Second Star To The Right

Jack can be rough with you when you're both in that mood, but to that man, you are the ultimate indulgence. The person he wants to spoil; the touch and taste that he loves to savor. Every second he spends with you, in bed and out of it, is a second that he's soothed. You're his safe place, where he gets to sink in at the end of a long day (or a long night).

These days, Robby's baseline can be more abrasive. He spends more time than he'd like justifying care to patients whose families are on their Dr. Google bullshit. He has frustrations, and he gets them out with you. Oh, that isn't to say that he can't be sweet—he can be, frequently is, afterward. But when he's stripping you out of your clothes, even if he notes the flash of new lace, it's not his focus. He's trying to get to you, skin on skin, in his hands, under his lips.

With Jack's tendency to work the night shift, evenings spent together are at a premium. He's used to being up in the small hours, so date nights can go...Pretty late. Especially once he sees the lingerie—groans at that first glimpse of the strap, the hug of the fabric to your skin. Presses up close as he draws you in bed, murmurs that he, "Can't believe you've been wearing this all night."

Robby already has you on your back, yanking down the cup of your bra, sweeping his bearded cheek against your hardening nipple before drawing it between his lips to soothe the sting with his tongue. Eyes closed as his fingers grasp with the waistband of your panties, palm warm against your hip as he gives you a squeeze.

Jack has you pulled back against his chest, the two of you propped up against his headboard. His lips on your neck; one hand sweeping across the mesh of your bra cup, while the other toys with your clit beneath the fabric of your underwear. Between hazy blinks, you eye the flex of his fingers as you tip your hips up into his touch, whimpering as he draws you closer to orgasm. When he pulls his fingers out of your panties, they bypass you completely, and you crane your neck to watch him raise them to his lips, to suck them, and moan.

Robby is muscling between your thighs, diving in head-first, leaving you to finish kicking your underwear off of your ankle. Man on a mission, eyes peering up at you as you grasp his hair, whimper and buck against his tongue and lips and fingers.

Jack takes longer to get you down, curls up behind you when you're both on your sides, teases his hard cock between your thighs to notch against your slick opening. Slips it beneath the seat of your panties, bites back a moan at the sensation of his cock sandwiched between the silky fabric and the slick heat of your cunt. Eases in gently, shivers, presses his face between your shoulder blades as your hand scrabbles against his bare, muscled thigh.

Robby is hiking your thigh up around his as he sinks in, spitting a curse as he bows over you, cock sinking deeper as your body opens up for him. He's curling over you, catching your lips in a panting, open-mouthed kiss, hand slipping beneath your back to undo the clasp of you bra, then around to hook under the band and finally yank it off and away.

Jack is rolling his hips slowly, making sure you feel every inch of what you do to him, of what he's been thinking about doing to you all goddamn day.

Robby is letting his mind clear, pressing tight to your chest as he begins to thrust, grinning as your hands slide up to his shoulders, as you dig in with your nails.

Jack tips his head up, ghosts a kiss along the shell of your ear: "You take me so fucking well, sweetheart."

Robby turns his head to nip your jaw, teases, "You need more, baby?"

Jack is curling his arm more tightly around your chest to pull you back, chuckles as you whimper, slows his pace, draws almost all the way out: "Do you want it?"

Robby is leaning back to swipe at your sensitive clit, hums encouragingly as you whimper and squirm: "You can take it."

But if the two of them have you together—

If you put on a set that's Jack's favorite color, has straps for Robby to grasp and pull and tug and snap—

"So impatient," Jack chuckles as Robby's fingers make light work of your dress zipper before he reaches up to nudge the straps from your shoulders.

You let Robby move you as he wants, wriggle the dress down your body and wait for it to pool around your feet. Jack whistles low, sits on the edge of the bed, takes you in—tuts when Robby reaches for the hooks of your bra, urges:

"Leave 'em on."

And you've been zipping with excitement since this started, but the way Jack is watching you is making you feel seen in a way that you've never been before. He can sense it, spots the flash of nerves in your face. Takes your hips in hand and guides you closer. Keeps his eyes on yours as he tips his head up, sucks your nipple through the mesh. You suck in a breath at the heat and brush, shiver as he tugs the cup and sends the dampened fabric over your sensitive skin.

Jack guides you down on top of him as he lays back, smooths his hands up your sides. The bed dips behind you, and Robby's breath brushes the insides of your thighs. You give your ass a teasing wiggle, giggling when Robby gives it a light slap. But then the seat of your panties are being tugged aside, hand grasping the fabric as he laps at you from behind.

You're surrounded, rocking back between Robby's mouth on your cunt and Jack's mouth on your breasts. Robby lets go of your panties long enough to hook a finger in one of the straps on the sides of your panties. Plucks it, then pulls it back hard enough to snap against your skin when he lets go.

And when you stay on top—when you take them both together, and Robby uses the network of straps on the back of your bra to guide you back on his cock, then down on to Jack's—well. He starts to see the appeal of leaving the lingerie on.

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepastaa ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ;  @moonlightburned; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

This is what you get for not keeping cash on you. For letting your stupid date pick you up—hell, for scouring tinder in the first place, for letting yourself fall so hopelessly deep you could do nothing but try to smother the horrid feeling with someone else, anyone, anyone else.

Desperation is a terrible thing.

Maybe, you think, already shuddering at the thought, you should just go back inside. Sit through the rest of dinner, at least get a few more bites in while the guy goes on with his sleazy remarks and self-absorbed talk. It can't be that bad, can it? He'll leer at you, say something snobbish to the waitress, go on rambling about how awfully tiring it is to work in finance—

No, you think firmly. No way. You'd rather—

2% jumps to 1.

You hit call.

The line rings once. Twice. You cringe, pressing your back against the misted wall of the restaurant.

If you get fired for this—

The third ring cuts off midway.

"Y/N?" Bucky's voice rumbles into your ear, low and warm, so quiet you have to turn the volume up against the lash of the rain. Your stomach drops a couple storeys.

"Mr. Barnes," you mumble, your eyes squeezing shut, "hi. I'm so sorry to bother you, I know it's late and you're probably busy—"

"What do you need?"

Okay. He doesn't sound mad, at least. Still wincing, you push on.

"I'm. Well, I'm—I'm kind of stranded." You falter, but then remember the one percent of your battery and ramble it all out—"My phone's gonna die and I don't have any cash on me and I'm out on this date—if you can even call it that—and this guy, he picked me up but he's a douche and I walked out and I—" You swallow down the burn of embarrassment, your voice lowering, "I don't know how I'm gonna get home. It's raining buckets—"

"Where are you?" Bucky cuts you off. Again.

"Um." You glance up at the name of the restaurant emblazoned on the awning. That earns you a healthy splash of rain, water misting into your eyes. "God, I can't pronounce that. It's in Dupont Circle—I'll send you the location, my phone's about to—"

"Do that and stay put."

"Thank you, thank you," you mutter, already pulling the phone away from your ear, scrambling to open up your and Bucky's text thread. It's embarrassingly high up, not the first thread but the second, just below the cursed text your date had sent you telling you to come down.

Quickly, you fumble for the location and send it to Bucky. You barely get to see his response, a clipped, Stay somewhere dry, before your phone screen flashes black.

You huff out a strangled laugh into the night. Stay somewhere dry. Right. That's about as impossible as regaining your dignity.

-

It's actually kind of funny, in a twisted, terrible way. The one time you try to put yourself out there, as far away as you can possibly get from one Congressman James Barnes' path, you get sucked right back into his orbit. Closer, probably, than you've ever been before.

The universe sure does have a skewed sense of humor.

You're already stewing with the embarrassment of it. You pace restlessly, arms crossed over your chest, pressing your damp clothes further into you as you try to walk off the jitters of inevitably meeting him. God, you can't even imagine what he must be thinking of you right now. Just a vapid, silly girl, putting yourself in situations you can't get out of.

You should've carried cash. Who the fuck even carries cash?

Who doesn't? Bucky had questioned, genuinely baffled.

Everyone, you'd told him. It's just such a hassle now, y'know? Just pay with your phone, or your watch, or whatever. Here, you want me to put your card in? It only takes a minute.

I'm still tryna get used to the physical cards, he said, a little sheepishly, but he didn't stop you. Keyed in his password right in front of you like it was nothing, like he trusted you to know it, didn't mind the thought at all.

He's a hundred and ten years old, you think dully to yourself. A phone means nothing to him.

Well. He can have the last laugh now, at least.

Time stretches horribly, but the watch on your arm only reads out thirteen minutes before Bucky's sleek car is pulling up in front of the restaurant, wipers furiously clearing the windshield of rain. Relief bleeds fast through your chest. You try your best not to bolt, but you rush out from under the awning as fast as you can, immediately getting showered in the time it takes you to round the car, fumble with the slick door handle, and haul yourself in.

Inside, the heat is cranked up, and your clothes slip noisily on Bucky's pristine leather.

"Hi—oh, god—shit, I'm sorry, Mr. Barnes—these are new, aren't they? Jesus—"

"It can handle a bit of water, Y/N." His voice is simultaneously dry and placating, gravel trimmed along its easy, softened edges. You cannot, for the life of you, meet his eyes. "Blood, too—the works. Paid extra for it. Sit back, will you? Put your seatbelt on."

You do so, wincing. The car only rolls forward when you clip your belt in place with a click, warm leather sticking to your shoulders, the water pressing out of your clothes and smearing onto the seat. Your very clingy, you quickly realize, very painted-on clothes.

Water dribbles down onto the upholstery. Your shoes soak the floor mat, a hot, persistent gust of air blowing over your ankles.

You swallow thickly, watching rain patter on the windshield.

Bucky doesn't utter another word beside you. Despite the quiet, you can feel every inch of his presence pressing in. It's not unusual for the both of you to sit in silence, far from it. But god, the proximity is getting to your head. Crowding your lungs. You can see him in the corner of your eye—just a shapeless blur, one hand on the wheel, entirely still but for any strictly necessary movements. The faintest hint of his cologne hangs in the close space, curling around you, settling delicate fingers on your throat.

You set your hands awkwardly on your knees.

"Thank you," you say quietly, only your voice breaks, fades out in places. You clear your throat, face burning. "Thanks for coming to pick me up. I—uh. I really appreciate it. Very sorry, by the way—"

"I don't want your apologies, doll." He says, glancing over at you. Your breath hitches, rather audibly in the silence. His eyes are remarkably, terribly soft. "I'm glad you called. It's obviously… unfortunate, but I'm glad you called."

"You weren't busy?"

"Nah," he mutters. Doesn't elaborate.

You lose his attention to the road. The lights cut through the car in equal, honeyed intervals, highlighting his neck, the breadth of his chest, his shoulders, the glint of his arm. Beneath you, the car hums and purrs, still blowing out hot air that only serves to exacerbate the flush already pouring through you.

His hair is damp, you realize. It curls a little, near his ears, above his collar. The sight is so intimate it grabs your heart in a fist.

Bucky must hear something go wrong with your mechanisms, because he pulls his eyes back from the road and onto yours again. They hold, brilliant blue flashing through bursts of streetlights.

Then they slide away.

Air thins in your lungs, tingling heat crawling up to your temples.

"You look nice," he murmurs.

You jolt at the compliment. "If you like drowned rats," you manage, fighting the urge to shift and pull your soaked clothes from your skin.

Bucky shakes his head and makes a little sound in his throat, mildly disapproving. "Always sellin' yourself short. So what's the deal with the guy, what happened?"

"Oh, you know. Grade-A jackass," you say, trying to ignore his voice in your head, always sellin' yourself short. "He's only interested in hearing himself talk. Cocky, thinks he's god's gift to women," you roll your eyes, nose wrinkling in distaste. "I couldn't even make it through dinner. Told him I needed the bathroom then I booked it."

A faint smile tugs at Bucky's mouth. "Attagirl."

A maelstrom whips through your gut. You try to mask the rush of your inhale by shifting in your seat, your clothes sliding on the leather as you stare out the window. Safest possible place, though nothing about this whole ordeal feels safe anymore. You feel stripped raw and naked.

D.C. glitters through the rain, golden lights pooling in the fat drops. They race down the window, trailing streaks along the glass. You fiddle with your hands.

"I do feel kind of bad for walking out, though."

"Don't." He says bluntly. You can see the reflection of his watch in the glass, large hand clenched around the gearstick. "If he's not worth your time, he's not worth your time."

You tell yourself you won't, but you can't help yourself from looking back to him. Moth, flame.

Ash.

"That easy?" Your voice is lighter than you feel.

Bucky's eyes catch yours. "That easy," he murmurs.

What about when he is worth my time?

But it's clear that Bucky Barnes is the farthest thing from interested in you. He's nice, sure. A little soft on you, but it doesn't mean anything when he drops off sweet treats on your desk or calls you doll. He's just old fashioned like that. Literally a hundred years old. A man out of time whose baseline for treating women is unfortunately much, much higher than that of any of the men of your generation.

Or century.

You're gone horribly bad for him, you know. Even now—especially now, cramped in this small car with his stature blooming too big—you feel it flurrying around in your stomach. You're already damp, and yet sweat beads on your palms.

And he doesn't even know. Metal, gold-threaded fingers reflecting on the far side of the windshield, one arm stern at the wheel, the other draped over his thigh, he has no idea what he's doing to you. He's in an impossibly tight t-shirt and he's wearing soft-looking, dove gray sweatpants and his hair is all loose, tumbled over his brow and somehow, incredibly, boyish, softening his whole face—

His eyes make you go stiff in your seat, piercing blue like a dart through your chest.

"Let me guess, you didn't eat."

You shrug one shoulder, a little wry. "Unless you count half a salad."

Bucky shakes his head. The blatant disapproval in it makes you both smile and ache—you don't know which it is, kids these days or, I could do better. Both are equally devastating.

"Okay, I'm getting you real, actual food. Protein. Carbs. Non-negotiable," he says when you open your mouth, ready to protest.

"I'm—um. I'm kind of soaking wet, Mr. Barnes."

He deflates, like he'd forgotten. "Bucky." He almost sighs out, as if it pains him.

"Bucky, yeah, sorry," you amend. "But I appreciate the offer," you give him a smile, though something in you cracks, flutters, hot and cold and a whole mess of your stomped-on heart. "Really."

Bucky's exhale is soft, compliant. He drives you silently to your complex, but you can't help but wonder what he possibly had in mind. If you were dry and a torrential downpour wasn't beating at the windows, would he have taken you to a restaurant or some obscure diner? Pulled your chair out at the corner bodega or brought you over to his apartment, ordered in, let you eat at his couch, or in his kitchen, or maybe off the coffee table, on the floor, your knees grazing his?

A million stupid little fantasies. You wonder, but you'll never get to know.

-

You look nice.

James Buchanan Barnes is either an excellent liar or an obtusely blind man. You lean rather heavily towards the former.

You look like a mess. Or at least you did, before you toweled all the rain off and scrubbed at your waterlogged makeup, but a mess, nonetheless, and he looked you dead in the eyes and evenly said nice.

He'll kill you one day, you think. You're sure of it. You should probably resign before he does one other thing your poor heart can't handle and just sends you toppling to the ground, a stiff, lifeless corpse at his feet.

Maybe you should transfer. Congressman Wright has been propositioning you for years—

The doorbell rings, startling you.

You throw your towel in the laundry, frowning. Your first thought is your ghosted date, but you quickly dismiss it. The guy couldn't even be bothered to park his car and knock on your door.

The last person you expected to see, standing stiffly through the peephole, is Bucky.

You pull open the door. "What—?"

There's a paper bag hooked into his fingers. He lifts it, mouth quirking into that half smile of his.

"I'm just droppin' this off."

You stare. "What?" 

The question was longer in your head. What is it, what is all of this, why are you—

"Dinner," he says patiently. 

Warmth floods your chest. It spreads and spreads, reaches tips of your ears, plunges down the pit in your stomach. 

This fucking man.

"Bucky," you admonish, your voice faint. "You didn't have to."

"I could practically hear your stomach growling," he says. Then, softer: "Please, doll. I wanted to."

His hand is still extended. There's a quiet plea in his eyes and you sigh, a short little exhale that's too heavy for your lungs to keep, all sugary sweet fondness and aching want. Bucky reads it for what it is: acquiescence. 

Your fingers brush as you take the bag—a fast, hot kiss of his skin skimming over yours, here, there, gone. Bucky slips his hand in his pocket and steps back, his head dipping in that gesture that you know means goodbye. 

"Well, I'll just—"

Your fingers close around his wrist before you can stop yourself.

"No, hey, are you kidding?" 

You realize, belatedly, that it's his metal arm, cool, dark vibranium pressed under your fingertips. It whirs quietly. You thumb the metallic joint, almost without feeling it, and tug him just a little. "Come in."

Bucky's face goes kind of slack.

"I…"

"You said you weren't busy," you venture.

He's always handsome, is the thing. You're always aware of it. But there's something particularly devastating about seeing him in your doorway, dressed down with his hair a half-dampened mess, shoulders held stiff like he's not quite sure he belongs. There's a warmth in his eyes—they flutter, eyelids droopy and soft, nothing like the sharp gaze he holds in the office. You ease his hand out of yours and feel the loss as you wilt into the doorframe, glancing through your lashes to meet brilliant, steel blue.

Bucky traps you there, for a long, sticky second, before he looks away.

"Fine." He acquiesces. It's muttered low—a sigh, really, half air and not enough conviction.

You only realize the danger you're in too late, after you've opened the door wider and he fills up the entirety of the doorframe with his size. He enters with a disproportionate amount of caution and is instantly greeted by your overcurious calico, her tail fuzzed up into the air.

Bucky stares down at her in mild wonder.

You shut the door behind him, shifting your eyes away from the faint droplets of rain scattered over his shoulders. "This is Princess."

"Princess." He echoes. 

His voice is skeptical. She meows, and he makes a little sound, the breathiest laugh. It rings in your ears as he crouches, holds out his warm, blood-and-bone hand.

Princess gives it a sniff. She grants her approval, and you go unreasonably warm, watching Bucky pet between her ears. The movement is easy and gentle—the last possible thing you could've expected from Bucky Barnes, and as instinctive as breathing. 

Her eyes slit closed as she leans into it, content. A string of purrs reverberates from her chest, and you have to force your legs to move because you've never heard of something more laughably pathetic than being jealous of your own damn cat.

Behind you, you hear Bucky rise to his feet and follow you into the kitchen. His footsteps echo yours like a heartbeat, thudding soft, loud, heavy. You set the food down on the counter and wet your lips.

"Thank you, Mr—"

"Bucky."

"Bucky, I—"

"Please stop thanking me."

"You've been interrupting me a lot," you say with no real heat, stopping him in his tracks. "All night. You keep doing that."

A chastened look falls over him.

"I'm sorry," he says profusely. "It's… well—it's just…" his brows pull, and he does that thing with his mouth, the same thing he does when he's trying to string together his thoughts but they're all scrambled in a big mess. You quickly redirect your gaze. "You're too—my god, Jesus," he mutters, cutting himself off again. Your lips twitch, but your amusement quickly smooths over when he starts talking. "You do it so much. Too much—all the thank you's and sorry's and the whatnots. You don't have to keep apologizing, and you don't have to thank me for every little thing. I'm happy to do it. You do things for me every day, all the time."

"That's my job," you say softly.

"Consider this mine, then."

He says it with a ringing finality, full stop, end line—and it's so ridiculous, so terribly sweet that you huff out something like a laugh, except it kind of hurts.

"Bucky."

"I'm serious." His eyes blaze. "I want to. And I'm… I'm really fucking sorry about all this." His voice lowers, softens. There's that wrinkle between his brows. "Tonight. You deserve better."

"Yeah, well, no one has that 1940s chivalry in them anymore," you say wryly. Bucky's frown sharpens, genuinely displeased. "I mean," you reroute, "it's not like I was expecting that, anyway, when I logged into tinder. So."

He makes a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "Yeah, it's pretty hellish."

Your brows lift. "You've been on tinder?"

"My therapist tried to—" He rolls his eyes, waves a hand—"get me out there."

"How's out there?"

"Terrible."

"Yeah," you laugh.

Bucky doesn't join you. He scrubs at his face, rakes a hand through his hair. Distress rises off him in waves. "The point is," he mumbles. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because you deserve better." It rushes out of him like he's been holding it in for years. You blink, a little stunned at his intensity, and he swallows. Hard.

Before your eyes, Bucky Barnes unravels.

"And because I could give it to you. I want to." Then, lower, softer, almost to himself: "Christ, I want to."

You've possibly stopped breathing. Maybe you hit your head, and you're dreaming up all these words pouring out of Bucky's mouth. Because they're…

"Give it to me?" You repeat dumbly.

There's a sudden, deep-rooted pain in his eyes, so glaringly potent you wonder how you've never picked up on it before. "Everything," he rasps, "I'd give you everything—anything you want. I'd treat you so much better." His voice drops as he inches a few steps closer. "Treat you like you deserve to be treated, not whatever it is those punks are doin'."

It floods you again, the scent of his cologne, just as it had in the car. There's a rain-dampened, blurred quality to it now—the fragrance melted onto his skin, fused with the very warmth that engulfs you, traps you against the counter. Bucky's eyes are impossibly blue. 

You're drowning. He anchors you and pushes you down, hands clenched around the counter on either side of you, chest just a breath away from yours. You inhale too sharply and feel the brief cold of his t-shirt.

"Fuckin' kids. They don't have a fucking clue, any of them." It's a low, raw murmur, ghosting over your cheek. "None of them deserve you," he says hoarsely. "Hell, I don't, either—"

"Bucky."

He pauses, breath caught. "Yeah?"

"Kiss me." You mumble feverishly, barely even audible to your own ears, but he's close. He listens. He always, always listens.

And he obeys.

"I should take you out first," he murmurs, taking your face in his hands. "Treat you to dinner. Do it right."

You shiver at the contrast of his hands. The metal sears your cheek. "It's right like this," you whisper, tugging at the collar of his shirt, your knuckles finding damp skin, a ball chain, warm metal—

Bucky rumbles a sound against your mouth, and then he kisses you.

It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.

You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.

It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.

Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.

Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”

You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.

“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”

Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”

Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.

Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.

Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.

Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.

“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”

This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”

A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.

“Dr. Abbot!"

Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.

Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”

This is quite the surprising turn of events.

After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.

Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.

He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.

“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.

“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”

Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.

“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”

You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.

“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.

“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”

“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.

You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”

His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise. 

You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”

Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting. 

Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty, doctor.”

From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.

Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”

Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.

Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex. 

Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.

His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.” 

As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.

“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.

“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.

At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.

He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.

An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.

At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you. 

In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red. 

A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.

“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.

Jack smirks. “Did you now?”

You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.

“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.

The prospect disappoints him just a little.

“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”

Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.

“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.

The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.

“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”

Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”

Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing. 

“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.

You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.

Jack blinks in surprise.

He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.

He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”

Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”

Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—

He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”

Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.

Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”

As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”

Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture. 

The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.

As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.

“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.

Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.

“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”

A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass. 

He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.

“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”

You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.

“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”

You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”

Of course that would be your takeaway. 

He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”

When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.

He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.

And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.

You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.

He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.

As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”

You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.

His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.

He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing. 

After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh. 

Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.

“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.

You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”

“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”

You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”

He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.

Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.

You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.

He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.

You sigh happily and snuggle closer.

It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.

Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.

The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.

Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.

“Stay.”

Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.

Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.

Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.

“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”

You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”

Best behavior, Jack. 

“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”

In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.

“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.

Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.

“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.

Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.

For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure? 

But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.

Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.

“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.

Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”

“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.

Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.

He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.

You wake feeling like death warmed over.

You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.

You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.

Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest. 

You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?

Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.

Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.

Time to face the music.

You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.

Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.

“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”

You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”

He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”

“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”

“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.” 

Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”

“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.

“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.

In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.

You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Dr. Abbot?”

“Jack.”

“Jack," you concede, frowning. "Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”

He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”

You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.

“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.

“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.

A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”

Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”

You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”

Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”

Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice. 

 “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”

You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.

It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.

He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs. 

“Of course.”

Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape. 

“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”

You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.

After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions. 

Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.

Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.

When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.

You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.

His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”

His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”

Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”

“Sure thing, sunshine.” 

After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.

As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.

You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”

He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”

“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?” 

“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”

Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?

“Oh god,” you whisper in horror. 

“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”

Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.

You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”

He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”

“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.

Jack places a hand on your thigh.

All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.

His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.

“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”

He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.

After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him. 

“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?

He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”

There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.

“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”

You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”

“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”

“See you tonight, doctor.”

You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”

Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.

A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.

“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.

You beam after him.