Just loads of current obsessions

He pays rent two days early, every month, without fail. He wipes down the counter after he cooks, because apparently, in Jack’s mind, you could be an M3 and have the time to cook (Oh, fuck off, is your main and consistent thought every time he sets a plate of actual food in front of you at breakfast and dinner). He rewinds the VHS before returning it, and he even agrees to 4am study sessions when you are doubting yourself with the tracheobronchial tree structure.

The only problem with Jack Abbot is…he does not bend. For anyone.

It’s a mistake people make about him at the hospital. They assume that because he listens more than he talks and doesn’t talk the loudest in the room, he must be easygoing. They’re all wrong because in ‘easygoing’, there’s the word easy. And Jack is many things – observant, funny, annoyingly competent - but easy is not one of them. Right now, for instance, he’s being impossible.

Sprawled at the dining table, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt clinging enough to make you look away, Jack is in the middle of Sabiston Textbook of Surgery, annotating it.

You pause in the doorway for a second, watching him read before clearing your throat.

“Jack.”

He doesn’t even look up. “No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet!”

“Don’t need to,” he replies, flipping a page. “If it’s prefaced with my name in that tone, the answer is no.”

You step closer and place your hand flat over the open page of Sabiston, earning a mildly annoyed look from him.

“I just need a small, tiny favor.”

“No.”

“Please at least listen to me!” you implore.

One corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is, that smirk that you want to either punch or kiss “You want to switch our trauma shifts tomorrow.”

You hesitate just long enough for him to catch him, his eyebrow lifting slowly. “Why do you need it?”

“I…” you exhale, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t completed my procedure log. I’m missing one intubation and I really need it to pass the rotation.”

“One intubation,” he repeats, a little judgy, closing the book with his pen marking the page. “Haven’t you been on three different procedures already?”

“I know,” you snap, heat creeping up your neck. “I know. But Meyers took the first one because he is an asshole who can’t stop himself from playing mister Know-it-all, the second one went to Patel because he hadn’t logged one either, and the third…”

“You froze.”

I hate you for remembering this, I hate that you noticed, I hate how right you are, you thought.

“It was just…one second.”

“In trauma,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and hands folding behind his head, “one second is the difference between life and death.”

You glare at him. “Jack…I am missing one intubation. Just one. If I don’t log it, Reyes will tank my evaluation, and I’m not repeating this rotation, I physically cannot handle doing another six weeks of this while pretending I don’t care when he calls me ‘sweetheart’ in front of the interns like I’m a pretty accessory instead of a med student. So yes. I want your trauma shift cause I need it. You can’t even fathom the depth of my despair right now.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty vivid imagination,” he replies.

“I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious!”

“You can’t be trusted with my plates.”

“I will pay for your coffee for a month,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space.

He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”

That gets his attention. “You…You’re not going to go down on me.”

“I’m sorry, which part of ‘despair’ don’t you understand with your so-called vivid imagination?”

He frowns, with that tiny crease between his brows that you want to kiss as much as his smirk, his throat moving as he swallows. “You’d actually…do that?” he asks carefully.

You hadn’t expected that answer and for a moment, the weight of what you just offered settles in. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, and you become acutely aware of the fact that you are standing very close to Jack, that his hair is still damp and you want to run your hands through those curls, and the way the lamplight catches in his hazel eyes and turns them warmer, almost golden.

The fact is…you like Jack. You’ve liked him for the past few months, and quite frankly, being his roommate has not helped with your massive crush problem.

You shrug, forcing your voice into something light and easy. “Yeah. I’m okay with it. If you are, I mean.”

His fingers flex against the edge of Sabiston, not looking away from you and saying quietly. “So, um…we do this and you get my shift?”

“A privilege for another,” you clarify, voice steady even if your pulse is sabotaging you. “You help me log the intubation and I… return the generosity.”

He nods once, and to your quiet, personal satisfaction, a faint blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, like a tell he can’t suppress. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he says again, quieter.

You reach for the back of his chair, gently turning him toward you, your faces now inches to each other. “How about now Jack? Or are you too busy studying…let me guess: the saphenous vein?” you murmur, with a teasing smile.

“It was the VSD actually,” he breathes, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before snapping back up. “But…yeah. Now is fine.”

You drop to your knees, his knees parting quickly, confirming your personal theory: it has been a long time for him. Probably as long as it’s been for you. Third year is not exactly fertile ground to start having relationships: no time, no personal life, no sleep and not to mention that you have never seen him bring anyone back here. Not once. He’s never acted on any nurses’ or classmates’ flirtations. The apartment has always been just the two of you.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he lifts his hips. “I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t passed out on the table and this is all just a hallucination,” he continues, a groan escaping his mouth when you let your palm graze over his half hard cock, eyelids shutting completely the moment you wrap your hand properly around him.

“I don’t know…” you joke as you start moving, enjoying the view of Mr. Perfect Grades keeping his hands diligently on his legs and pressing his teeth on his lips. “You look very awake to me.”

You wet your lips lightly, running your tongue over them as his gaze finds yours. You’ve always loved that part: the control, deciding when and how it happens, to go slower or faster, feeling someone react under your hands and mouth, but still…you’re a little nervous. It’s been a while and you hope you haven’t lost it in…oh my god a year ago now? Yeah, it was definitely a year.

Either way, you don’t give yourself more time to think about it before dipping your head to take him in.

Multiple things come up to your mind: first, he’s not the kind of guy to put his hands on your hair to get you to move faster or deeper – which you appreciate - second, he’s vocal, muttering your name and profanities each time you manage to fit him entirely in your mouth - you still don’t know how you do that, the guy is huge - and third, you are officially on your knees, blowing your roommate, crush and student rival.

Once he’s done, you stand back up, knees numb and wiping the back of your hand over your lips, both struggling to catch your breaths.

“6am. For tomorrow. But get there at 5.30,” Jack says, closing his eyes briefly before putting his pants back on. “And you better do this intubation.”

──────────

Two weeks later, he’s the one standing in the living room.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up from your notes. “No.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Please.”

“No,” you repeat, turning a page calmly even though the corner of your mouth is threatening to betray you. There’s something so satisfying about denying Jack Abbot anything.

He drags a hand through his hair, mussed from the shift at the hospital, and puts his hand on yours (don’t freeze over that, it’s stupid anyway). “It’s just one procedure.”

You raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Doctor Abbot missing something on his log?”

“No,” he starts before hesitating, his pride wrestling with the request, “it’s about the thoracostomy. Reyes is letting one M3 take lead tomorrow and I need someone to cover triage so I can stay in trauma long enough to be picked.”

You let your gaze drag slowly over him, pretending to think. “No.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he sighed, his hand still clasps around yours.

“Oh, immensely.”

“Please. I’ll make it up to you.”

You snort softly and close your notebook, setting it aside before turning fully toward him, your knees brushing his. “How, doc?”

“I’ll go down on you.”

“What?” you ask slowly.

He shrugs, trying for casual, one hand still loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “One privilege for another. That’s…that’s our thing, right?”

“Um…yeah. You really want to do this thoracostomy?”

His lips pull into that maddening kissable half-smile that you love more than anything, the one he gets in the ER whenever he answers correctly to one of the residents’ questions. “I really want to do it and erase Meyers’ smile once and for all. So, what do you say?”

“Okay,” you reply, parting your legs (oh yes, Jack, you’re gonna have to kneel for this one, no way I’m passing on an occasion to let you do everything) “but be quick, I still have to read the biological markers of…”

The words don’t get out of your mouth when he kneels in front of you, pulling off your pajama short and underwear, the leather of the couch making you feel hotter than you were already.

“I’ll be very quick and thorough, I promise,” he replies, amused – probably because you were now completely silent – before working his tongue on you.

And wow, you have received plenty of good cunnilinguses in your life, even if it’s been some time, but this one…is miles from the rest. You can recognize it happily… Jack has some wicked knowledge of the human anatomy and how to get you there in a few minutes.

“You better be fucking great for this thoracostomy, Doctor Abbot,” you say as you’re try to catch your breath, Jack picking up your notes, ready for a new study session (you don’t comment over the fact that he doesn’t go rinse his mouth or put distance between you and just…drags his thumb across his lower lip and then licks it clean).

“You know me,” he replies with a smug smile that makes you roll your eyes.

And yes, you know. The next day proves it. You’re buried in triage when you hear from your resident, the Doctor Robinavitch – a young, tall man, barely a few years older than you who keeps trying his best to be half your friend, half your boss – that Jack had been an example of calm and solid, earning a fist bump from both Reyes and Robinavitch.

You nod slowly, pretending you don’t feel the faint flare of something warm under your ribs, travelling down your body. Pride. You are so proud of him, and you want to reply to the resident, of course he was solid, of course he didn’t choke, this man is great and kind and…actually is also a great giver, but you don’t need to know that.

You catch sight of him later in the hallway, walking toward you with a protein bar in hand, a little smile on his face. And that smile, Jesus, all warm and bright and unguarded…it’s definitely a second privilege he doesn’t need to know about.

──────────

Four days after, you get behind on your charting.

Because you’d rather slit your wrist than stay late in the ER with Reyes breathing into the back of your skull, you make another deal with Jack.

“If you stay up with me until it’s done,” you murmur to Jack in the CT-Scan room, “I’ll give you a very nice orgasm.”

He checks to his left and right. “Define ‘very nice’”.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Hey, I’m the guy who’s gonna stay to help you, so be a little more grateful.”

You salute him with your pen. “Aye aye doc.”

Late that night, steam fogs the bathroom mirror, the water running hot. He’s already under the spray when you step into the doorway, taking off your clothes (after all there’s almost nothing he hasn’t seen already). You step closer before putting your hand on him, his palms ending up on the tiled wall behind you and muttering a “Jesus fucking Christ.” at the combined feeling of the water cascading on his body and your movements who only grows faster, making him come in a few minutes, your name on his lips.

“You know…it’s stupid to waste the water,” he murmurs after a while.

“Oh, really.”

“I mean, we’re two broke med students, it’s cost-effective. And we’re already in here anyway.”

Surely you can’t disagree with this idea.

Efficiency, after all, is very important in medicine.

──────────

“Hey kid.”

You look up, the Doctor Robinavitch standing there with that expression – the one who wants to gossip but tries to refrain himself from it.

“Um,” you say cautiously, pen lingering over the chart. “What?”

He glances down the hall then back at you. You follow his gaze automatically.

Jack is at the nurses’ board, talking to one of them, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He laughs at something, shaking his head. You look away, glancing back at the resident, who’s already staring at you, leaning over the table just enough to meet your eye level.

“…What?” you repeat, sharper now.

“How long?”

You blink. “How long what?”

“Whatever that is,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between you and the air.

You scoff lightly, going back to writing your charting. “There is no ‘that’, Doctor Robinavitch.”

He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen kid, you realize the entire staff has a betting pool, right?”

Your pen freezes mid-word. “On what?”

He just stares at you until you break (my god how you hate when he does that, condolences to all the future doctors who’ll get him as an attending).

“We’re not together. It’s…it’s not like that,” you try to explain weakly instead of saying we’re just roommates who are the type to perform oral sex to get what we want, no big deal there. oh, and now we take showers together every night to save the planet, not to…give the other a freebie.

His smile widens. “Oh, so there is a ‘that’.”

You look back at the nurses’ station. Jack is still there, but now he’s looking directly at you, an eyebrow raised with a small, knowing smile – like he can feel that your mind is turned to this morning and the two orgasms he gave you before going to work.

You can’t help but smile back at him.

Robinavitch follows the silent exchange, then looks back at you with open disbelief. “That,” he says slowly, “right there, is definitely a thing.”

Before you can gather your words to get a more convincing denial, a monitor alarms from down the hall.

“Go, kid. And try not to share lovey-dovey looks over the patient.”

You shove his shoulder as you pass him, heat rising in your cheeks.

“I hate you, Robinavitch.”

“I know that’s not true!” he calls after you.

Annoyingly…he’s right. You don’t hate him.

And there is a thing.

──────────

It happens after the code blue.

You and Jack are walking home in silence, refusing to mention how, when you had stepped into the patient’s room, he had handed you the laryngoscope without hesitation – you, not himself – like there has been no other option in his mind.

Your hands brush every few steps, neither of you pulling away.

By the time you reach the apartment, your body feels heavy, exhausted, dumping your bag on the hallway floor and ripping of your jacket as you go straight to the bathroom.

The light is too bright. It exposes everything: the smudged mascara under your eyes, the dark circles who can’t be hidden well by the foundation, the way your eyes are reddened by your need to cry.

You grip the edge of the sink and stare at yourself, murmuring “You did well, don’t worry. The woman is alive. The baby is alive. You did well.”

The door opens quietly behind you.

“If you’re about to tell me I did great, don’t.” you mutter, voice flat, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. If you look at him, you might crack.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, you feel him step into your space, listening to him opening the cabinet and the rustle of cotton pads. He reaches around you, close enough that his arm brushes you before gently turning you by the shoulder so you’re facing him instead of your – miserable, pathetic – reflection.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

His face is close to yours – barely four inches away. Close enough that you can see the freckles across his nose. Enough that you could close that distance with the smallest tilt forward and drown your thoughts in something easier than this ache sitting in your chest.

The cotton pad is cool against your skin. He wipes slowly beneath your eye, careful, his thumb steadying your jaw. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.

“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you reply automatically.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “No, not like that. Not…” he exhales, dragging the pad gently across your cheek, “not everything is about having sex.”

“I wouldn’t call exactly what we’re doing ‘having sex’,” you say, sharper than you intend.

He stills and for a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face in between surprise and hurt. “Oh. Um…Okay.”

His throat bobs as he switches to a clean pad, focusing on your eyes.

Eyes closed, you try to explain yourself better, words coming out before you can filter them. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t want this tonight and I don’t want this to be another thing that happens because we almost lost someone. We…we can’t keep doing this.”

Fuck, you don’t even know what this is anymore.

You feel him getting even closer – so close that his breath brushes your lips when he exhales. He finishes wiping up your face. “Can you…” he starts, voice lower now, uncertain like you’ve never heard from him, “can you let me just be here? With you?”

You open your eyes slowly, now seeing everything: the faint traces of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his curls have fallen messily over his forehead from running his hand through them too much. He looks younger like this.

“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like what we do doesn’t matter. I just…” your voice breaks, “I don’t want it to be the only reason we touch.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not.”

You study him, skeptical.

“Fine,” he admits quietly. “It started that way because we’re two massive idiots who don’t know how to say what we want without turning it into…a mess. But it’s not why I continued doing that.”

He sets the cotton pad down in the sink and brings both hands to your face now, his palms feeling warm against your cheeks.

“I don’t want this to be about that. I…I want to be the person you come home with after something like tonight. Not just the guy you’re giving blowjobs to who turns out to be your roommate.”

“Great blowjobs, you mean. Wonderful. Fantastic,” you reply, trying to smile a little.

“Yes, sure. All of the above and more,” he nods, matching your grin with that crooked, infuriatingly gorgeous one before leaning in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. He waits until you give the smallest eager nod before his mouth brushes yours.

Oh. Oh. Okay. You should have started here weeks ago.

The kiss is nothing like the moments you’ve shared before. It’s unhurried and soft, his lips moving against yours like he’s learning a part of you he doesn’t know.

And God, he’s a good kisser too – good doctor, good giver, does this man know how to be bad at something?

He tilts his head slightly, deepening it and learning to read every small reaction: when you sigh softly against his mouth, he runs his tongue against yours, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he pulls you closer.

Out of breath, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.

“I like you, okay? I like you when you study until four in the morning. I like you when you are right about a diagnosis and high five me. I like you when you’re scared. And stubborn. And exhausted,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re my person. In the ER, here, everywhere.”

You swallow. “My god, how didn’t you get with, like…all the girls of the hospital?”

“Well, you see, I was a bit busy trying to get the attention of a certain woman,” he replies, chuckling.

“Oh, do I know her?”

“Hm. I’m not sure,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that your breath mingles. “She’s obstinate. Overworks herself and pretends she doesn’t need anyone. Terrible at dishes.”

You pinch his side. “Rude.”

“Oh, and she rolls her eyes when I’m right,” he continues. “Which is very often.”

“Unbelievable.”

“And,” he adds, softer, “she has this look she gives me every time there’s an alarm. Like she’s checking if I’m okay.”

You swallow. “Oh. Her.”

“Yeah.” His mouth curves, his nose brushing yours deliberately. “Her.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love that.”

You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do love that.” I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Yeah?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face as his hand slides to the small of your back. “Good.”

You don’t give him time to get smug about it before kissing him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His breath catches against your mouth, a surprised sound that makes you press him against the bathroom’s door.

Against his lips, still holding onto his shirt, you murmur, “Shower?”

“Shower.”

like refilling the ice bucket. the refill bucket held about ten scoops of ice, each weighing about five pounds. that meant that it ended up being fifty if you filled it up all the way, which you couldn't carry from the backroom to the bartop.

so, you had to make trips there and back. at least three times a night, you found yourself walking back and forth, carrying half-full ice buckets to and from the backroom.

when andrew showed up to organize, he didn't realize he'd see you.

"'scuse me, sorry," you say sweetly, despite the heavy ice bin you're holding on your hip as you wait for him to step aside.

instead, he takes the bucket from you with one hand.

"oh! thank you, andrew!" you beam up at him.

"where are you taking it?" he asks, no smile of his own.

"to the ice bin on the bar top." you lead the way, holding the door open for him to bring it out. he dumps it into your empty cooler and then frowns, deep lines pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"you need way more than this." he faces you. "why'd you only fill it up halfway?"

heat rises to your face, and you wipe a bead of sweat from your temple.

"i can't carry the full bucket. have to make small trips with it," you explain.

"oh." is all he say before he walks away with your ice bucket.

you're about to follow him, to tell him that you need that because you need to make another trip, but a customer catches your attention first. a minute later, as you're mixing their drink, someone comes up beside you.

it's andrew. he's carrying the entire full refill bucket in one arm while he opens the ice bin with his free hand. he dumps it in carefully, not a piece lost in the process.

then, he lowers his head next to yours, placing a large cold hand on your spine.

"come get me next time it needs to be filled," he says softly against the shell of your ear, and then he leaves without another word.

---

he helps you close, too.

one night, he was still around after the rest of the customers and staff were long gone.

"andrew?" you poke your head into the kitchen to find him inspecting something in the fryer. he looks over his shoulder, meeting your gaze. "you sticking around? i'm about to lock the doors while i close."

"you don't usually close by yourself, do you?" he narrows his eyes at you.

"most nights, yeah. why?" the soft smile that's always on your lips kills him. he wishes you'd quit being so damn friendly. he hums, like he's considering your admission.

"i'll be here." he wipes his hands on a dish rag and turns his whole body to face you. the fryer can wait until tomorrow.

"ok! i'll come find you before i leave for the night." you turn to leave the kitchen and resume your job of wiping down tables in the dining room. andrew follows you out, grabbing the mop bucket on his way, and begins mopping the floors better than anyone else has ever managed.

you stack clean glasses and restock the fridges while he does. him helping you cut a solid half hour off your usual closing time.

"thank you so much, andrew!" you grin brightly. "you did a great job. i really appreciate you helping."

you sling an arm around his torso in a hug like it's no big deal. and when he stays stiff, unrelenting to your hug, you don't seem bothered.

"how are you getting home?" he asks when you pull away.

"i drove here." you twirl your keys around your finger.

andrew nods toward the door.

"i'll walk you to your car."

first, you check that all the lights are off, doors are locked, and then you let andrew cody hold the door open for you. he stands next to you while you lock it, checking to make sure it doesn't budge. he feels sort of like a guard dog, standing at attention, eyes sweeping the area for any threats.

"i'm glad you started working here," you say softly as you start walking toward your car. "you're nice to have around."

his hand grips your forearm, pulling you to a stop in the empty parking lot. when you meet his eyes, they're searching your entire face. heat rises to your face as you contemplate everything he could possibly be thinking in this moment.

"what?" he asks, quiet and stern. "what do you mean?"

"i just-- you're good company. i- um, like getting to spend time with you on the days we both work together." you sound small, anxious.

andrew nods slowly, thumb rubbing against the skin of your forearm before he lets you go.

"i like working with you, too." he only says it once you're both walking to your car again. when you reach the vehicle, you stop, trying to work up the courage to say something.

"goodnight," you whisper, because it's what feels right. and then, you press yourself to your toes and press a soft kiss to andrew's cheek. he stills, but you don't let yourself notice.

you're too busy opening your car door and driving off, waving goodbye to andrew.

---

he helps you with the unexpected, too.

the knife slipped from your grip while you were cutting limes between rushes.

"fuck!" you hiss, immediately wrapping a bar towel around your hand and excusing yourself to the backroom.

andrew there, reading some manual to help him try and fix a broken fridge. he's been around more often lately. when you come in, tears running down your face, he hurries to your side.

"what happened?" he tries to peel back at the towel on your hand, but you're holding it too tightly. he doesn't want to hurt you.

"i-i cut my hand with the paring knife." your voice is whiny and so startled.

it goes straight to andrew's dick.

he swallows, forcing himself to meet your wide, wet eyes.

fuck, you look so pretty.

"can i see?" he asks softly, letting his hand rest atop yours. you sniffle, looking from his face to where your hands are joined, then back to his face. softly, you nod.

"be careful please, andrew," you plead as he begins to unwrap the towel. a groan leaves his throat at your words. he imagines you bent over the workbench, saying the same thing as he lines himself up with your entrance. you take it the wrong way. "is it that bad?"

"no, sweetheart, no," he lets the endearment tumble from his lips before he can think twice. you exhale shakily as he inspects the cut on your hand. when he's done, he stand up and clears his throat. "it needs stitches. you got yourself pretty good."

you bring your uninjured hand to your face, wiping at the tears that fall faster now. andrew stands there, unsure of what to do.

reluctantly, he brings a hand to the side of your shoulder, running a soothing thumb against your skin. you throw your arms around him in a full hug, crying into his black shirt because not only does your hand hurt, but now you have to get stitches.

andrew presses a hesitant kiss to the top of your head, hoping you can't feel the semi he's sporting under these jeans. he holds you close, closer than he's ever held another person. so close that he can smell your shampoo and feels a stray hair from your head tickling his cheek.

"have you had stitches before?" you ask, face still buried into his chest.

"more times than i can count." he runs a hand down your back. "i can do them for you, if you want. it wouldn't be my first time."

"it's my first time," you say sheepishly as you grip the back of his shirt. another pang of arousal to his crotch as he imagines your words in a different light. "will it hurt?"

"a little. i can take you to the doctor, instead. they will give you a numbing shot," he offers. you shake your head quickly, pulling away to look him in the eyes.

"no, no." you still have your hold on his shirt. "i want you to do it. you'll be gentle, right?"

he nods, unable to speak. you nod back. the both of you stay there for a moment, gazing into each other, his hand on your back and yours wound into his shirt.

just as he pulls away, deran rushes into the back.

"what happened?" his eyes scan over your body, stopping when they see the bloodied towel in your hand. "shit."

"i cut myself on accident." embarrassed, you look away. "i'm so sorry. andrew's gonna patch me up and then i can work the rest of my shift."

"andrew's-- what?" he looks to pope for the first time, noticing the wet patch on the front of his shirt and the way he's holding that fridge manual very conveniently in front of his groin.

"i'm gonna fix up her cut." andrew squares his shoulders off.

"yeah, no." deran scoffs, taking a step forward. "i can help her. you go serve drinks, pope."

"she needs stitches," he explains, nudging you behind him only slightly. "i got it, deran."

deran looks between the both of you. once, twice, then he shakes his head angrily and storms back into the dining area.

"is he mad at me?" andrew revels in the way you gaze up at him with those wide eyes. he shakes his head and moves a piece of hair from where it's stuck to your damp cheek. "are you sure?"

"i'm sure. are you ready to go? i have a suture kit at my house. i can help you there, sweetheart." he places a hand on your shoulders and guides you out the back exit.

"thank you, andrew," you say as he hands you your purse from the coat rack.

the ride to his house is short, quiet, and tense. andrew tries to keep his dick from throbbing everytime a little whimper or sniffle comes from you in the passenger's seat.

when he pulls into the driveway, he rounds the cab of his truck quickly to get your door.

"thank you," you say softly, letting him grab you by the waist to hoist you out of the seat. it's not necessary, but neither of you says anything about it.

much to his dismay, he sets you back on your feet.

"wow," you murmur. "you live here? right on the water?"

it's baz's old place-- he's been staying here since he passed.

"i do." he leads the way up the drive. "do you live near the water?"

you laugh in amusement.

"no. i wish." he opens the door into the home. the space is clean, of course. it always is.

"come sit." andrew pulls out a chair at his kitchen table. "i'll grab the suture kit."

you sit exactly where he tells you to, and you wait so patiently while he excuses himself to another room to grab what he needs. which includes a new shirt for you, because there is a drop of blood on the one you're wearing.

he carries it all out to you, pleased to see you sitting pretty right where he left you.

"you have a nice house." he notices your eyes lingering on lena's bedroom. "i didn't know you had kids."

"i don't." he pulls a chair right in front of you, so close that your legs interlock. "this was my brother's house, he had a daughter."

you hum, and he looks up to see that you're now fixated on the suture kit that he is opening. the needle. he lifts it just to see what you'll do.

your uninjured hand grips his knee tightly, eyes going wide.

"do we have to?" you wince when he threads the silk through the hole.

"i can take you to the hospital," he offers again. "but they'll use a needle for the numbing shot."

if you decided to take him up on the offer, he'd slash his own tires to keep you stuck here, with him. he wants to be the only person who helps you.

you swallow, shaking your head as if trying to clear it of the fearful thoughts that are creeping in.

"no, no. i want you to do it." he catches your face in his free hand, tilting your chin so that you meet his intense stare. feeling closer than ever, you whisper, "just promise you'll be gentle, andrew."

and he tries not to finish in his jeans.

"always, i promise." his voice is low and rough and wouldn't be comforting from anyone else, but it's so different than what you've heard from him before.

slowly, you nod, giving him the ok to start.

he punctures your skin for the first time and you sniffle, a silent tear rolling down your cheek. it does hurt. you can't watch what he's doing, so you look at him instead.

you watch his face work as he threads the silk through your wound. it stings, and you can't help the hot tears that fall down your face. his eyebrows are pinched together in concentration.

"how do you know how to do this?" you sniffle. his eyes are laser-focused on your hand, not looking up as he answers.

"i've had to do it on myself a couple of times. skateboarding accidents, mostly." he even sounds concentrated. "i'm sorry that i have to do it on you, pretty girl. i know it hurts."

"no, no, it's ok. it doesn't hurt." you sound anything but convincing.

his gaze flicks up to your face, as if he's proving a point by staring at your glistening cheeks. there's a small, endeared grin tilting up one side of his mouth. you've never seen it before.

you watch as he thinks for a moment, eyes moving across your face slowly. then, he carefully leans his head forward and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

a gasp leaves you at the contact, and you find yourself craving more of it. his lips are so soft, so warm.

"almost done," he says, "last one."

you nod, though his face is angled back down toward your hand again. a pained moan falls from your lips as he pokes you for the final time. then, he's using his own finger to lather the stitches in an ointment before wrapping a bandage around them.

the whole time, he's nothing but delicate with you, taking his time to make sure you aren't bumped or poked the wrong way.

"how does that feel?" he asks about the wrapping. you nod, unable to think as you stare at his mouth. "sweetheart? what's wrong?"

"n-nothing. i just-- thank you, andrew. you're the sweetest man i've ever met." your heart is racing in your chest. "you didn't have to do this."

"i'm glad i did." he sets the wrap on the table and rubs a thumb over your face, wiping the remnants of your tears.

"me too," you whisper, tilting your head to press a kiss to his palm. he swallows hard.

"i don't think you should go back to work today." he trails his fingers down your neck. "you shouldn't get your cut wet for a few days."

a frown tugs at your lips that he wants to kiss away.

"really? i need the money-- is there anything you think i could do there? maybe clean instead of serving drinks?" you stare at him like he holds all the answers in the world, and he relishes in the feeling of having earned that trust from you.

"i'll take care of money." it's so simple, like it means nothing to him at all. "you should go change your shirt. i'll tell deran you're not coming in."

he hands you the white button-up that he brought out from his bedroom. he knows it's probably not the most comfortable for you, but he only has a few options here, and that was the best one.

nodding, you take it from him and move to stand. he's watching you as you nurse your hand carefully, holding it close to your body. then, his eyes trail to the gap in your shirt as you bend down in front of him to press a kiss to his cheek.

"thank you, andrew." you pad quietly to his bedroom.

deran picks up on the second ring.

"pope, where is-"

"she's not coming in today." he hangs up the phone.