting. If you looked at Dean, you’d stare and try to figure out if he loved you. “It’s my last wish. You not gonna honor a dying man’s last wish.”

“No.”

“That’s pretty damn rude-“

“You’re not dying.” You’d looked at him, because you’re weak. No promise you ever made yourself about Dean lasted more than about twenty minutes, because most of them were don’t look at him or don’t talk to him, and actually committing to that would mean more change. 

He hadn’t been looking at you like he loved you. 

It had just been the same way he always looks at you. Open, handsome, with a small grin and light in his eyes. 

That’s just his stupid, pretty face. And it had been hard to keep pretending to be annoyed with him, when this was the first real smile he’d given you all morning. 

“We’ve got enough.” You mumbled, your eyes seemingly trapped on his. “I- I won’t need to eat you.”

“Awesome.” He’d grinned at you, and you’d swallowed, and nodded. 

That was just another expression he always made. It didn’t mean anything. 

He is scowling at the air, now that he’s focused on his phone call. He hasn’t looked at you like that, ever. But you also haven’t been saying anything to piss him off. 

It’s very rare, that you actually do piss Dean off. 

But you’re his best friend, so that can’t mean much. 

You have to drag your gaze back to the heater. You’re going to drive yourself out of your mind, before you even hit day five. 

Dean keeps talking, and it sounds like a serious conversation—serious enough that you’re not allowed to hear it, which you’re trying and failing not to read into, but it can just be another way to fucking torture yourself—when you hear the rattling buzz from the heater that means it’s working.

You turn to Dean with a wide grin, sitting up straight and making a ta da gesture to your work, and he grins at you again. Gives you a thumbs up, even his brows remain furrowed at whatever Sam is saying.

“Sam.” He grunts, walking towards you. “I’m going.”

There’s a sound of protest from the other end of the line, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing again. 

“I know how rationing works, Sam, I taught you that shit, too- No, we’re not fuckin’ talking about that- Bye.”

Dean hangs up, Sam’s voice dying mid-sentence, and you give him a curious look.

“Not talking about what?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean mutters your name, crouching down at your side and scanning over the heater. “Nice work.”

That shouldn’t make you flush as much as it does. But Dean’s really close, and he’s praising you, and suddenly the room has spiked from freezing cold to almost insufferably hot. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, and Dean just shrugs, clapping you on the shoulder. The way he would a friend.

“No problem. So.” He scans around the room, and his brow pinches together the moment he’s not looking at you. 

He’s thinking. That’s all it means. 

“We got food, water, heat, shelter.” Dean says, mostly to himself. “Overall we’re not half fucked.”

“Only a quarter.” 

Dean snorts, and his brows un-pinch as he looks at you.

Which still probably means nothing. 

“What do you think that quarter fucked is, sweetheart?”

Him. Being trapped with him. Already starting to spiral about what everything he does and says means, if this is going to make things change, if he’s going to get sick of you, if he does look at you different. You really can’t tell anymore. You might have already gone mad, or the heat is just getting to your brain. 

Making you hallucinate how close he is. How his attention on you is undivided, how his thumb is rubbing small circles where it’s still resting on your shoulder. 

That’s your quarter fucked. 

But you also know what Dean’s is, so you say that instead. 

“No TV.” You give him a mock pout, and he lets out a dramatic groan. 

“It’s not funny, sweetheart-“

“Yeah, it is.” 

“You’re saying that now, but what are you gonna do when you get sick of talking to me?”

You frown at him. “I won’t get sick of talking to you.”

He scoffs. “Sure-“

“I’m serious, Dean.” You lean forward, which is a mistake. He steadies you with a hand on your knee. He’s still like a furnace. You’re going to catch his heat and melt into nothing. “I won’t get sick of you. Are-“ You swallow. You shouldn’t ask it. “Will you-“

“No.” He mutters, scanning over your face. “But I still miss TV.”

You give him a small smile, a weightlifting off your chest. “It’s been like, twelve hours.”

“Fifteen.”

You laugh at his grumpy face, and his lips twitch.

“We’ll find something to do, Dean.” You cup his face as you move to your feet. He might have leaned into your touch. Another thing to pretend not to think about. “I promise.”

———

“Checkmate.”

Dean groans, leaning over the board with a glare. “No, that’s- Son of a bitch.” He looks up at you with wide eyes. “I fuckin’ had it, sweetheart, what the hell.”

You shrug, starting to reset the pieces. “You never had it, Mr. Winchester. You’re a fool and your knowledge of the gentleman’s game is weak.”

He snorts. “I think you’re just cheating.”

“Maybe.” You grin at him. “But if I am, you haven’t caught me.”

“So you have been-“

“Do you have proof?”

Dean sighs, and grumbles, “No.”

You hum. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Or until you admit it.”

“I’ve never admitted anything. In my life.”

Dean raises his brows. “Half an hour ago, you told me you used to sing lyrics to classical music.”

You flush, and throw a pawn at his face. “That was a secret-“

“I haven’t told anyone! I’m just sayin’ back to you what you said to me-“

“Well, you used to name your toy cars after different cartoon characters-“

“Hey.” Dean wields the pawn at you like a knife, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t bring She-Ra the Pontiac into this.”

He glares at you, you glare right back, and there’s only a beat of silence before you both burst out laughing. 

This has been most of the last two days. You’d raided the entire room, to see exactly what type of amenities were provided, and found mostly paper, meaning that you and Dean spent most of last night playing drawing games. He drew genuinely the worst tiger you’ve ever seen, and you drew a snake so worm-like he spent twenty minutes laughing on the ground. This morning—before you got up—he went outside during a brief lull in the storm, grabbed your playing cards from the trunk of Baby, and raided the lobby for board games. 

He beat you at two-person poker, twice. You won gin rummy, and cribbage, so he insisted on a third poker round. You know he just wanted it to win again. But you love him—and his stupid, dopey grin whenever he does something well—so you let him have it. And he did win. But you kicked his ass in Candyland. 

Dean said this one was a kid’s game, so it didn’t count.

You’d pulled out the chess, after that.

This is your fifth win in a row. And you’re not cheating. 

But Dean is adorable when he’s grumpy. And just for now, you’re giving up on trying not to look at him too long. You won’t mess up, because this is already such a fragile situation. You’re on a high alert to not do anything too obviously in love with him. And already spent all of last night with the sheets tangled between your legs, looping over and over how Dean had made you dinner. Stared at you when you’d come out of the bathroom in a towel and coughed. Talked to you until two in the morning, because for once neither of you had anywhere to be in the morning.

In a very, very strange way, this feels like a vacation. A precarious one, where you’ve sealed over half the things you want to say to him—I love you, Dean, I want you, I spent that whole shower thinking about what it would feel like if you were with me, on your knees or behind me or anything, I’d take anything—and allowed yourself to look at him to keep it together. To keep him from noticing.

It would be suspicious, if you didn’t look at him. And it’s quelling that unending heat, in your body. 

You’re going to get through this. Walk out the other side, with only good memories, and nothing changed. 

You’re probably going to be trying to figure out how Dean looks at you forever, but that’s only hurting you, so it’s fine.

It’s all just fine.

“No more chess.” Dean grumbles, grabbing a rook out of your hands and bumping it on your nose. You blink at him kind of stupidly. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go back to cards.”

You take the rook back, poking it into his chest. “Why, so you can win poker?”

He shrugs with a grin, and you sigh. 

“How about war? No skill. Just luck.”

Dean frowns. “I got shit luck, sweetheart.”

“And I don’t?”

“Better than mine.” He mutters under his breath, and you frown. 

There’s something heavy to his tone that you don’t understand. But before you can try and find the words to ask him about it, he’s moving on. 

“One poker game, just to level out the field. C’mon. I’ll make you lunch?”

“And- Do I not get lunch if I say no?”

“No, but this doesn’t work if you keep bringin’ reason into it, sweetheart.”

“Sorry.” You pick at your nails, giving him a small smile, and he sighs. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart. But if we play war, I’m shuffling.”

You nod, giving him a wider smile, and his jaw twitches. It’s been doing that a lot, today. You spent most of breakfast staring at it, trying to figure out what it meant. Probably just that he’s tense, from the stress of the situation. Even though it started last night. And overall, the situation hasn’t been all that stressful. 

Again. Trying not to think about it. 

“Deal.” You hold out your hand, and Dean shakes it. His hand fits perfectly, in yours. It always has. You’ve had a lot of fantasies about just Dean’s hands, alone.

And it’s impossible not to stare, as he shuffles. His fingers have always moved so deliberately, with such exact, measured movements, and they’re big and thick and rough, and when you passed him the cards, he’d touch your forearm and you felt like you were going to fly out of your skin- 

“Ready?” Dean nods to the pile of cards in front of you, and you blink. 

Right. 

The game.

“Ready.” You mutter, sounding breathier than you meant to, but you’d also worked yourself into a small frenzy, thinking about his hands. His smirk isn’t helping. 

You really don’t think he knows, exactly what he does to you. 

But if he does, this is downright cruel. 

“Alright,” he drawls your name, picking up his own deck with a dramatic roll of his shoulders. “Let’s skirmish.”

You laugh—it’s stupid, but you always laugh—and Dean’s grin widens.

It’s not clear if he’s smiling because you laughed, or just he got a laugh. 

You really have to stop picking yourself apart like this. 

The first few flips run by, and soon you’re not even counting down to flip anymore. You and Dean have gotten somehow merged your game brains, and you’re flipping in perfect sync. You’re winning most of them. Dean hasn’t seemed to notice yet. 

“Would you rather be attacked by a duck, or a hippo.”

You blink at him, flipping over another card. “What kind of question is that, obviously-“

“Wait.” He grins at you. “The duck has a gun, and the hippo is a baby.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head at the air. “Does the duck know how to use the gun?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, and is the hippos mom around?”

Dean frowns. “Why does that matter.”

“Mothers are incredibly aggressive when their babies are threatened, Dean. A grown mom hippo kill me.”

“Huh. Well, we don’t want that.” His brow furrows, and you try not to let that make you feel too gooey. “Let’s call it that the mom hippo is around, but far enough that she won’t know if you’re careful.”

“Careful? The hippo is attacking me-“

“So you gotta kill it.”

You gape at him. “I’m not killing a baby hippo, Dean.”

“Fair.” He nods, flipping over a nod. “So you’re going Gun Duck.”

“Do I get a gun?”

“If you can take his.”

“I can do that.” You watch him grab the cards he won. He’s rolled up his sleeves, so you can see his forearms. It’s distracting. “What would you choose?”

“Gun Duck.” Dean shrugs. “I think I could take that mama hippo, though.”

You snort. “No, you couldn’t.”

He gives you a mock look of offense. “Sweetheart, I’ve fought the Devil-“

“Hippos kill 500 people a year, Dean.”

He scoffs. “So?”

“So there are about 180 plane crashes a year.” You give him pointed a look and he gulps, going a little pale. 

“Good point. No hippos.”

You hum, pulling more of your own cards forward. “Would you rather live on the moon, or underwater?”

Dean pauses, thinking about it as you both flip. “The moon. Space would be pretty awesome. Can I guess your answer?”

You nod, a little desperate to know what he thinks you’re going to say, and he grins at you.

“Underwater.”

You keep your face perfectly neutral. “Why?”

“Because you think space is scary.”

“The bottom of the ocean is scarier.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t live at the bottom of the ocean.” He gives you a look like that’s obvious, and sighs when you just stare at him. “I think you’d be like, a lady of the lake or whatever.”

“A-“ You blink at him. “Like in King Arthur?”

“Yeah.” He grins at you, wide and toothy. “I’d be a pretty awesome King, right. I’d get to sit at the round table.”

“Sure,” you return his grin, setting out three cards. “What are your stances on tithes and feudalism?”

“Uh.” He makes his tight, adorable thinking expression—the one where he’s really trying, but doesn’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about—and you want to kiss him all over his stupid face. “Anti?”

You hum and nod, and he raises his brows.

“Was that right?”

“I don’t know, you’re the King.”

“Yeah, but you’re my- Lady advisor.”

You snort. “Lady Advisor?”

“The- Guinevere lady-“

“That was Arthur’s wife.” You say, and it’s really hard to sound causal about that. “And she cheated on him with his best friend.”

Dean recoils slightly, shaking his head. “Okay, so you ain’t that.”

You give him a cautious look. “Do I have to be something, in your fantasy land?”

“Course you do, sweetheart.” He says that like it’s obvious, too. “It ain’t a fantasy land if you’re not there.”

You flush, and Dean sits a little taller, clearing his throat. You don’t know if he meant it like that. He probably didn’t. But now he’s not looking you in the eyes, and he probably thinks he’s leading you on—even if he doesn’t know he doesn’t need to put you on a leash or offer you a reward, you’d follow him to the end of the earth no matter what—and things are going to change-

“I’m the Lady of the Lake.” You mumble, folding a card between your finger and giving him a small smile. “Of course I’m in your fantasy.”

He coughs, but grins at you, and he’s ears are red again.  

Don’t think too much into it. 

“Awesome.”

———

It’s only been three days.

You’re falling into a far too comfortable pattern. 

Dean makes you breakfast, you do lunch, he does dinner. You play card games and talk, Dean goes out to check that nobody’s stolen Baby—it doesn’t matter how many times you tell him that won’t happen, he has to do it anyway—and you make him hot chocolate for when he gets back. You spent most of today talking about superheroes, Dean hanging your paper stars on the ceiling because he’s perfect, and you don’t know how you were ever supposed to not fall in love with him.

“Can I have the purple?” You ask, and he passes the marker to you with a small grin.

“I still don’t understand why you these in the car, sweetheart.”

“For organizing. Duh.”

“Right. Duh.” He chuckles, nudging your side with his foot, and you squeak. 

“Dean-“

“Sorry.” He laughs above you, and he kind of looks like a God. Big and strong and handsome, so far above you, so untouchable, but offering you more with his joy than you can understand. 

Because you haven’t seen Dean this happy in years. He’s fully relaxed, he’s not scanning around every few seconds to check that everyone is safe, and he’s still sleeping with his gun under his pillow—that’s never going to change—but when you woke him up this morning, you didn’t end up with the barrel in your face.

It’s probably because there are no threats. 

It’s getting harder and harder to think it’s not about you.

“Can you pass me my book?”

“Sure.” He shuffles away, and your body seems to want to follow him, which isn’t fair. “What, you gonna use the pages to make more stars?”

“Don’t joke about that.” You mutter, frowning at the star in your hands. “I just want to use this one as a bookmark.”

Dean just hums, and the book is passed into your hands as he sits at your side. “You, uh- Liking it?”

You angle your head to see him, and he’d grabbed a beer while he was getting your book. He’s picking at the label again. His jaw is ticking. 

You really don’t know how to ask him what that’s about. 

“The book.” He adds—after you’re quiet for a beat too long—giving you a sheepish grin. “How are you liking the book.”

“Oh. It’s- Good. I’ve always wanted to read it, and I- yeah.” He’s sitting too close. It’s making you short circuit. 

Dean just nods, turning the bottle in his hands. “So it’s on your bucket list?”

He gives you a half-grin, and that makes you almost go limp. He’s smiling at you like it’s a secret. Like it’s something only you get to know about, even if it was because you accidentally snooped. 

You smile back. It always makes his grin wider, and his shoulders relax, and that could be about you-

No. 

You’re not doing that. 

“Maybe.” You shrug, and he raises his brows.

“You gonna tell me what else is on there?”

You sit up, holding his gaze. Your knees are bumping together. You could swear his eyes widen slightly. 

“The sex.” You whisper, and he groans, shaking his head and looking back to his bottle with a tight smile as you giggle. 

“Bet you’re proud of that one.”

“I am.” You poke his thigh, lying back down as his nostrils flare, and he gives you an odd look.

“You should write one.” He says suddenly. “We got a shit ton of paper. Sammy says they’re good for you to do. Reckon with your own mortality or something.”

You snort, fiddling with one of the stars. “Like you’ve ever reckoned with your mortality-“

“I’m serious,” he says, and when you look back up, he’s staring right into you. “It’s useful. Sammy’s usually out of his freakin’ mind, with that therapy bullshit, but-“ He sighs, tipping his head back to rest against the bed. “It’s not half bad.”

He glares at the ceiling, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying, and you take a risk. It won’t change anything. You’ve comforted him before, and he’s comforted you, so this won’t change anything.

“Dean.” You murmur, resting your hand on his thigh. “I believe you, I just- I don’t want that many things.”

“Everyone wants things.” He mutters, and you shake your head. 

“Not me.”

He finally looks at you, and that strange expression has returned. His eyes lock onto yours, and there seems to be a heaviness to him that you’ve never really seen before. You smile at him gently, and his lips only twitch. He’s looked at you like this before, as well. In the dead of night, when he woke up shouting and you were the only one who heard. 

But you’ve never seen it in the light before. 

And it’s the way he always looks at you, but more. His eyes are softer, but his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he’ll hurt himself. There are deep lines on his face that you want to trace with your fingers, and his lips are in a tight line you want to pry open with your tongue. 

“Nothin’ you want, huh.” his voice is deeper than only a moment before, almost a little hoarse.

You sigh, your eyes darting to your hand, still resting against him. “Nothing I can have.” 

He gives you a curious look. “What, going back to civilian life?”

“No. Never.” You bite on your inner cheek, playing with the fabric of his jeans. “You’re stuck with me, Winchester. Sorry.”

He lets out a low laugh, leaning back once more. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I think I’ll live.”

———

Dean taps on the top of your head, and you look up to find him grinning down at you, holding your book. 

“What-“

“I read it.” He stands a little taller, seeming to puff out his chest. “You were right, sweetheart, it’s pretty good.”

“It’s- The book?” You blink at him. “You read the book?”

“All of it. Except the acknowledgments.”

“Yeah, you don’t really have to read the acknowledgments-“ You shake your head, chewing on your tongue. “Why did you read the book.”

“I dunno. You,” he gently bops your head with the book. “Fell asleep early. And you didn’t stop reading it yesterday, so- I dunno. Wanted to see what the big deal was.”

You nod, watching him carefully. “And you liked it?”

“Sure.” He pauses. “Did you like it?”

“Yes.” You whisper, and you’re not sure why this is hitting you in the chest so hard. It’s just a book.

But he read it for you. 

And he’s been looking at you all week. Laughing with you. Not pushing you away or shutting you out when the conversations get too serious. Acting like you’re the only two people in the word, which is what it feels like. 

It’s just you and Dean. In this room, and—even though you know that it’s not true, that he’ll probably turn around and walk right into another bed when you’re free—in the whole fucking universe. 

It’s really impossible to think that none of this is about you, now. It probably isn’t, but playing pretend is getting easier and easier. You’re not getting sick of him. He’s not getting sick of you. 

And if you never had to leave, you might ask him. If he’s happy here with you, or just happy here. If he thinks he looks at you differently, if there was any truth to what the cowgirls said. 

If he really was never going to go home with them. 

What the hell he was going to tell you, at the bar.

If he can feel how humid it is, here. How outside, the storm is still raging, but in here your skin is hot and sweaty because Dean’s been pulling your legs over his lap when you’re on the couch. And the steam keeps following him out of the shower and into your dreams. 

Last night you had to take an emergency shower, because you’d had a fucking wet dream. It had been all hands and lips, everywhere over your body at once. Soft on sensitive skin and rough on your neck and tits and between your legs. You’ll woken up with your hair stuck to your brow, and your hips grinding into the mattress. Chasing release in nothing, until you’d scrambled into the bathroom, turned on the water, and finished where he wouldn’t hear you. 

Couldn’t hear you. 

Didn’t hear you. 

Dean couldn’t have heard you. If he had, he wouldn’t be looking at you right now. He’s been trying to let you down gently, instead of sitting right next to you. Waiting for your attention. Pressing his thigh into yours. 

Best friend. 

He’s comfortable with you because you’re his best friend. And you’re getting really, really bad at remembering that. 

But he’s really not making it easy. 

“You- Uh-“ He clears his throat. “You ever think about how Sammy’s doing?”

“Like- Emotionally?”

“No, like-“ Dean lets out a slow breath, watching you so carefully it feels like he’s pulling you apart. “With this life he’s got goin’ for himself. Less hunting, more time with the missus. Thinking about that white picket fence, payin’ taxes, apple pie shit. You ever think about that?” 

You swallow, and speak slowly. This sort of feels like a warzone. You don’t want to misstep. 

“Sometimes.” With you. “I- I mean, I have the dream.”

“The dream?”

You nod, and he frowns.

“I thought you didn’t want things.” 

“I don’t want things I can have.” You correct, and Dean raises his brows.

“It’s a dream, sweetheart. Doesn’t gotta be something you can have, think that’s the whole freakin’ point.” He pauses. “I’ve told you about my dreams.”

Fuck. 

“I- Don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your hands, but Dean’s gaze keeps searing over your skin. “It’s dumb.”

“Nah. You’re never dumb.”

Fuck. “Dean-“

“You don’t have to tell me.” He mutters, something oddly edged in his tone. “But I’m here. If you wanna-“

“I’d like it.” You cut him off softly, and he stills at your side. “What Sam’s doing. I mean- Not exactly that. But we- I would kind of want both, I think. Keep helping, even if it’s mostly research. Having something good, my way.” 

You give Dean a small, nervous smile, and his mouth is hanging open. He’s closer than he was, only a second ago. You could lean forward and bump your noses together, if you tried. 

And you want to. 

But Dean’s just staring at you, and your knees are starting to feel weak, despite sitting down. 

“Why isn’t that something you can have?” Dean’s voice is so low you can almost feel it in your chest, and he only seems to be getting closer. 

“Because there’s no one I can do that with.” You say, before you can think about it, and Dean’s jaw twitches. 

He’s so fucking close. You can really smell that pine tree wash. Your heartbeat is in your ears, along with a strange rattle that’s bouncing around your skull with every heated thought—his hand wandering up your leg and between your thighs, his body covering yourself, his lips wherever the hell he wants them, as long as it’s on your skin—and most of your brain is just a haze of Dean. 

But you can’t move first. Things can’t change, when this inevitably ends. 

The rattling sound is getting too loud to just be the hunger, bouncing around your ribs.

“The heater is making noise again.” You whisper, and Dean licks his lips, his voice still low and hoarse. 

“It’ll be fine,” he mutters. “You fixed it.”

That is not a good enough reason for it to be fine, no matter how confident and smooth Dean says it. Even if it ignites in your lower gut, and spreads humid between your thighs. “But-“

“You want dinner?”

You frown. “It’s my night-“

“It’s fine.” He moves to his feet suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh- Pasta. And those frozen meatballs, we haven’t used them yet.”

“At least let me help.” You try to stand up, but Dean just blocks you, shaking his head. “Dean-“

“I got it, baby. Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t argue with him after that. Not because he’s right—he’s not—but because you’ve forgotten how to walk. Or talk. Or do anything at all. 

Baby.

Dean called you baby. 

———

He doesn’t do it again. Not for the rest of the night, or in the morning. The next day is mostly spent making up a new card game, that’s mostly based on you and Dean yelling at each other, and trying to steal cards. At one point he tackles you, starting a mock wrestling match, and it’s like being tossed into a wildfire. You giggle too much. Give in too fast. 

Dean stands abruptly, and goes to the bathroom for twenty minutes after that. 

You don’t think that’s about you. Not when he immediately drags you to your feet and announces that he’s ready to learn how Zodiac signs work. If he was pissed at you—if something had changed—he wouldn’t be talking to you at all. But he doesn’t move from your side for the rest of the day.  

So the heat doesn’t die. 

Not until you crawl into bed, and the heater stops rattling.

Stops all together. 

And everything starts to freeze. 

For the first hour, you try to just bundle yourself as tight as you can, burrowing yourself in the blankets and curling up in a ball. But the temperature drops faster and faster, and these are motel sheets. Thinner than they should be, a little itchy, and not made to withstand the cold of a blizzard. Your fingertips start to go numb, and you can feel the cold almost in your bones, until you have to clench your jaw to stop your teeth from chattering. 

Dean’s snoring soundly, in his own bed. You don’t even think he’s realized how cold it’s gotten. 

But the man runs like a furnace. A warm, big furnace that could wrap around you, and make you warm, so fucking warm- 

You sit up, and stare at him in the dark. Just as handsome as always, with all the panes of his face cast in sharp long shadows that only make him more beautiful. You could easily lose yourself kissing along his jawline or running your finger through his hair. Sitting in his lap and pressing your face into his chest, just feeling him until the whole world is lighter.

And this isn’t about that. 

It can’t be. You roll out of bed—keeping the blankets wrapped around you—and this isn’t about how you’re in love with Dean. If it becomes that, you’ll spiral into what every single brush of his skin and breath means. You’ll stare at him all night instead of sleeping, and he’ll notice, and you’ll ruin everything. 

So it’s just about heat. 

You nudge his arm, and drop your voice to a loud whisper. “Dean.”

He grunts, and you sigh, poking him again. 

“Dean.” 

He rolls over, making a low sound like your name, and his hand rests over yours as his eyes flutter. He looks so comfortable. Peaceful. At complete ease, in a way you’ve almost never seen. 

It’s so fucking selfish to wake him up, just for you. 

But another chill runs through your body, and you don’t have another choice. 

“Dean.” You shove him gently, and he makes an adorable grumbling sound, slowly opening his eyes. 

“What- What’s’a matter.” He frowns around the dark, then up at you. His hand over yours tugs you a little closer.

It doesn’t mean anything. 

“I’m cold.” You whisper, he frowns, and this was stupid. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I just- I’ll go back to bed-“

“Wait, just-“ Dean pulls you back with a small yelp, and his hand rests over your brow. “Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re freezing.”

“I- I know.”

“Well, we gotta-“ He cuts himself off, scanning over you carefully as his nostrils flare. 

You just stare at him back, and whatever he can see on your face, it’s what he wants.

Dean gives you a tight nod, and throws open his blanket. “C’mere.”

“No- It’s okay- I’ll be fine-“

“You’re already not fine-“

“But you don’t have to-“Dean grunts your name, and it’s a good thing he can’t see the flush of your cheeks. “Get in the fuckin’ bed. Please.”

Please.

He did say please.

You crawl onto the mattress, and before you can build any sort of safety barrier between your bodies, Dean’s pulling you right into his chest. And that’s enough to make the heat spike and return, stronger than before. But then he bows his head so his lips brush over your hairline, and his hands dive just under your shirt to rub your skin, and his legs tangled with yours until all you can feel is Dean. 

Hot. 

So fucking hot, you’re worried you’re going to evaporate and turn into nothing but steam. 

“Relax.” He mutters, deep and right in your ear, and you almost go limp in his arms. “There you go. Warmer?”

You hum—speaking feels like a taller order right now—nodding against his shoulder, and Dean lets out a slow breath. 

“Good. Go to sleep, sweetheart, I’ll fix it for you in the morning.”

He’ll fix it. For you. Dean will fix it for you. 

That’s about you. 

And he’s fixing it now. But not in the way he probably thinks. 

You’re warm, but you can’t fall asleep. Also you can think about his Dean’s fingers, brushing over your spine and spending smaller, pleasurable shivers through your body. His knee is pressed far too close to the painful ache between your legs. His breath his fanning over your brow, and he’s wrapped an arm around you to pin you right against him. Every inch of your body feels alight, just in his presence. The heat between your legs is almost painful, and when you rub your thighs together, you can feel your arousal.

You’ve never been hotter in your life. You’re on fucking fire, trapped in Dean’s everything, and there’s no fucking way you’re going to do anything but memorize him. The way his body shifts, how it feels to be swimming in him, and the feel of his strength keeping you so tight. 

You can hear his heartbeat.

It’s faster than you thought it would be. 

And when you wiggle in his arms a little, trying to get more comfortable, his fingers curl on your back and he holds you tighter. 

“Don’t move.” He almost growls in your ear, and you swallow.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he grunts, the sound vibrating through your whole body. “My leg is falling asleep.”

He moves you without another word, but the friction just makes you hornier. And now his lips are pressed against your neck, making your core molten and forcing a soft, high sound from your throat. 

Dean tenses around you, immediately pulling away and readjusting you again, but you don’t get the chance to over think it. 

Because you feel it, first. 

His erect cock, pressed right over your pussy. 

You lean back to stare at him, your mouth hanging open, and Dean looks at you like he’s looking at the sun. His jaw is clenches, his features blown out with hunger, and his fingers on your spine have started a soft, slow dance that makes you arch into his touch. 

His eyes flick down to your lips, and then expression he gives you is almost pleading. His thumb traces over the shape of your lower lip as you try to remember how to speak, or move, or do anything. 

Then he mutters your name, dropping his brow against yours, and you grind fully into his knee. 

“God, fuckin’-“ Dean groans, his lips so close you can almost feel them. “Tell me I can, baby. Please. Let me- Fuck-“

You can’t remember how to speak. 

But Dean’s knee pressed right against your clit, and it jumpstarts your memory of how to move.

You grab his face, and slam your lips over his. He responds in a second, flipping you flat on your back and dropping his hips, keeping you pinned beneath him. He’s rough, hot and wet and desperate, with grabbing your jaw and angling it back, using his tongue and lips and teeth until you’re slack in his hands. 

He pulls back suddenly, examining you for a second before starting to kiss on your neck. Sucking small spots that feel like flares, sparking through your body and making you squirm with a desperation for more. 

“Dean-“ You gasp, tugging at his hair as you try to spread your legs. “I- I need- Dean-“

“I know.” He growls against you, his teeth grazing over a soft spot, and you arch off the bed with a high whine. His free hand finds its way between your legs, cupping your pussy over your clothing, and you gasp, wiggling until his palm is pressed against your clit. “Heard you callin’ for me last night, baby. Christ, you have no goddamn idea how much I- Fuck-“

You start to grind into him, and Dean rises over you, something like awe written all over his face. 

“That bad, huh.” He mutters, and you nod weakly. “You want me? Gonna let me warm you up?”

You don’t know why he’s doing this. Don’t know what it will bring in the morning. 

All you know right now is that Dean’s pulled your pants down, and is teasing your slit over your underwear with two broad fingers. That he’s above you, and looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. 

So you nod, letting your brain turn into only a fog of Dean and good, so fucking good.

And Dean grins. 

A sharp, almost predatory grin that makes your breath hitch in your throat, and your hips jolt as he flicks your clit. He gives you a deep, heavy kiss, pressing his tongue between your lips and down your throat, all while circling his thumb right around your clit, and you’re melted within seconds. 

“Can you say it?” He drawls, his lips still brushing right over yours, and you just blink at him through the daze. “Say it, baby. Tell me what you want.”

He rests his thumb right over your clit, his fingers playing with the wet spot on your panties, and you just manage to whine out what he wants to hear. 

“Touch me.” You gasp, and he chuckles, giving you a soft, rewarding kiss. 

“Good girl.” He hums, and you don’t even have time to register how that makes your moan before Dean’s moving. 

Your shirt gets pulled over your head, as he kisses down your neck and over your shoulders. Dean makes a small stop at your tits, taking one in his hand to palm and knead, the other being almost attacked by his mouth. Licking and sucking and kissing everywhere he can reach, before pulling your nipple between his teeth. He groans as you shiver and writhe below him, switching his attentions until you’re flushed and tugging at his hair, silently pleading for more.

He hums, kissing over the curve of your breast before continuing down. Under the covers where you can’t see him, making every single touch even more electric. Your eyes close as he gently works over your stomach abdomen, gasp when he nips at your inner thigh, and fist the sheets as you try to guess where he’s going to be next. 

Dean kisses your clit softly, over your panties, and he squeezes your ass as he slowly pulls your hips off the mattress. 

You hold your breath, when you feel the cool air hit your dripping cunt. 

And Dean doesn’t move right away. 

His breath is warm over your pussy, his stubble brushing sensitive skin as he kisses your thigh, but he’s not touching you. All you’re getting is his hands on your ass, the phantom feelings when he’d been before, and it’s starting to make you go cold again. He could not like what he sees. You might have pushed this—whatever the hell this is—too far, and he’s going to come up and tell you this was a mistake- 

Dean licks a rough stripe up your pussy, and you almost fly off the bed. His arm plants over your lower stomach, pinning you to the bed as he swirls his tongue around your clit, and pinches your ass gently. You flop back down with a deep breath, shooting a hand under the covers to tug at his hair—unsure if you’re trying to move him away or urge him on—and Dean moans against your pussy as he starts to eat you out like a man starved. Sucking your clit and rapidly flicking his tongue until you’re panting, before starting to lick your pussy as a feverish speed. 

You never know where he’s going to be next, and it’s driving you out of your mind. It doesn’t take long for you to feel that coil in your gut tightening, set to snap any second, and Dean seems to know that. His hand on your ass rolls and squeezes as he tongue fucks and licks you, his arms holding you firm against his mouth. Every yank of his hair only makes him groan, and the sound vibrates in your pussy, making your eyes roll back in your head. 

“Dean.” Your voice is high, almost whiny, and Dean hums. “Please, I- I’m going to-“

He presses his tongue flat over your clit, shoves two fingers into your pussy, starting to pump them at a brutal, rapid pace, and your mouth falls open as the heat flood through you. You see white, your thighs clenching around Dean’s head and toes curling as he eats you out through the orgasm. 

Dean gently pries your legs away, as you float back down, and presses an almost mockingly sweet kiss over your clit—making you shudder in his hands, and earning you a second one—before shuffling up your body. 

You stare at him, as he reappears from under the covers. His chin is shining with the wetness from your pussy, and you take a ragged breath as he wipes it with his thumb, and hold your gaze as he sucks it clean. 

“I-“ You take another breath, almost grabbing at the air to try and get him up, with you. “Dean, Dean-“

He crashes up, angling his lips over yours for a sloppy, open-mouth kiss, and you moan, tangling your fingers in his hair. You can taste yourself, on his tongue, and just like that you need more. 

You need to taste him. 

Dean pulls away first, resting his brow against yours with a wide grin. 

“Hi.” He mutters, and there’s something soft in his voice you didn’t expect. “Anyone ever told you how good you taste, sweetheart?”

You flush, fingers curling on the nape of his neck. “No.”

He hums, giving you another soft kiss on the nose. “Well, you do. Taste like fuckin’ heaven, make so many pretty sounds.” He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and grins when you squeak. “So sensitive, baby. Even better than I imagined.” 

You blink at him, your sex-addled brain not really able to understand what he meant by that, so you just say the only thing you can think of. 

“You’re really good at that.”

He gives you a look that’s awfully close to pride, and kisses up your neck, stopping to whisper in your ear. 

“Easy when I got such a pretty fuckin’ pussy to worship.”

You take a sharp breath, and Dean trades it with his own, almost pushing his tongue fully down your throat. He keeps kissing you like he’s trying to mark you, or maybe just fuse you together. 

You really wouldn’t mind that. 

But you have something else to do first. 

“Dean,” you whisper, and he pulls back with a tight expression. 

“What’s-“

“I wanna put it in my mouth.”

You say it fast, before you can lose confidence. Dean stares at you for a long beat after, his eyes dark and jaw clenched, and you suck on your lower lip, trying not to focus on how his cock is pressed against you. It feels thick. Big. You need it. 

“Please.” You add, and Dean’s eyes flash, his voice hoarse. 

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to-“

“I want to.” You manage to push up on your elbows, and Dean swallows. “Please, Dean, I- I want it so bad-“

He slams you back down into the bed with a kiss, and you grab his face between your hands. You want to feel him. Have this passion branded into you, until you can feel it forever. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, pressing a softer kiss to the side of your mouth. “You wanna suck my cock, baby?”

You nod, and Dean hums, leaning back to give you an almost strict look, after. 

“I’m not comin’ in your mouth. If I finish, it’s in you.” He pauses, then adds. “Long as that’s- I don’t wanna make it something you gotta give me, just like- Head would be awesome-“

You rise up to meet him this time, hooking your arm fully around his neck and cutting him off with another kiss. 

“I’m on the pill.” You say, nipping at his lower lip. “And I- I’d like you to- Do that.”

Dean looks like he just won the lottery. You even get one last kiss, before he’s flipping you over and helping you settle between his legs. He is big. Mostly thick, but still big. And pretty.

You want to choke on him. 

Dean smirks at you as he lazily strokes himself. “Like what you’re looking at, sweetheart?”

Somehow, that gives you whatever little jump you needed to move. You roll your eyes, swat his hand away, and take him into your mouth in one, quick movement. Dean grabs your hair with a grunt, as his cock bumps against the back of your throat, and you take what you can’t fit in your free hand. It’s easy to set a pace, rubbing his cock as your tongue swirls and you suck him off like he’s candy. He’s heavy and perfect on your tongue, and even moan of your name only makes you speed up. You hum around him, grinding your hips into the sheets, and Dean makes the most animalistic sound you’ve ever heard. 

His hips jerk, making you gag, and he tries to pull back. 

You squeeze his leg, and go faster. Faster. He’s twitching in your mouth and saying your name like a prayer, and- 

Dean yanks you off with a grunt, and you giggle as he drags you up his chest, glaring at you with a lustful, dark expression. 

“You think this is funny, baby?” He mutters, and you smile at him, nodding. 

His lips twitch, and he reaches up to grab one of your breasts, smirking when your breath catches in your throat. 

“You want to fuck you?”

“Yes.” You whisper, and Dean hums. 

“Gonna be a good girl for me?”

You nod, and Dean’s hand trails between your thighs, slowly circling your clit until you’re grinding on his abs, nails digging into his chest. 

“Felt how tight you were.” He says under his breath. “But you’re fucking soaked, sweetheart. Think you can take it?”

A whine leaves you, and Dean chuckles, the sound rolling through your cunt.

“Yeah. You can take it.”

He picks you up, and your mouth falls open as you’re driven slowly down onto his cock. The stretch burns, but it’s so good. Dean lets out a deep moan as he bottoms out, and he doesn’t waste any time. He guides you up and down, helping you bounce on his dick, and you try to roll to meet him but you’re alight, high on the feeling of him dragging every needy spot inside of you, gasping whenever he slams you down and you feel fuller than even in your life. Dean slams up to meet you, every time, and you arch in his hands, starting to set your own, desperate pace of grinding on his dick.

Dean groans, and he looks at you under hooded eyes, hands starting to roam and grope anywhere they can find. You roll your hips and he grabs your throat, hissing when you clench around him. Dean starts to jackhammer up into you, and you whimper as he hits impossibly deep, squeezing hard. He sits up, taking your breast back into his mouth, and you yank on his hair, trying to warn him that you’re close. You can’t remeber how to do anything but whimper his name, though, and he somehow understands. 

Dean sucks on your neck as he starts to tap on your clit, and you go slack in his arms, trying to fight it off. 

“Come on,” He growls, pressing down hard as he slams up. “Give it to me baby, fucking cum on my cock-“

You gasp, as your orgasm crashes into you. Stars dance behind your eyes as white-hot pleasure washes through your body, and Dean gives you one last, bruising kiss as he groans your name with his own release. It paints inside of you and sends you over the edge one last, shivering time, and you whine as he stills inside of you. 

And this doesn’t feel real. 

It’s the type of heat that feels like steam. Like a drug. As if, when Dean kisses your brow and pulls out, it could only be a dream. 

You’re too fucked out to think about it. You can only let Dean move you around—clean up, bathroom, back to bed—in a trace like state, before you’re tucked back into his chest. In his bed. 

Warm. 

You drift easily off into sleep with your body spent, and you’re so easily, happily, perfectly warm.

———

The world is slow, when you open your eyes. There’s a deep comfort you haven’t felt in a while, a comfortable warmth settled in your body—not wired, not goin to burn you, but just peaceful—and you take a deep breath, settling into the covers. 

Dean groans, and his lips brush over your ears. He shifts behind you, tugging a little tighter against his chest. 

You still. 

His chest. His arm, wrapped over your stomach. Because you slept with him. 

You fucking slept with him.

And he’s still here, in the morning. Still holding onto you. When you roll over, his features are relaxed, and his mouth is hanging open as he snores. His chest rumbles with each breath, and his fingers trail over your waist in his sleep, and you slept with him. 

You can’t stay here. In his arms. You don’t want to sit in it too long, let yourself get too high on the smell and feel of him around you, then have him wake up. Stare at you, then jump away. Tell you this was just a casual thing, you’d just been stuck together too long, and this doesn’t change that you’re just friends. You’ll have to pinch yourself, to stop from crying. And then the car ride back will suck, and Sam will come home and notice things are weird, and you’ll have to stop yourself from crying again.

It’s easier, if you just pretend nothing happened. Nothing will actually change. Your heart will remain in its fragile shape—made like glass, so fucking easy for Dean to shatter—and Dean won’t have to go to the trouble of rejecting you. 

So you, very slowly shift your way out of his arms. It takes longer than you thought it would. Dean keeps pulling you back, and grumbling in his sleep, and at one point his morning wood ends up pressed right against your bare ass, and you have to take about fifty deep breaths. 

But you manage. With a lot of help from the sheets, stuffed into his arms as you move away, you get out of the bed. 

Take a shower. Wrap yourself in blankets and layers, because the heater is still broken. Make coffee. 

Drift through the early morning, trying to think about anything but the thing. If you think about it, you’ll start crying all by yourself. 

And when you look out the door, it’s a small blessing. 

You won’t have to think about this at all. The storm has stopped. Someone cleared the roads, last night. 

You and Dean can leave. 

Dean groans your name, a few hours later, when he wakes up. Shoots upright with his gun, when he realizes you’re not in bed with him. 

“Over here.” You say, rubbing your hands against the quickly cooling coffee, and Dean grunts. 

His eyes still aren’t in total focus. He’s rubbing his face, his hair spiky and the sheets pooling around his lap. You have to stare at your coffee mug, because now all you can think about is how those abs had felt flexing under your fingers, how  his chest had looked above you, heaving as you sucked his cock- 

“What’re doin’ over there?” He mutters your name, and the heat isn’t need anymore. It’s prickling. Sore. You just want to leave this behind. To give him the out he’s probably looking for, and not think about how it’s not you. Dean doesn’t regret sex with you.

He just doesn’t want to do any sex that leads to expectations in the morning.

“It’s safe to drive.” You mutter, glaring at a carving of a flower Dean did on the table. It’s making you think about his hands. On your tits, holding your neck, inside of you. Focus. “Heater’s broken. We should probably go.”

Dean stares at you. You can feel it. And when you look up, there’s an expression you’ve never seen before. You don’t even know how to read it. His face is tight, but his brows are relaxed, and his mouth is open. It’s not even there long enough for you to analyze it. Dean just shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair, and stands up. 

You flush, biting your lip and looking back to the table. His cock is hanging between his legs, and you can still taste him, still feel him when you shift in the chair, and it’s going to maybe haunt you for the rest of your life.

“Right.” Dean mutters—not seeming to notice how you’re squirming in the chair—and you can see him pulling on his boxers in your periphery. “We should. I’ll start packing-“

“I already did everything.” You tilt your head to the couch, where you’d hauled the bags. “You just- Have the keys. And I need your help carrying them.”

He snorts, voice dry. “What, you gonna take off with the money?”

You frown at him. “We don’t have any money.”

“It’s- Never mind.” Dean shuffles to the bathroom. “Gonna take a leak. Get dressed. Then we’ll leave.”

You don’t know why he’s saying it like that. He wanted to leave. He wanted to beat the storm in the first place. And this has been perfect, this feeling of peace with him you haven’t known in years, but if you were still stuck here that would have to change. He wouldn’t have this clean, neat out. 

But it feels like he’s pissed at you. You’re not trying to talk to him, but he’s not trying to talk to you. Dean almost stomps out of the bathroom, grabs the bags, and hauls them outside without a glance in your direction. While you go to the front to turn in your key, he walks a pace behind you. When you grab a blanket from the trunk and slide into shotgun, he doesn’t tease you about being cold. 

Dean glances at you, his jaw ticks, and he starts the engine. It warms up quickly, but you can’t really feel it. Your fingers are still numb. Your heart feels like it’s going too fast and too slow, all at once. 

There’s only that hot, uncomfortable prickling sensation, and pure fucking cold.

Dean’s not moving at all. Not driving away, and leaving this all in the dust. He’s just drumming on the wheel, glaring out the windshield, and pressing his lips tight together.

He’s going to tell you no anyway. You did so much to avoid it, to get out before the change could sink and stick, but he’s just going to do it here-

“I just-“ He takes a long breath, and you swallow. “Before we go, you gotta tell me, sweetheart. Are we locking it?”

“Are we-“ You blink at him. “What.”

“Locking it.” He grunts, giving you firm, almost heavy look. “This. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Oh. 

You don’t want to lock it. You don’t want to trap it and push it down, because it’s just going to bubble up and you’re going to explode. 

But you don’t want things to change. 

“If that’s what you want.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low, dry laugh. 

“Yeah. Alright.”

It doesn’t sound alright. He sounds pissed, and tired, and he’s still not looking at you, but he usually looks at you all the time. Maybe he’s never going to look at you again, maybe your friendship is going to melt away with the storm if you don’t-

“Is that what you want?”

You speak before you can think. But it gets Dean to look at you. 

Stare at you. 

With that same strange expression from before. Seeing it closer, for longer—his breathing heavier than it should be, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled—it looks almost broken. 

Almost as cold as you feel. 

And you shouldn’t speak again. You should just let it go. Speaking it will change everything, without any way to stop it. The water will run, and you’ll either be smoothed out and locked into the riverbed, or you’ll be swept away with the current. 

But everything has already changed. Dean’s never not looked at you for so long. You’ve never felt this hot discomfort around him. 

So you take the leap. 

“I- I don’t want it.” You whisper, and his jaw ticks. “I want it to be more. I want to go back to bed, and I want to wake up next to you, and I want you to pee with the door open and make up stupid games together and order me cherries- Everything else we’ve always done but you kiss me after. Like- I cut out paper stars and give them to you and you kiss me, and you take a shower, and I kiss you, and you keep making me breakfast but now it’s just me-“

“It’s always just you.” Dean grunts, and you blink. 

“What?”

“Breakfast.” He mutters, still staring at you. “I don’t really make Sam breakfast.”

Oh. “Oh.”

Your voice is barely a breath, and Dean chuckles. 

“Yeah, and, uh-“ He clears his throat, his ears going red again. “You’re the sex. The one I’ve kinda- Since I freakin’ met you, I- Yeah. So, guess I got two bucket lists this week.”

He gives you a small, crooked grin, and it’s like a spark in your chest. Warm. Bright. 

Maybe guiding you to something really, really good. 

“You know the bar we went to?” You say carefully, just because you have to be sure. “The girls who tried to flirt with you?”

“Not really.” Dean shrugs, and that just makes the spark start to catch fire. “What about them?”

“In the bathroom, I heard them talking, and-“ You give him a tight, nervous smile. “They thought you were my boyfriend. Because of how you look at me. Like you- As if you love me.”

You expect him to dismiss it. To say he has feelings you, but avoid the L word. To awkwardly tell you he just wants to keep having sex, and the cowgirls were just drunk. 

But he doesn’t. 

Dean just grins at you. 

The exact way he always has. 

“Y’know, Sammy says I do that.” He twists to fully face you, his fingers still drumming on the wheel. “Said it was obvious. So obvious I needed to man up and tell you out loud. But you never acted like you could see it, so I guessed he was just being a bitch. But I guess that’s kinda the only face I make, when I’m looking at you. Guess I can’t blame you for that one.”

He gives you a smaller grin, raising his brow, and you breathing heavy through your nose. 

Obvious. 

It’s been obvious. 

And he’s- He’s not say-

“Dean.” You whisper, leaning forward until your hand is braced on his knee. “Do you-“

“Yeah.” His voice is low, but not like it’s secret. Like he’s telling you something so critically important, it has to be said slow and deep, just to make sure you understand. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Dean’s jaw twitches, and his eyes flick down to your lips. “Can I kiss you, then? Whenever I want?”

You nod, and Dean crashes forward. It’s slow, this time. With music in your chest and a high feeling in your head, as Dean pulls you closer and hold your face like it’s something priceless. There’s no rush, to try and imprint yourself upon each other. You’re already molded into him, and he’s already branded all over you. 

And things have changed. 

But you’re never going to go back. 

End Note: Thank god for that snowstorm. I choose to believe Sam summoned it to trap them together.

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