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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 13 days ago

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Bruises Pt 5 | Jack Abbot x Reader

TW: fluff, graphic depiction of seizures, TBI recovery, anxiety, reader is having a ROUGH time, age gap, probable medical inaccuracy, brief mention of vomit !!

Word Count: 4.4k

Authors Note: I don’t have any personal experience with epilepsy but know how serious of a condition it is. I tried doing as much research as I could in regard to seizure and the post ictal state.

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————

Healing wasn’t linear.

You had good days, bad days, and really bad days. Jack was there for them all. The hospital decided to discharge you earlier, trusting you’d be in good hands under Jacks care, and they were correct. He kept your incision clean, held you when you cried, and helped you with your speech and motor skills that were impacted by the injury.

He was patient. When you stuttered and stumbled over your words, he sat looking at you with adoring eyes as if nothing was wrong. The frustration was not missed however. He tried to assure you, but you were just so angry all the time.

“Do you know how frustrating it is to know what you want to say but your mouth and brain won’t work together?”

“No.”

“Exactly, so be quiet and f-f-fuck off, Jack..” The words burned as they came out of your mouth. Throat dry. You didn’t want to be mean to Jack, especially after all he was doing for you. But every second of every day felt you were battling your own body and mind.

“I was angry too” Jack said after a particularly intense evening. “After my amputation.”

You didn’t answer but that didn’t stop him, of course it didn’t.

“Not just for a while — for a long time. At the world, at the war, the government, at myself. I’d look down and see this piece of metal where my leg used to be. People would call me a hero, shake my hand, tell me I was lucky — lucky for what? They didn’t see me at night, punching holes in walls because I couldn’t even put on a sock without tipping over. I hated needing help. I hated not being the man I used to be."

He took your hand in his, tracing his thumb against your knuckles.

"I'll never be the same man that I was, never — but I've learned to accept the man I am now. I can't say it’s gonna be easy. I still have my hard days— but you'll find yourself again. You'll grow and flourish into the brilliant, beautiful, and brave woman that you are. You don’t have to hide your bad days with me. I won’t hide mine either."

"No one looks at you like you're stupid or slow or broken in the head. You get sympathy. I get pity. That’s not the same thing."

"But you're not any of those things."

————

Your memory was not what it used to be, often repeating yourself and asking the same questions over and over. Every so often you’d ask Jack if he worked tonight, which he’d again explain that he was suspended with pay until the investigation was over. The only reason he managed to get Gloria to suspend him WITH pay was you. For whatever reason she had a soft spot for you, bending over backwards for the ER ever since you were hired. Whatever you asked, she granted. Robby thanks you for single handedly saving the ER from going under.

“Just take care of her, okay?” She whispered as Jack left the meeting determining whether or not he still had a job.

Had it been anyone else Jack pummeled someone for in the ER, he'd have been on his ass.

————

Your gross motor and fine motor skills were compromised slightly, but not as much as your mind. Jack made sure you had occupational therapy and physical therapy twice a week. On the days in between he helped you with your exercises and would not let you skip a day.

Despite your therapies, it was harder to button a shirt, you found yourself dropping things quite often, and your balance had deteriorated. It wasn't all the time, usually when you were tired. As exhaustion crept in, Jack noticed you grabbing onto the counter or the back of the couch for stability as you walked, or how you sometimes walked in a zig zag pattern down the hallway.

The first time you fell, the sudden thud yanked Jack out of sleep before his eyes even opened. Grabbing his prosthetic, he put it on in his haste, skipping his liner. He felt the pressure and shock shoot up his leg as the socket pressed uncomfortably on his bare skin. The shower was still running, but behind the door he heard sobs, muffled and sharp. He flung the door open to find you crumpled on the tile, trembling, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath you. You tried using the cold shower curtain to shield your naked body, the sensation making your skin crawl.

"I slipped." you muttered, angry and humiliated all at once. The tears mixing with the droplets of water on your face. He dropped to his knees beside you, already checking you for injuries.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. Just breathe. I’ve got you.” his voice was soft but urgent as he asked you questions, helping you up and wrapping you in his bath robe.

"Did you hit your head?"

"Were you dizzy?"

"Does anything hurt?"

“You feel a seizure coming on?”

————

The seizures were the most difficult part of your recovery. As weeks turned to months and you were still having seizures, you were finally diagnosed with Post-traumatic Epilepsy, another scar to remind you what Charlie had done. It terrified you, knowing one day you could slip into a seizure and never come out.

The anxiety that consumed you made your symptoms worse. Jack suggested speaking to a therapist and drove you to and from your appointments. In the beginning you asked if he’d join you, until you found the courage to go in alone. You struggled opening up about your feelings following your attack, but Jack encouraged you. Therapy was an imperative part of his recovery and finding a sense of self again; and he was set on finding the same for you.

You sat at the edge of the couch, afraid it would swallow you whole. The clock on the wall ticked loudly as Dr. Rowan introduced herself. It was quiet for a while as both Dr. Rowan and Jack held space for you to speak.

“Every time I close my eyes I feel Charlie’s hands on my neck.” You admitted during your second meeting. “Every time Jack touches me I have to remind myself he won’t hurt me. It sounds so stupid, but when he brushes my hair back, or puts a hand on my back to guide me—my mind panics. Even though I don’t want it to. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to response to gentle touch.”

“That’s not stupid at all. Your nervous system is on high alert. It’s your body’s way of protecting you.” Dr. Rowan validated you.

“He’s… g-g-gentle.” You started to stutter. “He doesn’t crowd me. When I seize, he waits until I come back, and he’s always there. But sometimes when he brushes my hair out of my face or holds my hand, I flinch. I hate it, I don’t want to be afraid of him.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“No. Of course not. But for some reason my body is. My skin tenses like something bad is going to happen whenever he touches me, but at the same time…” you glanced at Jack who was watching you intently. “At the same time, I feel safer with him than anyone else. He’s gentle. He’s kind. He’s patient. He makes tea without asking, he learns the signs that I’m about to go out. He talks to me like I’m still me. Like I’m not broken.”

“Do you feel broken?” Dr. Rowan asked, leaning forward in her chair and adjusting the notebook in her lap.

“I know I am.” The words kept coming, like vomit. Your voice cracked as you continued, Jack staring at you as he took this all in.

“He touches my arm to help me stand, and my skin remembers things I don’t want to remember. But then… then he says my name, and everything inside me quiets for a second. I just don’t know how to let myself have something good again. It feels like I’m waiting for it to turn into a trap. How is that not broken?”

“You’re learning what safety feels like again. That takes time. It’s okay to not know how to respond to kindness after surviving cruelty.” Dr. Rowan finished and closed her notebook. When you left her office it felt like the world had been momentarily lifted off your shoulders. You walked a little bit taller, your body more relaxed.

Jack helped you into his truck, resting his hand on your waist as you hoisted yourself into the passenger seat. Before you could fumble with the seatbelt he reached over and clicked it in place for you. Your eyes both met and your chest felt as if it were in a vice grip.

“I’m proud of you.” Jack whispered.

“You aren’t mad at me?” You asked tearfully.

“Wha— why would I be mad at you?”

You weren’t entirely sure, other than you were used to being ridiculed for speaking your mind. Despite feeling a bit lighter, you cried the whole car ride. An emotional release you’d been holding back for years. Jack jumped as the first sob escaped your chest and ricocheted through the truck.

He reached over the center console and grabbed your hand. Everything hurt. Your chest. Your head. Your stomach. You wanted it all to stop, to jump out of the car. Panic began to set in and you pressed your head against the headrest, trying to ground yourself.

Jack ran his hand across your hair before settling at the back of your neck.

“Just breathe. We’re almost home.”

Home.

What was home? Where did you belong? Alone? With Jack? As sick and twisted as you knew it was, with Charlie?

Some days you wish he had killed you. Some days you resent Jack for stepping in and saving you.

“Pull over Jack.” Your skin growing more and more pale and clammy by the second. Before he could even put the car in park, your head was out the door throwing up your breakfast. Jack winced as you gagged and reached over to pull your hair back. When there was physically nothing left in your stomach, you shut the door and looked out the window, refusing to look at him. He sat there for a moment before putting the car in drive again and finishing the rest of the ride home.

Like a flip of a switch you hopped out of the car like nothing had happened. The mood swings were sometimes violent, especially when your pain was high.

“Can I cook dinner tonight?” You asked Jack as he put the keys in the door. He stalled and looked at you. Taken back by your change in demeanor.

“You sure you’re up to it?”

“Yes.” You nodded. You hated when he doubted you. He never had until after your injury. Not even when your arm was elbows deep in a man’s abdomen. “I just want to feel a sense of normalcy again, plus my OT said it’s good therapy.”

“Okay okay… just no sharp knives, okay? You had a rough day.”

Your hands shook more when you were stressed.

“You got it captain.” You smiled as he ushered you inside. You stumbled a bit but caught yourself on the counter. You missed cooking, it was always a creative outlet, but it was a bit nerve wracking cooking for Jack for the first time. He hopped in the shower so he wouldn’t crowd you, but when he came out, curls still dripping— he paused.

You were standing by wall with one arm draped over your eyes and the other searching for the light switch. Jack called out to you, closing the distance between you almost immediately.

“The fucking lights won’t turn off, it’s too bright in here!” Your words were a bit more slurred than normal, and Jack was already leading you towards the couch.

“The lights aren’t on, honey.”

“Yes they are Jack!” You yelled back through gritted teeth, “they keep flickering and it’s too fucking bright!”

“Honey, I promise you the lights aren’t off. I think a seizure might be coming on. Come lay down for me.” He took your pulse which was climbing by the second, perspiration collecting on the small of your back. “Can you open your eyes for me?” He asked laying you on your side.

When they opened, your pupils were dilated and your eyes jerked back at forth involuntarily.

“I don’t want to have a seizure, Jack.” You screamed through the sob that was stuck in your throat.

“I know, I know. I gotcha.”

“I cant s—se” was the last thing you tried to utter before you slipped into a seizure. Your eyes were wide open, unseeing, pupils blown wide. A low choking sound escaped your lips as foam began to pool at the corner of your mouth. Your whole body trembled, muscles pulling taut in violent, unnatural waves.

You let out a guttural, unearthly sound from deep within your throat, and your jaw clamped so tight he could hear the grind of your teeth. Your lips were turning blue and skin pale, eyes rolled back and lids fluttering uncontrollably. He spoke to you the whole time as he held you on your side:

"Come on baby, its okay."

"I gotcha, I gotcha."

"Breathe for me, breathe. There we go, you're okay."

"I'm here, you're okay. Come on, baby. Breathe for me.”

Jack held you in place and watched the clock, 1 minute turned into 2, and then 3. He began to panic as the 4 minute mark began to creep in. Your seizures didn’t normally last thing long. Just as status epilepticus became a possibility, your body began to relax.

You gasped violently, back arching off the couch— it feeling like all the air was pushed out of your lungs. Choking on the salvia in your mouth— you coughed and sputtered all over the couch.

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart, you’re okay. You had a seizure. Just breathe. Good— good, there we go. That’s it.”

Jack. His voice. Familiar, anchoring. You tried to reach for him, but your arm barely even twitched, as if you still weren’t in control.

His warm hand cupped your cheek.

Your head throbbed and there was a sharp ache in your tongue, the taste of metal across your taste buds—you must’ve bitten it again. Your body felt wet, was it sweat or urine? Unsure if you had lost control of your bladder your hand reached down to feel the fabric of your jeans.

Soaked.

Humiliated.

“J-“ you tried to cry out, but he cut you off immediately, brushing a cool rag across your forehead. Where did he get that? When did he get that?

“Don’t try to talk yet,” Jack murmured, brushing damp hair from your forehead. “You’re safe. I’m here. You came back to me and I’ve got you.”

The post ictal state was always a limbo. Time jumping anywhere from seconds to hours to even days, unsure of what happened in between. Your head hurt, your body sore and stiff. It would be hours later that you’d wake up in his bed.

Not remembering Jack stripping you from your urine soaked clothes and helping you into the bath. You don’t remember him washing your body as you sat there unmoving. You don’t remember him dressing you in your favorite pajamas and bringing you to the kitchen for your medicine and your nightly cup of tea. You don’t remember him putting you to bed and how you fell asleep before your head even hit the pillow.

But you do remember waking up the next morning, your body still sore. A stark reminder of the night before. Your jaw was stiff, the joints almost locked as you tried to shift it side to side.

Jacks footsteps grew closer down the hall and he poked his head into the bedroom.

“Morning, honey.” You smiled softly, his eyes looking at you with concern on your face.

“How bad was it?” You asked. You don’t remember ever feeling this poorly after a seizure before.

“The worst you’ve had.” Jack answered truthfully sitting at the foot of the bed. He inched closer massaging the muscles in your legs. You groaned. “I think we should call your neurologist.

“Up my Dilantin?”

“Mhm, and get you another script for Diazepam. Looked for your Valtoco when you started seeing flashing lights but you were all out.” He said, almost disappointed.

“I’m sorry I forgot I was out.”

“ s’okay. Luckily it stopped before the 5 minute mark. But it certainly felt longer…”

“You were scared?” You asked, looking at the fear in his eyes as he relived the moment in his head. Jack Abbot? Scared? Jack Abbot has been to war. He didn’t get scared.

“Terrified.”

“I hate this,” you said hoarsely.

“I know,” he replied. “But I’ll be here. Every time.”

————

It took days to recover from your Grand Mal seizure. The extreme fatigue, sore muscles, and mental fog left you bedridden for three days. Emotions were high as you feared another potential seizure. The tears flowed strong and often, the sobs keeping Jack up at night. He’d join you— crawling into bed with you to talk. The two of you would watch movies to occupy your mind. You both watched Back To The Future, The Devil Wears Prada, Jaws, Rear Window, and The Great Escape— in that order.

You hated the way your hands shook when you reached for the remote. You hated how you lost your words halfway through a sentence. You hated needing help.

On day two you tried getting up and walking around. Jack didn’t hover. He never did. He moved around you gently, quietly, giving you space unless you looked like you were about to fall, or when your frustration turned dangerous—like when you tried to carry a cup of tea and it slipped from you grasp.

You froze, breath hitched.

He was there in an instant, kneeling beside you in the shards, catching your trembling hands.

“Don’t,” he said softly, “don’t say anything. It’s okay.”

You looked at him, eyes wide and watery. “I used to be able to hold a damn cup.”

“And you will again,” he took your shaking hands in his “You’re still coming back.”

He never said “you’ll be fine.” He knew better.

On day three, you managed a walk around the apartment. Your legs felt uneven beneath you, and the hallway blurred a little at the edges, but you made it. Jack trailed behind you, close enough to catch you, far enough to let you try.

“I feel like a ghost in my own body,”

“You’re still here. Bruised, maybe. But not gone.”

You wanted to believe that.

But nights were the worst.

Every time you closed your eyes, you were afraid you wouldn’t wake up the same— or at all. That the next seizure would take more than it left behind. That you’d open your eyes and forget your name, or worse— forget his.

On day four he was pushing you to get back to your physical therapy.

“Come on,” he said holding out his hand. “You promised me five minutes.”

“It’s stupid.” You were curled up on the couch, arms crossed, jaw tense.

“It’s five minutes.”

You narrowed your eyes as he stood there with the most ridiculous smirk on his face.

“Are you enjoying this?”

“I’m enjoying seeing you try. That’s different.”

You rolled your eyes but reached for him. Fingers trembling slightly. You right leg was always weaker—tingly sometimes, sluggish. Jack stood close but didn’t touch unless you asked. You hated needing help, but hated falling even more.

You started with balance. Heel-to-toe walking along the hallway rug. You stumbled halfway through and reached out instinctively. His hands caught your waist, steadying you like it was nothing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumble, a lump rising in your throat.

“Like what?”

“Like that.”

“Like I’m a child taking her first steps.”

“Don’t get upset honey. You feeling okay?”

“No.” You voice cracked. “I hate this.”

“Then don’t do any more today. Let’s just sit. Let me hold you.”

You didn’t want to cry again. You had cried enough. But you leaned into him anyway, letting your head rest on his chest, listening to the slow beat of his heart.

————

The next day was occupational therapy, which came with its own set of challenges and frustrations.

You wanted toast. Something he normally would offer to make, but he watched as you stared at the plate in front of you, knife in hand. You gripped the knife hard in your right hand, and held the toast in the other.

You tried to spread the peanut butter with shaking hands, but it clumped in the center and tore the bread. Again.

Your chest tightened. The feeling of frustration rising in your chest — hot and sharp and helpless. The same rage that boiled up every time your fingers fumbled, every time you brain lagged behind your body. You slammed the knife down, too loud, and backed away from the counter like it had burned you.

Jack came over quietly, holding two mugs of tea. He didn’t flinch at the sound. He just took one look at your face and set the mugs down without a word.

“I can’t even make toast,” you snapped, blinking too fast— trying to stop the tears that were burning your eyes.

“It’s a bad day,” he said gently.

“They’re all bad days.”

“No,” he said, coming closer. “They’re hard days. Not the same thing. Plus, I t’s always harder after a seizure.”

“I can’t write. I can’t tie my shoes. I can’t hold a fork the right way unless I concentrate like I’m defusing a fucking bomb. You don’t get it—this used to be nothing.”

“I know, but now it’s something, and every time you try again. That’s not nothing.”

You shook her head, not trusting yourself to speak. You felt the words rising in your throat— unsure how angry they’d be.

He stepped behind you, gently wrapping his arms around your torso from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Come here.”

“I said I can’t—”

“I didn’t ask you to do it alone.” He guided you back to the counter, picked up the toast, and handed you the knife again.

“I’ll hold the bread,” he said softly, anchoring it with his fingertips. “You focus on the spreading.”

It still wasn’t perfect. Your grip was awkward, and the motion uneven— your hand jerked every so often. But the knife moved. It worked. He watched in amazement as you concentrated at the task at hand. He felt like he was back in surgery with you. Watching work with fine precision and holding someone else’s life in your hands.

When you finished, Jack took a small bite and exaggerated a hum of satisfaction.

“Best toast I’ve ever had.”

“Shut up.” You laughed, trying to choke back a sob. Why did you feel so proud of yourself for making TOAST?

“Serious. Gourmet stuff.”

“Liar.”

————

The envelope was plain. Cream-colored, folded and crisp. You didn’t even have to open it.

Court summons.

You dreaded this moment. The trial date.

Where you’d have to face Charlie. The one who left you in a hospital bed, skull fractured, vision blurred, and memories stolen. The man who made you jump when you heard a door slam. The man who had once said he loved you but bruised you. Scarred you.

Jack came into the room after he heard the front door shut but he heard your footprints stop short. He looked at you, then at the letter. His jaw tensed, lips flattening into a hard, thin line.

“They called you in?” he asked.

You nodded. He didn’t say anything else at first.

You felt yourself sway slightly, off-balance, even standing still.

“I don’t want to see him again,” you whispered.

You didn’t say it aloud, but you weren’t afraid of being in the room with him. You were afraid of what would happen to you the moment she saw his face.

How easily the panic might come back.

How all the progress you’ve made may be for nothing.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Jack said. There was something in his eyes—still burning. Still coiled tight. That part of him hadn’t cooled since the night he found him on top of you in the trauma room. “I’m not sorry I hit him, I should’ve done worse.”

“Do you regret it?” You asked quietly now “Beating him like that?”

Jack laughed.

“No,” he said finally. “But I regret that you were alone long enough for me to need to.”

You didn’t cry, didn’t flinch. You stepped forward and laid your head on his chest. His heart was steady beneath your cheek.

“I don’t know if I can look him in the eye,” you whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Look at me.”

The second letter came two days later.

You found it in Jack’s hands when you walked into the kitchen. He didn’t say anything right away—just held it loosely, unopened.

“What is it?” You asked.

He looked up at you, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable. Slowly, he turned the envelope toward you so you could read the seal at the top.

District Court of Pittsburgh

You breath caught.

Defendant: Jack Abbott.

Charge: Aggravated Assault.

You lost your balance.

“No— No, they can’t. You were defending me!”

Jack set the letter on the counter like it was something fragile. He didn’t meet her eyes.

“No.” he said flatly.

“What are you talking about? He was hurting me— you found him on top of me— he was— ”

“I tried to kill him.” His voice was calm, too calm. “When I saw him on you, when I saw your eyes. I wanted to kill him. I would have too— I didn’t stop until Robby pulled me off.”

“I cant lose you Jack— I can’t let you go to jail because of me.”

He stepped forward and took your face in both hands. “You are not why this happened. He is. I made my own choice.”

You shook your head, the words lodged behind your teeth. Guilt was a physical thing in your chest, heavy and pressing. Jack had protected you when no one else had.

“I’ll— I’ll testify. I’ll tell them everything. All he did to me. How much he hurt me. That you were trying to protect me. That you’re a doctor. You wouldn’t hurt anyone unless— unless…” you’re sobbing now. The words flowing.

He shushed you. Pressing his forehead to yours. Because he knew—whatever happened in that courtroom, you’d go through it together.

Tag list //

@michasia24 @emma8895eb @nosebeers @runawaybaby3 @antisocialfiore @xxxkat3xxx @livingavilaloca @popeabbot @catmomstyles3 @bxxbxy @meowmeowyoongles @midnight-dixon @nerdgirljen @aj3684 @screechingenemy18 @profoundlynerdywolf @rogersbarnesxx @sebastianstangirl01 @princesssunderworld @looneylooomis @shadowhuntyi @drlangdonsbabydaddy @celiacallsitcausal @sjester42-blog @geekgirl1996 @ksyn-faith @peggyofoz @trustme3-13 @foolishseven @floofmc @anxiousfuckupon @silas-aeiou @pinkdrinkwithraspberry @thedamnqueenofhell @tinyfairies @stellaforstar666 @ch3rrvreds @the-salty-asian @child-of-the-amis @sharkluver @introvertathome @rae4725 @cannonindeez @miserablegirliee @blackwidownat2814 @priestvss @jazzimac1967 @meganwritesfanfics @idkimhereforsmut @witchywidow97 @buckyyyismahhlife @skeletoncookiesposts @rafabarnes @glitterspark

(I think I got everyone! Sorry if I missed you!!!! Lmk if you wanna be added)

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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 15 days ago

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whumpee who's been sexually assaulted, either recently or in the past, suffering an injury that requires a kind of vulnerability that's triggering beyond belief for them. a wound on the inner thigh, or their hip, or low on their belly. something that means they have to be in a state of undress, something they're too shaky or in pain or just plain without the skills to treat themself.

the fragile, tentative, terrifying trust woven between whumpee and caretaker as caretaker treats the injury. maybe they know about the rape, maybe they don't. either way, it's clear that whumpee is terrified and fighting off flashbacks. not treating this wound isn't an option, but they do everything else they can to make this experience as safe as possible, giving whumpee as much control as possible along the way.

it has to be done, but they don't have to do it fast. stop whenever they can, whenever whumpee can't take it anymore and gasps out stop, stop, fucking stop. they talk the whole time, explaining what they're doing and why. they offer to let whumpee point a weapon at them or have another person in the room standing guard. whatever might help even the slightest bit.

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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 24 days ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Summary : You were sent to Rome as a symbol, a marriage forged not from love, but from politics. He was the Empire's golden General, already tethered to someone else. But Marcus Acacius keeps his heart locked behind duty and old scars. But from now on, you are his wife in name, a stranger in his bed, learning that silence can be more painful than cruelty.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : historical themes and patriarchal dynamics, arranged mariage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity, emotional neglect, toxic relationships, manipulation, slow burn, secret relationship, angst (each chapter will have warnings !)

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

𝐈. The woman he sees when he closes his eyes

𝐈𝐈. The woman who waits in silence

𝐈𝐈𝐈. The woman behind the door

𝐈𝐕. The woman holding back the night

𝐕. The woman who holds her breath

𝐕𝐈. The woman who knew too much

𝐕𝐈𝐈. The woman whose name he forgets

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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 27 days ago

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List of “someday I know, you’ll come to your senses (and leave me alone with all of my questions)” prompts

“You say you love me right now but what if one day, you just… Stop? What do I do then?”

“Yeah, you’re with me now but it’s only a matter of time before you realise you’ve made the wrong decision.”

“I know you’re not staying because you want to.”

“How are you so sure that things aren’t gonna work out?” “Because they’ve never worked out for me and I sure as hell know this one isn’t going to be an exception… Even though I desperately wish that this is the exception to the rule.”

“So… You’re just going to give up on us?” “I’m not giving up on us. I’m giving up on the hope that things will get better.” “What do you mean by that? That’s the same fucking thing.”

“You’re leaving because you’re scared I’m going to give up on things. Don’t you think that’s very selfish of you?”

“One day you’re going to leave me in the dust. And I’m going to be right here, in the same spot, wondering for the rest of my life what I could have done differently… Done better in.”

“Well, as they say, good things always come to an end. It’s never happened any differently for me, so why should I even hold out hope that this will work out?”

“I’m always the one left picking up the pieces and you’ve proven me right that this is something I’ll never escape, so thanks a bunch.”

“Aren’t you tired of always anticipating for things to end?” “I don’t really know how to not do that when I’m so conditioned into doing the opposite. When all my life, all I’ve experienced are things ending, rather than lasting like I want them to.”

Join my Discord server: Steaming Dumplings Nation

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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 1 month ago

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The thing about whump for me personally is that I think it always hits best if there is someone to witness it, and show just how much they care.

I need pity. I need people treating Whumpee like a glass doll that could break any moment. I need someone gently bandaging their wounds, all the while horrified at the story they tell. I need Caretaker crying while they watch Whumpee getting hurt, desperately pleading Whumper to stop. I need someone finding Whumpee covered in blood and showing them so much care and kindness that Whumpee feels like they might suffocate. I need people getting Furious on Whumpees behalf, having to leave the room to control their anger.

I NEED "It's over now, you're safe, you're safe with me" repeated ad nauseam.

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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 2 months ago

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Bruised Pt 3 | Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: When you find yourself in an abusive relationship, you never thought your attending Jack Abbot would become your protector and saving grace.

TW: domestic violence, age gap relationship (reader is in late 20s & Jack is 49), hospital setting, surgery, medical inaccuracies, nudity, fluff, angst, eventual smut, Not beta read. Likely typos. Lmk if there is anything else!

Word Count: 3.2k

Authors Note: I’m so sorry it took so long to get this part up! I’ve been so busy with work, and my kids. Then it was my anniversary, my husband’s birthday and Father’s Day, so I’ve been running around like crazy. Whenever I get a minute to relax I’m just been sooo tired. This chapter isn’t my favorite at all, I didn’t want it to be too medical considering I have a history degree and have no medical background (aside from my hypochondria and time spent on webmd). So consider this to be a filler chapter I guess? Hope next chapter is good and perhaps a little smutty 🫦

Prev | Next

Feel

You felt the tether of all the wires connecting you to the countless monitors. The burn of the IVs embedded into your skin. Then the pain. The utter indescribable pain. Your head pounded, your body stiff. The slow trickle of cerebrospinal fluid from your nose was now coating your lips. You want to wipe it away, but your hands are too heavy, your fingers tingling. Your face feels cold despite the sweat that covered your body. The cold offering comfort in the chaos.

Taste

Your mouth was so incredibly dry that it was difficult to swallow. Your tongue almost sticking to the roof of your mouth, peeling it away giving the sensation of velcro. The only thing that offered temporary moisture was the salty spinal fluid that seeped into your mouth. All you could crave was water.

Smell

It all smelled so sterile. The metallic smell of dried blood, your dried blood, mixed with iodine. Had you had surgery? Why were you covered in iodine?

Sound

The beeps and clicks of the monitors were a constant, but words around you were muffled, as if you were drowning under water. As the words ebbed and flowed, you managed to make out some in all of the chaos.

“Basilar skull fracture”

“Post- traumatic seizures”

“Subdural hematoma”

“Craniotomy”

No. No. No. No. Please God no. This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t possibly be happening; but the memories begin flooding back with each passing moment. You are back in the trauma room where can hear the sound of your skull cracking as Charlie’s hands gripped your throat and bashed your head against the wall. You can hear the sound of Jacks fist making contact with flesh, Robby’s screams, and Charlie’s groans.

Sight

Darkness. You only saw black. Your eyelids feeling as if they were being held shut by some unknown force. No matter how hard you tried, they wouldn’t budge. Jacks voice enters the room and you want so desperately to open your eyes, tell him you’re okay, you’re alive. He must know you’re trying because you feel his hand in yours in an instant, squeezing it lightly and assuring you it’s alright. That it’s just the swelling around your eyes. Was that the cold you felt on your face? Was that Jack holding a compress to your eyes?

————————————————————————

With an unknown lapse in time, your eyes began to flutter open. Your vision blurry, the bright lights making them immediately shut again. While you couldn't see him, you knew he was there.

"J-" you were taken aback by how hoarse your voice was, your mouth and throat so dry that little sound came out. Before you knew it, you felt the comfort and warmth of his hands. Hesitantly he traced his rough fingertips along your jaw and down your bruised neck.

"I'm here." he whispered.

"Hurts" was all you could muster, god you needed some water.

"I know it hurts, we can get you some more morphine in about an hour."

You shook your head, reaching out with trembling hands to find his. You opened his palm and slowly traced each letter:

L - I - G - H -T

You heard Jack scurry to turn the light off, and only when the world felt less harsh your eyes opened slowly. He looked exhausted, he hadn't shaved, hair disheveled, cheeks sunken, but he smiled at you softly. Bringing his your hand up to his mouth, he shut his eyes and placed a tender kiss on the back of it, the ring on your finger still taunting you. He helped bring a glass of water to your lips, trickling down your throat, washing away the salty and metallic taste.

"Jack..." you finally whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. "Wh-wh-- h-ha " for some reason the words didnt come. You shut your eyes tightly again, trying to focus on what you wanted to say, what you needed to say. Its as if your mine and body were no longer working in sync.

"Hey, hey, slow down, it's normal to have a bit of aphasia after a brain injury. It'll come back to you soon enough." Jack assured you as the panic began to fill your eyes. "You can squeeze my hands once for yes, two for no. Okay?"

One Squeeze.

"Good..." Jack smiled a toothy grin, "Let's figure out what you remember... okay?"

One Squeeze

"Do you remember what happened at Pittfest?"

One Squeeze

"Do you remember Charlie? What he did to you?"

One Squeeze

"Do you remember going up for CT?"

Two Squeezes

Jack looked down, trying to figure out how to tell you all that happened when your eyes fluttered shut in his arms. He wanted to block the memory from his mind. The way your body grew rigid and clonic before you even made it to radiology.

"Charlie caused a basilar skull fracture, which caused you to have the CSF rhinorrhea. It's getting better, you just gotta stay flat for a while." You hadn't even noticed the trickle from your nose had almost gone to a standstill.

"Taking you up to CT, you started having a seizure, you had one last night too. Imagining found a subdural hematoma. Walsh had to do a craniotomy to relieve the pressure..."

Your hand immediately reached for the back of your head, feeling for the incision. You felt the bald patch, the stubble pricking your fingers and they traced along the staples. You stopped counting after 10 staples.

"She left as much as she could... it'll grow back. Come on don't look like that." Jack whispered, wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

"See?" you asked, pointing to your face.

Jack pulled his phone from his pocket and turned on the front facing camera. Holding the phone in front of your face, you gasped loudly. Your eyes were black and swollen, your neck bruised, tacky spinal fluid crusted on your lips and chin. A sob stuck in your throat and you shut your eyes, not wanting to look at your reflection any longer.

"Hey, hey, none of that. You're still my pretty girl, right?" he cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to face him. "Open your eyes. Look at me. The cuts will heal, the hair will grow back, and the bruising with fade. You are still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." His hazel eyes were glassy and exhausted, but he looked genuine; like he meant every word that was coming out of his mouth.

Your chest ached at his words, the world standing still. His pretty girl. The woman that looked back at you in the mirror was far from that. You saw a battered woman, a lost woman, a broken woman. Yet Jack looked at you like you were the most beautiful woman in the world. Behind those tired eyes of his, he looked at you with nothing but complete adoration. How? Why?

“Charlie?” The words seemed to come easier to you now, like Jack had promised. It took everything for him not to explode at the mere mention of that man’s name. The man who hurt the woman he loved.

“He’s here. In the ICU.”

“I want to see him.” You whispered firmly, throat still hoarse.

“I dont think th-“

“Jack, please.”

Jack pressed his back against his chair, his shoulders slumping forward a bit, almost in defeat. He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin, and you heard the scratch of the hair on his rough skin. With some hesitation, he stood and fetched a wheelchair.

"I'm gonna sit you up slowly, okay?" he said softly, looping his arms under your armpits to slowly guide you up. It felt like the room was spinning, all the blood rushing to your head. You let out a small cry from the pain, resting your head into the crook of his neck as you adjusted. When you were ready, he lifted you into the chair and began to push you down the hallway. Stopping outside his room Jack sighed.

"I dont know if its a good idea if I go in there." he wanted nothing more than to finish the job, break every bone in that mans body.

"Please, Jack. I need you."

With a nod, Jack used his back to push the door open and wheel you inside, trying not to jostle you around too much. Seeing him there in bed was a shock. His jaw was wired shut, an NG tube down his nose, his face nearly unrecognizable. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, and you stared at Jack in awe of the damage he had done, for you.

Charlies head turned, eyes widening and heart rate increasing at the presence of Jack Abbot. For a moment, you almost pitied the man, your heart somehow still ached for him. With a nod, Jack wheeled you to the edge of the bed, him gripping the handles so firmly his knuckled were now white. His jaw was clenched shut, he said nothing, but his eyes said everything.

In one fluid motion you took off your engagement ring, twiddling it in you hands. Your finger felt naked, the ring that has been there for 2 years was now gone.

"Give me your hand Charlie." you demanded, before firmly grabbing it yourself, pressing the ring firmly into the palm of his hand. Your jaw was tight, you spoke through gritted teeth. "I stayed because I hoped things would change. I told myself it wasn’t that bad. That I could fix it. Fix you. But you hurt me. Over and over and over again. With your words, with your fists, with how small you made me feel." tears began to soak your cheeks as the words spilled into the air.

"Every day I tried to survive it. Every time you grabbed me, shoved me, screamed in my face—every time you told me no one else would want me—I believed you. But thats not true, Charlie." you looked back at Jack who was studying your every movement and every expression. Through the anger, through the tears, through the heartbreak, you smiled softly at Jack who looked at you with pain in his eyes.

"You hurt me for the last time." finally letting go, the ring you pressed into his hand left an indent in your palm, and you watched it slowly fade away. You knew that Charlie would leave a permanent mark on you. The scars that would remain, the trauma that would persist, those wouldnt go away. But watching the outline of your once promise slowly dissipate made this real.

"I feel sick Jack." you choked, and he swiftly pushed you out of the room into the hall. You were pale, diaphoretic, and trying to catch your breath.

"Tell me what hurts." Jack switching from protector to doctor in a matter of seconds.

"I cant breathe." you gasped, grabbing onto his shirt, looking for something to hold onto, to ground yourself.

What Jack first dismissed as another panic attack after your encounter with Charlie vanished the moment he saw the bluish tint creeping across your lips. Barreling down the hallway, he immediately called a rapid response.

"Honey, we gotta get you on the monitor to check your pulse ox, now."

With a reading of 85% he was now in combat mode.

"I need high flow oxygen mask, now!" he barked, "where the fuck is respiratory?"

"Infection?" you gasped, breathing growing more and more shallow.

"Maybe. I dont know."

"Please... dont intubate." you begged, grabbing his hand with all the strength you had left.

"Not if I can help it." Jack smiled assuringly and slipped the oxygen mask over your nose. It brought him relief to see your levels improving on just room air. Your airways felt assaulted by force of the oxygen mask, the pressure making it feel like your head was about to explode more than I already was, your chest feeling as if it were on fire. Jack reached out to grab your trembling hands are you began to pull and paw at the mask.

“I know it feels uncomfortable. Just focus on my voice—breathe with me, okay? In and out, slow and steady. We gotta figure out what's going on."

"M-Me-Meningitis?" you were a doctor, you knew the risks, and the infection risks were high. Jack simply nodded at the possibility and as he prepped you for a spinal tap. You winced and called out as the needle pierced your back.

As you waited for your results Jack sat at the edge of the bed rubbing your legs to avoid blood pooling and clots from forming. Your body was sore, and his hands felt heavenly. You moaned involuntarily as he hit a particularly tender spot, causing you both to blush.

You felt disgusting. Your hair was matted, bloody and greasy. Your skin still stained with iodine and a layer grime. You just wanted to get clean but had no means of doing so. You couldn’t stand unassisted, your breathing was labored, and your body was too weak. The thought of getting a sponge bath was humiliating.

“You don’t have to do this, Jack. I’m filthy.” You pulled your mask down briefly. Jack simply shook his head and chuckle.

“Try grown men in the middle of desert combat going 3 weeks without a shower. This is nothing, kid.”

Still— you recoiled a bit, pulling your legs away from him, causing him to frown.

“Alright, let’s get you cleaned up then.”

“What?”

“I said let’s get you cleaned up, I can help you shower.”

"Jack... I-I-I dont--"

"Or if you aren't comfortable, I can grab a nurse to help?"

You looked at him, contemplating the offer. It was strictly clinical, right? He was a doctor, he's seen hundreds, maybe thousands of naked bodies. Clinical, strictly clinical.

With a nod, Jack took a few slow steps towards you, removing your oxygen mask to see how vitals held before moving forward. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he helped you up and into the wheelchair.

"I'm gonna take off your gown now, that okay?"

Not answering, you let out a small squeak as you stifled a sob. He immediately knelt down next to you, standing at your eye level. His brow was tense as he looked at you with a painful expression. Your body was trembling, jaw chattering, eyes looking shellshocked. The bathroom grew hotter as the shower steam began to billow around the bathroom. Your reflection beginning to fade as condensation clung to the mirror.

Jack began to search for comforting words, his back leaning against the bathroom door.

"I've been in this exact situation myself, you know? When I got hurt, I was unable to bathe myself. It was a sponge bath, talk about mortifying. I'm a grown man and I had some hot nurse in a German military hospital flipping me over to scrub my ass..."

You couldn't help but chuckle, appreciating not only the imagery but his vulnerability.

"So I get it... trust me."

"Okay...yeah."

Jack untied the back of your hospital gown, slipping it off you. Instinctually, you covered your exposed body.

He lifts you into the shower, placing you on the shower stool. The hot water began to cascade over your bruised and scarred body, washing away the dirt, grime and blood. Jack began to work his hands along your body, starting with your hair. You shut your eyes as Jack began to gently massage shampoo into your scalp, taking extra care to avoid your craniotomy staples.

Then your bruised neck and down to your stiff shoulders.

He worked away at the knots from laying in the hospital bed, your head hung forward, breath quickening again. Not because you couldn't breathe, but from the sensation of his hands on your skin. The crook of your neck was now exposed to him, almost inviting him to press his lips against you. He shook his head, trying to get back to the task at hand. He was standing in front of you now, kneeling down at eye level. With more precision his hands moved lower, the washcloth brushing against your breasts, your breath hitching. His eyes met yours, checking in to see you were okay.

With more assurance his hand traveled lower, brushing against your stomach. Lower and lower, until you grabbed his wrist, stopping him before he reached your most sensitive part.

"Jack..." you whispered.

"I-I'm sorry." he whispered, handing you the washcloth. "I'll go wait outside so you can finish up, call me when you're ready, yeah?"

He left the bathroom in a hurry, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck.

"Fuck..." he whispered to himself. He felt so guilty, for wanting more when you were in your most vulnerable. Felt disgusted he felt for how good it felt to have your hands on your body, even in your condition.

When he heard your faint callings from the bathroom he went back in with a smile.

"Ready?" he helped you stand, you pressed your back against his chest as he wrapped a scratchy hospital around your frail frame. "Feel better?" he asked, helping you back into a fresh gown and into your bed with fresh sheets.

"Much, thank you Jack."

"Let me fix your hair so it doesn't get tangled again, alright?" he sat you up and started to braid your hair.

"You know how to braid hair?"

"Not my choice. I have 4 sisters." he chuckled before finishing up and admiring his work. "I'm a little rusty, but I think it'll do."

"Thank you." you smiled.

"Listen, abou-" he began before you promptly cut him off.

"Dont, Jack." you grabbed his hand, shaking your head, "Its okay. I promise. It's okay." Despite your assurance, Jack kept pushing.

"No...it’s not. Because I didnt just... I told you... you were in such a-- I wanted..." he began to stutter, fumbling over his words.

"Wanted what?"

"YOU!" he yelled before lowering his voice to almost a whisper... "I wanted you.”

He tried to get up, but you held onto him firmly. Your grip getting tighter and tighter as he spoke. “Even though I’ve been in your position and know how helpless you felt in that moment… I still wanted to touch you. And I just feel like some animal. That I’m no better than the sick fuck who hurt you in the first place.” Jacks voice cracked and in that moment you thought he was going to cry.

“Jack…” you whispered, cupping his face in your hands.

“You trusted me…” He whispered back, his eyes welling up with tears.

“I still do, Jack.” You rested your forehead against his. The tips of your noses brushing, your lips hovering mere inches apart. Both you were breathing quickly as his hands found your body again, rubbing his fingers down your bare spine through the opening of the hospital gown. You could feel each other’s breath panting against your lips. Your eyes beginning to flutter shut.

“Jack Abbot?” And unfamiliar voice pulled your attention away from each other in almost an instant. Two officers stood in the doorway, both resting their hands on their tactical vests.

“Yes officer, how can I help you?” Jack responded.

“Stand up for me and put your hands behind your back.” One stepped forward, pulling the handcuffs from his belt.

“What?” You yelled, not wanting to let go of Jack. “No, please!”

“Dr. Abbot you’re under arrest for the aggravated assault and battery of Charlie Truett.”

————————————————————————

Tag list //

(I think I got everyone! Sorry if I missed you!!!! Lmk if you wanna be added)

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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 2 months ago

Text

A Place to Burn | Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: You and Steve were lovers once—until the Accords split the team and you chose Tony. Now three years after the Snap, a failed mission forces you back into his orbit, where five years of silence finally demands an answer.

MCU Timeline Placement: Infinity War/Endgame

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: angst, canon-typical violence, injury, blood, complex trauma, PTSD themes, unresolved grief, implied death of loved ones, past relationship fallout, survivor’s guilt, heavy steve rogers character introspection

Word Count: 8.1k

Author’s Note: who the hell let me write for steve rogers again?? it’s been years. i thought i was free. anyways, i started this last week and blacked out somewhere around the 5k mark. anyway, shoutout to steve girlies™

────────────────────────

The rain fell in needles, slicing through the gaping canopy of a long-dead refinery on the outskirts of what used to be a border town. The building had been stripped clean of parts, of people, of purpose. Only bones remained, as many places did three years post snap.

Steel girders rose like ribs from a flooded floor, broken scaffolding webbed with moss, shattered glass that hadn’t glittered in years. You moved through it like a shadow, quiet and half-starved, fingers ghosting the wall to keep balance as your boots sloshed through ankle-deep water.

You had no power. No signal.

The comm clipped to your vest was cracked, its red light long dead. You’d lost contact twelve hours ago with no evac route and not much to salvage—except, maybe, whatever the bastards had holed up in this ruin for.

The mission had started out clean: trail a set of stolen drives to a black market depot south of the border, confirm cargo, intercept transport. Simple enough. But nothing ever stayed clean anymore. The drop had gone sideways, the contact was a no-show, and the convoy you were shadowing got hit by someone with too much ammo and not enough patience.

You didn’t know who was pulling the strings anymore. Everyone with a title was gone or dirty. You were running ghost missions on secondhand intel, answering to a handler who stopped using names.

Back when you wore an actual badge—back when SHIELD was still pretending its spine wasn’t made of snakes—your missions came with dossiers, backup, and coffee that didn’t taste like ash. You used to get full schematics, satellite overlays, extraction windows timed to the minute. Hell, sometimes you even knew why you were doing the thing you were doing.

After the fall, Sharon had tried to keep you on her side of the line—intel work for the CIA, favors for favors. And for a while, it worked. Langley gave you new paper, new credentials, new orders wrapped in red tape and plausible deniability.

But even that version of the game burned out, same as everything else. Somewhere along the way—after the Accords, after headlines turned the word Avenger into a curse, after fractures became permanent—Tony had made you an offer.

Said you didn’t have to keep running ops in the dark. That you could have a real role with Stark resources. He was still building, still believing. Still trying to hold together whatever was left after the team...

You had turned it down.

You told yourself it was pride.

Maybe it was fear.

You never did get to ask what made him offer that. Not after everything. Not after you and Steve—

You shut that door before it could finish swinging open.

Now you were here. Five years after the Avengers disbanded, three years into a ghost war, standing in a tomb full of water and rot, chasing intel you weren’t even sure was real. Every place you touched felt emptier than the last.

But even ghosts left footprints.

Your steps echoed as you crossed the slick floor, eyes sweeping every corner. You paused beside a cracked support beam, hand brushing over a bullet-pocked wall. Someone had been here recently. Old ash. A half-burnt ration pack. Mud still wet in the shape of a boot print too big to be yours.

That was when the hairs rose on your neck.

Not from the cold.

From instinct.

A sound to your left. Soft, precise. Not the clatter of a rat or the lazy roll of debris. Intentional. Measured.

Someone else was here.

You went still.

Back pressed to the pillar. Rifle lifted. Breath held. The rain covered the approach, but not well enough. You knew the cadence of trained feet, of how they moved. How they waited until they were just close enough.

You shifted a half-inch, just enough to catch movement in your peripheral.

A blur of motion—too fast to be clumsy, too direct to be aimless— and from the right this time.

You pivoted, aimed.

CLANG.

Something metal hit the wall behind you with a bone-shaking crack, ricocheted off the concrete, and came back through the air in a perfect, practiced arc. You ducked, barely—

whrrp-whump

—and tightened your grip, finger on the trigger. The figure that stepped from the shadows was soaked through, shoulders broad and unarmored, clothes dark and simple—civilian, maybe, but nothing about his posture said untrained.

His hands lifted. Slowly. No sudden movements.

“Y/N?”

It hit different hearing your name in his voice again, like it had no business in his mouth anymore. Not after everything. Not after all that silence.

You didn’t lower the rifle.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just kept the barrel locked center-mass while your mind tried to reconcile what your eyes were seeing. The figure in front of you wasn’t in uniform—no star, no stripes, no shield on his back. Just a soaked thermal padded shirt clinging to broad shoulders, dark cargo pants, a battered utility belt that looked like it had been patched by hand. Hair longer than you remembered. Beard, thicker. His face was older. Not by years—by weight.

The man who stepped out of the shadows didn’t look like Captain America. Didn’t look like the Steve Rogers you used to know.

"You're not going to shoot me," he said, quiet. Certain.

"That so?" you refused to lower the rifle.

Your voice came out flat. Measured. You didn’t let it shake.

"You threw the goddamn shield at my head."

"It wasn’t at your head," he said, softly, like you were a cornered animal. "If I wanted to hit you—"

"I know," you cut in.

The silence that followed dragged like a blade. Rain pattered against the broken steel above you. Somewhere, deep in the wreckage, water dripped into a shallow pool, slow and steady like a metronome.

Steve still hadn’t moved. Hands half-raised, eyes locked on yours.

They were the same. That part hurt the worst. Still that too-honest blue. Still looking at you like you weren’t a stranger. Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life the moment you stopped agreeing with him.

You swallowed hard.

"What the hell are you doing here, Rogers?"

He didn’t answer right away.

You saw it then—that flicker of tension behind his eyes. The same kind that used to come right before he told you something he didn’t want to say. Like the truth still cost him something.

“Looking for someone,” he said.

Your grip tightened on the rifle.

“And what? You thought that was me?”

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you the way he always had, like you were still the same person. Like time and war and silence hadn’t carved a canyon between the two of you.

“No,” he said, then huffed, quieter. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You almost laughed. But it stuck somewhere in your throat, curdled and dry.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He lowered his hands, slow and deliberate, watching you for any sign you’d twitch. But you didn’t. You wouldn’t.

"Long time," were the only words you could force out. "Not even a text."

"Did you want one?"

The question landed between you like a live wire.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then took a slow, careful step forward, gun still trained, your voice cutting quieter now, crueler by necessity.

"You think you get to ask me that?"

His jaw worked, but he didn’t speak. Didn't argue.

Of course he didn’t.

Because you had chosen Tony.

Not because you believed in politics or paperwork. Not because you thought the Accords were just. You didn’t. You’d read them twice, marked every loophole and lie in red ink. But when it came down to it, Stark offered accountability. Control. A way to stay in the fight without burning every bridge on the way out.

Steve had only offered faith.

Faith in a man who remembered you, but didn’t choose you.

You remembered the moment the rift cracked wide. Remembered the air going thin as Steve’s gaze slid right past you—past everything you’d built together—and landed on Bucky Barnes like no time had passed at all. Like the world could still be rewound, just for them.

And maybe it could.

Just not for you.

So you agreed with Tony. Watched Steve walk away. And told yourself it didn’t gut you.

Still. You’d expected something. A sign. A message. Even a goddamn name on a list.

But he hadn’t reached out. Not once.

You exhaled through your nose.

“If you’re here for the drives, I don’t have them. They’re gone. Burned with the convoy. Nothing left to chase.”

“I’m not here for that,” he said. “Didn’t even know you were on this op.”

“No one does.”

Your finger hovered over the trigger. Not ready. Not willing. Just there. Just in case.

He took a cautious step forward, just enough to put the shield between you.

“You working freelance now?” he asked, like small talk was the safest ground left.

“I’m not working with you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Didn’t ask.”

You finally lowered the barrel. Just an inch.

Your arms were tired. Your chest was worse.

“Then what, Steve? Why are you here?”

His eyes darkened. Just enough to make you regret saying it with that venom in your voice.

“I’m here because people are disappearing,” he said. “Off-grid. Off-record. Half the world’s asleep and someone’s still running black sites like the Cold War never ended. Someone who’s using old SHIELD routes.”

You blinked. The shape of something sharper forming behind his words.

“And you thought I was working with them?”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t think that. Not for a second.”

“Then what did you think?” you snapped, posture sharpening. “That I’d just be here? Wandering around some dead zone in the middle of a ghost town, waiting for you to come waltzing out of the fog like some bad fucking memory?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond. The words flooded out before you could stop them.

“Say something, Steve. Say anything. Because the last time I saw you, you were walking away like I hadn’t meant a goddamn thing.”

“I didn’t walk away from you,” he said finally, voice fraying. “I walked away from a system that—”

“Bullshit.” The word cracked from your throat. “You walked away from all of us. From me. From everything we were trying to hold together.”

His silence roared louder than the rain.

You stepped closer. Closer than you should have. The rifle dropped further—still in hand, but forgotten in the heat of your own pulse pounding in your skull.

“I chose a side, Steve. You didn’t like the side I chose, so you erased me—like it made you noble, like it made you right. Like saving Bucky meant losing everyone else didn’t matter.”

“You chose Stark,” he bit out. Finally. Like the truth had been rotting in his mouth for years. “You chose the man who handed our freedom over in exchange for a clean conscience. You chose the accords. You chose a leash.”

You laughed, a sound that barely passed for human. “So what? You thought I’d come chasing after you? Beg for forgiveness? You never reached out. Not after Germany. Not after the Raft. Not even after Thanos ripped half the universe out of our lungs.”

He flinched.

And that made it worse. That made it real.

“You had to know I survived the Snap,” you said. Quieter now, colder. “I checked on you. You were breathing. You were still breathing, and I didn’t even get a fucking email. And if you didn’t know I made it out, then that means you never bothered to check. Never cared enough to find out if I was even still alive.”

His expression cracked—just barely, but enough. Like a fault line splitting beneath the surface of stone. The rain caught in his beard, dripping from his jaw as his eyes dropped, jaw tightening like he was chewing glass.

He didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Not when you knew your words hit their mark. That flicker behind his eyes—recognition, regret, confirmation—was all the answer you needed. He had known. And still, had said nothing.

His voice came low, frayed at the edges, like it hurt to pull the words out.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“Try starting with I’m sorry,” you hissed. “Or how about, I’m glad you’re alive, or I missed you, or literally anything besides radio silence for five goddamn years.”

“You think I didn’t want to?” His voice broke. Just barely. “You think I didn’t—don’t—wake up every day wondering how it would’ve been if you’d stood next to me? If I hadn’t lost you before the war even started? If we’d made it out of D.C., out of Vienna—hell, even just one more morning in bed before it all went to shit—”

“You didn’t lose me. You left.”

“I had to.”

“No, Steve,” you growled. “You chose to. You chose what mattered to you. And it wasn’t me. Not the life we built. Not the future we almost had. You let all of it burn.”

That landed.

Hard.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Just rain. Just breath. Just a long, shaking silence.

“I needed you,” you said, and your voice cracked wide open around it. “After it all went to hell. After the team shattered. After Tony—I needed someone to remember who I was, and instead I got nothing.”

He opened his mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe to apologize. You never found out.

Because the floor exploded.

A split-second sound—shattering pressure, a boom low and wrong, and suddenly the world dropped out beneath you. Concrete groaned. A rusted support beam twisted above like a snapping tree limb. Something hit your shoulder—something heavy, splintering—and you went down hard, lungs crushed against the flood-slick ground.

Your ears rang. Rain screamed louder than it had before. Somewhere in the debris haze, you heard groaning metal and fractured stone.

You coughed once, wet and raw, and then the ceiling collapsed.

You didn’t have time to think. Just enough to roll. Just enough to see Steve tackle you back, the shield coming up over both of you as the upper level gave out and came down hard.

The world blinked white—

—then nothing but darkness and dust.

────────────────────────

The first thing you registered was the dull pounding behind your eyes.

The second was the hum of an old generator, weak and sputtering.

You blinked. Slowly. The world swam, grey at the edges, ceiling panels dancing overhead. The air was warmer than it had been in the refinery. Dry. Thick with dust and antiseptic. A flickering halogen bulb buzzed in the corner of your vision. The sharp tang of blood still clung to the back of your tongue.

You shifted. Or tried to. Your shoulder screamed.

Pain flared bright and sudden, blooming up your arm like fire up a fuse. You hissed through your teeth and reached instinctively for your weapon—except your gear was gone. Jacket. Boots. Holster. Everything stripped down to a thermal undershirt and pants.

For a moment, you thought it had been a dream. The refinery. The collapse. Steve. Your brain was still half-buried under rubble, after all.

But then a shadow moved in the corner of the room. Broad shoulders. Familiar gait. Hands moving in deliberate rhythm as he packed up what looked like a med kit in the far corner, back half-turned like he was pretending not to keep checking on you.

Not a dream.

You exhaled, shaky, uneven, and braced a hand against the cot to push yourself up.

Steve’s voice cut across the room before you even got halfway.

“Don’t,” he said, without looking.

His voice was calm. Low. It scraped the air like it belonged here, like the silence was just waiting for it. He picked something up from the table—gauze, maybe. A bottle of antiseptic. Didn’t even turn his head.

“You’re gonna tear the sutures.”

Your eyes drifted down.

The fabric of your shirt had been cut open, peeled away, and loosely tucked back across your chest. Your shoulder was wrapped in gauze, layered tight and low, stained dark at the edges with a bloom of maroon and yellow where the bleeding had stopped but the bruising had set in.

“You stitched me?” you rasped, voice like gravel.

He turned. Just a little. Just enough that you saw the flicker of emotion pass across his face—relief, maybe. Guilt. Something heavier than both.

“No one else was gonna do it.”

You swallowed back the ache in your throat.

“You’re lucky it didn’t go through. Beam clipped you on the way down.”

You shifted again, slower this time. Tried to sit.

Steve’s boots scraped across the floor as he crossed to your side in three slow steps, hand raised—not to stop you, but to steady the edge of the cot as if he knew you’d fight him on principle.

“I said no.”

“I’m fine.” Your voice came out hoarse.

“You’re not.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to ignore it.”

You sat up anyway. Teeth gritted. Muscles trembling. The motion tore fire through your shoulder and you hissed, just barely, biting down on the sound like it could make you stronger.

Steve didn’t say anything at first. He just watched.

You hated that look. Quiet concern. Controlled tension. That soldier’s calm like he was holding the whole damn world together with his bare hands.

“Where’s my gear?”

“Drying.”

“And my weapon?”

He hesitated. “Unloaded. In the bag, across the room.”

You turned your head, just enough to confirm it. The duffel sat by the door, damp canvas darkened by the rain.

“Figured I’d get shot less if you woke up slow,” he added. Dry. Almost wry.

You didn’t laugh. He didn’t expect you to.

Your gaze shifted to the window. Cracked glass, warped frame. No sounds outside but wind. No movement. No footsteps.

You cleared your throat. Winced at the way it scraped raw.

“Where are we?”

“Off-grid SHIELD safehouse,” he said. “One of the old ones. No power except what I could coax from the generator. Roof’s half gone, comms are fried. But it’s dry. And it was close.”

“How close?”

He paused, just for a breath. “I carried you for a mile before I found the bike.”

You blinked. Slowly.

“You had a bike?”

“I had your blood all over me. Priorities shifted.”

You hated the way that landed. The way something twisted in your ribs like regret wearing someone else’s face.

He finally looked up, eyes finding yours across the small distance like it wasn’t the first time he’d done it while you were unconscious.

“I don’t know what brought the place down,” he said. “I checked the feeds—nothing. No sat activity. No signal bursts. No seismic spikes. Just... nothing. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. Clean sweep. Quick exit.”

Your jaw tensed.

“And you’re sure it wasn’t me?”

His expression didn’t even twitch. “If it had been, I’d be dead. Or you would.”

You flexed your fingers. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat.

The silence between you was thicker now. Heavier.

“It happened fast,” you muttered. “One second we were—”

You stopped yourself. Words scraped up short. Fighting. Screaming. Bleeding into each other without ever touching.

“—Talking,” you finished.

His jaw clenched. Barely.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he said, quiet. “I should’ve been watching your six. Not running my mouth.”

You frowned instinctively. “Steve—”

“I hesitated.”

He didn’t say it like a confession. He said it like it was a wound scarred over too many times.

“You were right there,” he said, voice dropping a register. “Ten feet. Maybe less. I heard the first groan in the beams, I felt the pressure change, and I still froze. I was too busy standing in the middle of a fight we’ve been having for five goddamn years.”

You stared at him. Something cold cracked open behind your ribs.

“I don’t blame you.”

“I do.”

The words landed too fast. Too hard. Like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud.

“I do,” he repeated, quieter. “I saw the weight coming down. I didn’t react fast enough. I didn’t get to you before you hit the ground. You were trying to get to cover and I was still looking at your face.”

His knuckles were white around the edges of the cot.

“I couldn’t get to you in time because I was still trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t make it worse.”

You turned your face away. Not because it hurt. But because you remembered it. That split second of impact. Of knowing it was too late.

And still looking for him.

“Feels like a pattern,” you muttered.

He didn’t argue.

“I didn’t mean for it to go like that,” he said. “Back there. I didn’t show up looking for a fight.”

“You didn’t have to.” You met his eyes again. “It’s just what we do now.”

He looked away first.

You didn’t feel good about it.

There was a long beat of quiet. The kind that pressed at your skin like it wanted to get in.

Steve rubbed a hand over his jaw, rough and slow. “I kept thinking I’d run into you somewhere. Out in the field. At some ops drop. Even just on a list. I thought maybe if I did, I’d know what to say.”

“And?” you asked.

“And I didn’t,” he said. “I still don’t.”

You nodded slowly, shoulder aching like the truth had barbs.

“I figured you were dead,” you said. “Honestly, I hoped you were.”

He didn’t answer.

“Not from the snap. After. In the fallout. When the world went quiet and the people who used to matter just… stopped showing up. I thought maybe you’d finally gotten tired of surviving something you couldn’t fix.”

Steve’s jaw twitched. But still, nothing.

“You vanished. You, Nat, even Rhodey. No broadcasts. No missions. No presence. Just dust and rumors. I started thinking maybe that was the plan. Maybe you were done trying to save anyone.”

“I wasn’t done,” he said.

“You sure?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

“I was tired.”

That landed harder than anything else so far.

You blinked. “Aren’t we all.”

He shifted, sat on the edge of the nearby table like standing was suddenly too much. The air between you tightened. Not heavy with anger anymore, but everything else you hadn’t been able to say the past five years.

“When it first happened,” he said, “I went north. Couple months. Off-grid. Thought maybe if I got far enough away from everything, it’d stop feeling like I failed.”

“You did,” you said, voice flat.

He nodded. No argument. That part surprised you.

He rubbed at the base of his neck. That old familiar tic, like he was trying to knead guilt out of muscle.

“I kept thinking if I could fix one thing—just one—it’d start making sense again. That maybe the universe would stop punishing people for being the ones who stayed behind.”

You didn’t interrupt. Let him talk. Let him try.

“I joined a support group in New York,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Group therapy, Rogers? Bold.”

“Wasn’t therapy,” he muttered. “Not really. Just people talking to each other so they didn’t break apart.”

“And you?”

He hesitated. “I kept my mouth shut most days. Let other people grieve. Made it feel like I was helping.”

You tilted your head. “You really think you can out-punish yourself by proxy?”

Steve gave a bitter huff of breath. “You sound like Sam.”

It hit harder than he meant it to. Maybe harder than he realized.

You did sound like Sam. Maybe that’s why it hit wrong—because you hadn’t let yourself think about him in months, not since the dust cleared and his name stayed off every list that mattered.

You huffed past the stinging behind your eyes. “I sound like someone who remembers how you tear things down in the name of what’s right—then walk away and leave the rest of us to sweep up the wreckage.”

He didn’t deny it.

“You still running ops for Nat?” you asked.

“Not for,” he corrected. “With. When she lets me.”

You let out a low, humorless laugh. “So she’s the one actually keeping the world stitched together? Guess some of us never learned how to sit still.”

“You say that like you’re not doing the same damn thing.”

That caught you sideways. You opened your mouth, but he cut in before the words came.

“You’re out here alone. Ghost missions. No insignia. No team. Just one name off a list at a time.” He leaned forward slightly. “That’s not justice, Y/N. That’s attrition.”

You stared at him. Your pulse pounded behind your ribs.

“That’s rich,” you chuckled, strained. “Coming from the man who tore the Avengers apart and then decided the world could save itself.”

“I didn’t decide anything. I lost everything.” His voice cracked—not loud, but deep enough to shake something loose in the air between you.

“So did we all.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I know. But I didn’t know how to come back from it. I didn’t…I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

Your jaw twitched. “You do not get to use me as your reason to stay gone.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.”

You forced yourself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through clenched teeth.

“I buried enough people,” you said. “I wasn’t gonna dig a grave for you too. But if you’d been dead, at least it would’ve made sense. At least I wouldn’t have had to live with the fact that you were alive somewhere and still didn’t give a damn if I was breathing.”

Steve stood.

Just like that. Like the words hit deeper than he was willing to show while seated.

“I did give a damn.”

“Then prove it.”

That stopped him.

He stared at you, rain-wet still clinging to the hem of his sleeves, dust in his hair. A little more human than you remembered. A lot more worn.

“How?” he asked.

Not defensive. Not angry. Just broken.

“How the hell do I prove something that should’ve been obvious five years ago?”

You didn’t have an answer. Not one you were ready to say aloud.

He took a breath. Shaky. Quiet.

“I left you the key.”

The words were soft. Almost inaudible. But they landed like a thunderclap.

You blinked. Thought you must’ve misheard him.

“What?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t look away.

“The apartment in D.C.,” he said. “I changed the lock after Germany. Everyone told me to. Said I had to cut ties, play ghost, clean slate.” His voice stayed low, even. But you could see the tension working through his jaw. “But I taped the old key under the planter. Same spot as before. In case you ever came back.”

Your mouth went dry.

“You think a key fixes five years of silence?”

“No,” he said, and there was that flicker of frustration—tired, raw, not defensive but wrecked. “I think I didn’t know what else to do that wouldn’t look like I was trying to pull you back in. You made your choice. I didn’t want to make it harder.”

“So you left a key instead of a call.” You laughed under your breath, sharp and bitter. “Jesus, Steve. That's not romantic. That’s cowardice dressed up as sentiment.”

“I knew you wouldn’t want words,” he said. “Not from me. Not after I put you on the other side of a war you never asked to fight.”

You swallowed. Hard. “You still should’ve tried.”

“I did.” His voice cracked again, too fast, too loud, and then pulled right back under control. “I watched the safehouse drop feeds for your name. I checked post-mission logs. I went through the Redacted Clearance reports and saw your initials buried under three layers of burn notices. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to drag you back into something you were bleeding to get away from.”

You stared at him. Something between disbelief and recognition clawing its way up your throat.

“I didn’t want to be another reason you broke,” he finished, quieter now. “I thought I already was.”

You didn’t mean to move.

You didn’t mean to explode.

But something inside you snapped like a tripwire. The ache behind your ribs ignited—old rage, old grief, everything you’d shoved down for the sake of mission after mission. All of it detonated the second his voice dropped soft, like he still thought this was about regret and not the gaping hole he left behind.

You shoved yourself off the cot. Fast. Too fast.

“You don’t get to say that,” you snarled, jabbing a finger toward him, arm trembling under its own weight. “You don’t get to stand there and pretend you cared so much you stayed away.”

He froze. Eyes wide—hands instinctively twitching like he wanted to reach for you but knew better.

“You left me!” you shouted, your voice breaking on the edge of it. “Don’t you dare stand there and romanticize your silence like it was mercy. You ran. You let me rot on the other side of a war you started, and then you buried me under good intentions and a goddamn potted plant that I never went back to.”

Your vision blurred. The room tilted.

You stumbled.

Your shoulder tore, white-hot pain lancing up your arm as the bandage slipped, the gauze suddenly warm and wet and wrong. Your knees buckled.

But you didn’t hit the floor.

Arms caught around your waist, firm and too steady, grounding you in ways that made your stomach twist. Steve’s hands were calloused and warm and familiar, and it made your throat seize.

“Shit—hey, hey,” he said, voice dropping into that too-gentle register, like he didn’t trust himself to speak louder.

You tried to shove him off. Weakly. Your hand found the front of his shirt and curled there instead, trembling with effort.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “You popped the stitches.”

“No shit,” you gasped. “Was trying to make a point.”

“Yeah? Next time try yelling from the bed. Less blood that way.”

You let out a shaky exhale, somewhere between a laugh and a grimace.

“I’m serious,” he said, guiding you back onto the cot with that same maddening mix of patience and control. “You’re running hot. You’ve got adrenaline flooding your system, and you’re down a pint at least. Sit down or I swear I’ll tie you to the damn mattress.”

You slumped back with a hiss as the cot creaked beneath you. “Still bossy.”

“You’re still reckless.”

He crouched in front of you, already reaching for the med kit again. You watched the way his fingers moved—faster now, more precise. You could see it in his face: the guilt still sitting under his skin like shrapnel he never got around to digging out.

You breathed through your teeth.

“I don’t want you to act like you care now.”

“I never stopped caring.”

He looked at you, eyes dark with something deeper than just guilt.

“Even when I hated you,” he said, voice low, rough. “Even when I thought you’d picked Stark over everything we had—I still looked. Every op I ran, every leak that hit the darknet, I scanned for your name. I followed rumors that didn’t go anywhere, chased shadows that might’ve been you just to make sure they weren’t a body in a ditch. I watched the world fall apart and kept wondering if you were somewhere trying to hold it together without backup. Without me.”

He hesitated, just long enough for it to ache.

“I left the key, yeah. But that wasn’t the only thing I left behind.” He sighed, heavy. “I left every damn thing I didn’t know how to carry.”

You closed your eyes.

He was close enough now that you could feel the warmth coming off him. Could smell blood and iodine and rain in his clothes.

“You broke my heart, Steve.”

He froze.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with that much space between your ribs, cracked wide open for him to crawl into and never leave again.

“I know,” he said. Quiet. “I think I let it break mine, too.”

You opened your eyes.

He was kneeling now, one hand still pressed near the bandage on your shoulder, the other braced against the edge of the cot. There was nothing noble in the way he looked at you—just tired hope and fractured guilt and a quiet kind of gravity you didn’t know how to fight anymore.

“I should’ve called,” he said. “I should’ve said something. Anything. Even if it was just ‘I’m sorry.’ But I thought—” He stopped, jaw tight. “I thought maybe I’d already burned the last bridge I had with you.”

Steve exhaled slowly, like the breath had been caged in his chest for years.

“I have no right to ask you this,” he said. His voice was even, but the tension beneath it buzzed like a tripwire. “Not after everything. Not after what I did. What I didn’t do.”

You didn’t speak. Just let him feel the silence settle around you.

“But…” he hesitated, eyes dropping for just a second before finding yours again, steady and unflinching. “If you ever thought about it—if you ever wanted to—there’s still space for you at the compound.”

You stared at him.

Not because you hadn’t expected it. But because it still managed to feel like an ambush.

“It’s mostly empty these days,” he said. “We lost more than we could count, and the rest of us… we’re just trying to make sense of what’s left. Nat keeps a list of names on the fridge. People we lost. People we’re still hoping might come back.”

You felt the heat rising in your throat again. Fought it down.

“She hasn’t taken yours off.”

He gave you a small, tired smile. One side only. “Says it’s bad luck.”

“She misses you,” he added. “She’s never said it out loud. But I know she does.”

You swallowed, slow and quiet.

“And you?” you asked.

He didn’t flinch.

“I’ve missed you since Germany,” he said. “I missed you when the world ended. I missed you every time I thought I was about to die and you weren’t there to say something sharp and awful. I miss you like I miss the rest of myself.”

The room went still. No more generator hum. No buzz from the light overhead. Just the echo of five years and every inch of ground you’d both lost in between.

You looked away. Stared at the cracked cement wall like it could offer you something steadier to hold onto than the space between you.

“I’m not the person I was five years ago,” you said.

“I know,” he said. No hesitation. “Neither am I.”

That made something twist in your chest. You hated how easy it would be to say yes. How much you wanted to believe you could step back into something familiar without shattering it in your hands.

You looked at him again.

Steve, kneeling beside you. Bleeding at the seams in ways he didn’t know how to hide. Offering nothing but a fractured truth and the kind of silence that never demanded an answer.

You hated that he didn’t push. Hated that he still knew how to make space for your anger without shrinking under it.

Your voice was quieter now, but no softer.

“I don’t know who I’d be if I went back. And I’m not going to tear myself into pieces just to fit a shape that used to make sense.”

Another long silence.

“I’m not asking you to,” he said finally. “I’m not asking you to come back and be the same person again. I wouldn’t dare.”

You stared at him. Tired. Angry. Still bleeding.

“I’m still angry,” you said.

“I’d worry if you weren’t.”

“And I don’t forgive you.”

He nodded. “I’m not asking for that, either.”

You leaned your head back against the cot. Let your eyes close for a beat too long.

You flexed your fingers once in your lap. Winced.

Then muttered, almost too low for the room to catch it:

“…You’ll owe me a new vest. And a real bed. Maybe something that doesn’t smell like mold and paranoia.”

Steve blinked. A pause. The smallest tilt of his head.

You still didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

“And if anyone makes a welcome-back banner,” you added, sharper now, “I’m walking.”

He huffed a breath. Almost a laugh. Not quite.

“I’ll tell Nat,” he said. “No glitter. No balloons.”

────────────────────────

The sky was overcast when you reached the compound.

Not stormy. Just gray—thin clouds stretched across the horizon like gauze over a wound too old to stitch shut. The breeze kicked up dust along the road, grit catching in the seams of your jacket, the creases of your hands.

You stood there, just outside the security perimeter, backpack strapped across your shoulders and two duffels at your feet. Everything you owned. Everything that had survived the last five years.

The compound looked… smaller.

That surprised you.

The walls were the same steel and glass, the same minimalist brutality softened by age and too many failed repairs. A few windows cracked. Solar panels weathered. A corner of the roof patched with something temporary that had become permanent.

But still—intact.

You weren’t sure what you expected. Ruins, maybe. Proof that it had fallen apart. Something dramatic to match the ache in your chest.

Instead, it just looked tired.

Like everything and everyone else.

It had taken you months to get here.

Not just the logistics—the clean exits, the quiet disavowals. It was everything else. The way you’d hesitated at the last city, pacing the train station. The way your hand hovered over the burner phone every time you thought about calling first.

But mostly?

It was because you’d finally realized you weren’t just afraid of seeing them again. You were afraid of what they might still see in you.

The gate, a slab of reinforced metal that once made you feel invincible, clicked.

You flinched, instinct sharpening for just a second—useless habit. It wasn’t a threat. Just the sensor. It triggered a low, mechanical hum as the fencing began to move. Steel slats groaned, grinding against their own weight, and suddenly the world was in motion again.

The sound snapped your focus back to the present—back to the reality that you’d made it here, that your boots were on this soil again, and that it was too late to turn around.

As the gap widened, so did the hollow place in your chest.

You weren’t ready.

Footsteps echoed against the stone a second later. Measured. Familiar. Sharp, but not rushed.

“Y/N?”

You turned your head just slightly.

Natasha stood just inside the threshold, hair longer now, half red half blonde, tied back in a low knot. Her posture was the same—alert, self-contained—but there was something heavier about her presence. Not weaker. Just worn thinner. Like too many years had passed without enough space to grieve them.

Her voice had cracked on your name. Just barely.

You gave her a soft smile. Couldn’t quite manage anything else.

“Hey.”

She was already moving before the second syllable left your mouth.

Her arms came around you hard, tight enough to knock the wind out of you. You stood there, frozen in the middle of it, your arms hovering awkwardly until instinct took over and you returned the embrace, slower, unsure.

Nat wasn’t one for physical affection. Not even at the best of times.

But five years was a long time.

And somehow, she still smelled like gunmetal and old soap and the damn cherry scented shampoo you’d made fun of her for keeping in her locker.

“I didn’t expect—” you started, but she pulled back before you could finish.

“You’re late,” her hands held you still on the sides of your arms.

The words were dry. Familiar.

“I thought you were dead,” she continued. No drama. Just fact. Her voice had always been like that—flat where other people would’ve cracked.

“I wasn’t,” you said.

“Yeah, well,” she muttered, and looked away, “doesn’t mean it didn’t feel like it.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. Because it was true. Because you hadn’t accounted for what your absence had cost anyone but yourself.

You’d mourned Steve. Hated him. Raged at his silence.

But you had been silent too. Not just to Steve.

You hadn’t spared a second thought for Nat. Hadn’t considered what it had done to her—losing half the world, half the team, you.

Nat’s fingers squeezed once at your arms before they dropped. She stepped back, just far enough to study your face again, her brow furrowing like she hadn’t decided if she wanted to hit you or hug you again.

There was a slight crunch in the gravel. Her eyes flicked over her shoulder—sharpened slightly, lips pressing into a thin line.

You followed the shift in her gaze, the heaviness of it drawing your attention like gravity.

Steve stood a few paces off, just past the edge of the walk where gravel turned to concrete. Hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, hood half-up, boots scuffed. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether to keep walking or turn around and pretend this hadn’t been the moment he’d been waiting for since the day you left that refinery, that safehouse.

His posture was loose, unguarded. But his eyes were already on you.

His hair was shorter than it was at the last time you saw him, trimmed at the sides, still messy up top like he hadn’t bothered to do more than rake his fingers through it. His beard was gone now—just a ghost of stubble left in its place.

You hated the way your chest reacted. Like memory lived deeper than muscle. Like grief didn’t care that time had passed.

It was startling, how fast you remembered.

Not everything. Not clearly. Not the break, or the fighting, or the arguments, or the last bitter words before you split down the middle.

Just the mornings.

Quiet ones. His shoulder against yours. The sound of coffee brewing. That stupid look he’d give you right before saying something so soft it didn’t make sense. You remembered what it felt like to be seen and not touched. Like you were something sacred and volatile at once.

You turned your face back to Nat, trying to buy yourself a breath of steadier ground. She was watching you with something complicated in her expression—something warm and weighty, but edged with a knowing you hadn’t earned yet.

Her eyes flicked toward Steve one last time. Then back to you.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” she said.

Your mouth parted, instinct tugging you into motion, like maybe if you said something fast enough, she’d stay. Give you one more second to breathe before the ground shifted again.

But she was already turning.

“Nat—”

“Don’t take too long,” she said over her shoulder, halfway to the compound doors. “I’ve got something to show you.”

You frowned.

“What is it?”

She didn’t stop walking. Just raised a hand and called back:

“It’s yours.”

And then she was gone—inside the glass entry, vanishing into the corridors beyond. Like she knew exactly when to let go and how much space to leave.

The silence filled in fast. Not loud. Just close.

Steve took a step toward you. Then another. Measured. Hesitant, but not unsure.

You didn’t move.

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” he said.

You shrugged, shouldering the weight of your backpack like it might keep your spine from curling.

“Well,” you said, dry, “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

The corner of his mouth pulled. Barely.

“You always did hate proving me right.”

You gave a noncommittal grunt, eyes scanning the edges of the compound like you were cataloguing damage that didn’t show.

Steve shifted, not quite meeting your gaze now. There was a tension in him you recognized immediately, something coiled and uncertain. Not fear. Just the kind of quiet he wore when he knew the next words mattered more than most.

“You look…” he started, then stopped. Shook his head like the word didn’t work anymore. “You made it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bit early for congratulations, don’t you think?”

“I’m not congratulating you,” he said. “I’m… I don’t know. Glad. That you’re here.”

You looked down. At your boots. At the dirt scuffed by tires and footsteps that didn’t belong to you yet.

“Glad, huh,” you said. The word tasted strange in your mouth. “That’s a safe one.”

Steve didn’t answer right away.

Somewhere above, the clouds thinned. Not all at once—just a slow parting, like the sky couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to let go. But the sun slipped through anyway, carving a thin blade of gold across the compound pavement, warming the back of your neck. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched as the light stretched across the ground, inching forward until it touched the toes of your boots.

Steve’s shadow reached yours a second later, long and familiar, stretching beside your own, close enough to touch and still not close enough.

You didn’t look up.

Couldn’t.

Not with the way he was standing. Not with the way your pulse betrayed you every time you remembered the shape of his shadow next to yours.

Steve shifted. Just slightly. You felt it before you saw it. The warmth of him, the weight of him in your peripheral.

“You cut your hair,” he said, quiet.

You huffed through your nose. “You shaved. I guess we’re both full of surprises.”

His mouth quirked again, but it didn’t last.

Silence settled in again—thicker this time, not uncomfortable, just there.

“I thought about this,” he said eventually. “This exact moment.”

You finally glanced over, just once.

His eyes were on the ground, like he was watching ghosts walk between his boots.

“Didn’t think it would be here,” he continued, looking up towards the sky. “Didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get daylight and your voice in the same breath again.”

You felt that. Low in your throat. In the back of your ribs.

You crossed your arms—not cold, not defensive. Just trying to hold yourself still.

“You still talk like that,” you murmured. “Like your heart’s got a filter for poetry.”

He looked up then. Met your eyes, really met them. And there it was again—that gravity. That pull.

Only now, it wasn’t clean or soft. It was worn. Weathered. Carved out of ash and grit and all the shit you both had to crawl through just to get back to standing distance.

“I don’t know how else to talk to you,” he said. “Never did.”

You held his gaze longer than you meant to.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t smile.

You just let it hit you—how tired he looked. Not defeated. Not broken. But changed. Like every part of him had been sanded down to the essential. The man left standing wasn’t the one who’d walked away.

And he wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He wasn’t asking for anything at all.

Which somehow made it worse.

And somehow made it real.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you said finally, voice soft but not uncertain.

“I don’t want anything,” he said. “Not unless you want to give it.”

You looked away. Just for a second. The wind caught the edge of your coat. The sky was pale now, lit gold at the edges, like even the sun had decided to stay a while longer.

“But if you’re here…” he added. “If you’re staying…”

You waited.

“…Then I’d like to know what it feels like to walk beside you again.”

Your stomach turned over once. Hard.

You swallowed. Fought the crack in your voice before it could form.

“I’m not the same.”

“I know.”

“You can’t have what we had before.”

“I’m not asking for before,” he said. “I’m asking for… after. For now.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t back down. Didn’t press forward either. He just let it sit there between you—quiet, whole.

Something flickered in your chest then. Not surrender. Not trust.

Just a small, sharp willingness to stop running.

And maybe, just maybe, start walking.

With him. With Nat. With the rest of the team that was still here.

“You always were shit at timing,” you said, finally.

His mouth curved. This time, it held.

“And you always were hell to follow.”

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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 2 months ago

Text

Sinnerman

Summary : Bucky Barnes is obsessed with a singer at his favourite jazz club.

Pairing : Mob Boss! Bucky Barnes x Jazz singer! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Mafia AU. Possessive behaviour. Infatuation. Mentions of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse (not by Bucky), alcohol consumption, forced engagement, fake death, protective!Bucky, eventual happy ending, lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes, power dynamics. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 7.4k

Requested by : Ko-fi request from @ruexj283 <3

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

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Masterlist

The club smelled like cigars and sin, just the way Bucky liked it.

It was his haven — his favourite spot to cool down after a long day. He loved the dim red lights, the haze of smoke curling beneath the chandeliers, bourbon on his tongue, jazz in his eardrums. He came for the music, sure, but more so for the control. He owned this place in all but paperwork — the bartender knew what to pour without asking, the manager nodded whenever he walked in, and the girls didn’t even dare make eye contact with the crime boss, just the way he liked it— he never liked attention that invited further questions about his… business.

Until you.

That night, you stepped onto that stage like the room had been waiting for you.

Oh, Bucky thought. A new singer.

Fuck, no one warned him about you. Your voice was as thick as honey, your face sweet as sin. You were dressed in a black and slinky dress, your curves caught the light just right, your lips wrapped around the mic like a lover, looking out into the crowd like you weren’t afraid of a damn thing.

Bucky was fucked the second you opened your mouth.

“Won’t you come along with me,” you sang sweetly, “to the Mississippi?”

He whispered a curse to himself, fingers tightening around his glass. You weren’t just singing — you lived the music, bled it out in those sultry notes. You had the crowd in the palm of your hand. But Bucky… you had him by the throat.

“We’ll take the boat to the land of dreams…”

His eyes never left you. Not once. The music slowed, swelled. You held the last note just a little too long, and his mind went places it shouldn't have.

“Steam down the river, down to New Orleans.”

He imagined your lips bruised from his teeth, mascara running as you sobbed out another note for him, only him, somewhere deep in the cabin he had in the woods, where he kept all his most sentimental items. He closed his eyes and imagined no noise but your voice and the creak of the wooden floor under his boots. He’d keep you there — pretty little thing, singing just for him.

God, the things he’d do. The things he wanted to do.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

When your set ended after ten songs and you disappeared backstage, Bucky stayed in his seat, half-hard, half-crazed, drunk on something far more dangerous than the whiskey in his glass. Obsession had a name now. Obsession had a pretty voice and a perfect body he was still dying to feel in his lap.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver money clip — peeled a few hundreds off like dead skin. He gestured to the bartender.

“Send a bottle of Blanton’s and this—” he slid a folded note across the bar “—to her dressing room.”

The note was simple.

"Sing for me again. -J.B.B."

And then he left, boots echoing in the alley outside, teeth clenched so tight he tasted blood from his gums.

He’d see you again. He had to.

Because Bucky Barnes never left things unfinished — especially not obsessions.

—

Over the next few weeks, the jazz club turned into a shrine.

You were seducing every man and woman in the room, looking right through them all, like they were insects under your heel — and he was no exception.

Oh but he was.

Because unlike the others, Bucky didn’t beg. He didn’t chase. He simply wanted. And when Bucky Barnes wanted something, the world rearranged itself in his favour, right?

Your voice haunted the velvet-lined walls, and Bucky Barnes made sure the goddess on that stage was worshipped properly. He sent everything backstage, from diamonds, to silk, to perfume from Paris, to lipstick in a custom gold case — the exact red shade he imagined smeared on his skin. It always with the same card, always ending in the same initials: — J.B.B.

But you never responded.

No thank you. You didn't even give back coy little notes. You did not even glance his way after the music stopped.

You sang, you smiled, you disappeared behind that red velvet curtain like a mirage. And it was driving him insane.

He watched you from the shadows night after night, never missing a set. A cigarette untouched in his hand, arms tight, eyes following every movement of your hips as you swayed in time with the music. You were wearing them.

The diamond drop earrings.

His diamonds.

They kissed your throat as you sang and caught the stage lights like stars. He’d picked them himself — rare, handcrafted, perfect for your delicate ears. He’d imagined your fingers brushing them, your neck bare save for their shimmer. He wanted to see them on you.

And tonight, he did.

But when you turned, he didn’t see a glance in his direction. You did not say a word, not a word. Not an acknowledgement.

You’d just finished your final number, a slow version of My Funny Valentine that made a grown man at the bar weep into his bourbon. The spotlight dimmed.

When you stepped into the dressing room, a waiter stepped into your dressing room, clutching his tray nervously. "Miss? Uh, there's a gentleman asking for you."

You tilted your head, smiling like a cat that already knew what was waiting. "Hmm… bring him in."

The door opened.

And in walked Bucky Barnes — tailored to kill in a three-piece midnight suit, eyes like the ocean. You recognized him instantly.

The girls have told you about the mob royalty— the killer who looked like a god who didn’t discriminate against whom he put a bullet through. People disappeared when Bucky Barnes wanted them to. Men with ambition feared him. Women with sense stayed away.

But you just blinked, feigning innocence. You weren’t going to satisfy him like that.

“Hi,” you greeted, almost amused.

He didn’t answer at first, staring at the curve of your thighs beneath your robe, the sharp point of your stiletto digging into the plush carpet, the glitter of his diamonds in your ears.

“Were the earrings not enough to get your attention, sweets?” he said finally, his voice rough.

You blinked at him, genuinely puzzled. You reached up, brushing your fingertips against one of them.

“Oh,” you said, your voice light. “These were from you?” You gave him a sheepish little smile, like a cat playing with a bird. “Sorry,” you said, and laughed, “I get so many gifts I forget who sent what.”

That shattered something in him.

And all those notes, all those boxes, all the hours he spent picking out the perfect shade of red, the perfect scent, the softest lace for your skin — all of it just ended up buried under gifts from other men.

That little ottoman in the corner — he’d heard about it in the last few days— a joke among the staff. Your gift box, they’d say, the graveyard of failed suitors.

That was when you cocked your head and said, “Wait. Who are you, exactly?”

God.

Bucky took a slow step forward. His teeth clenched so hard he could feel the pressure in his jaw. Still, his voice came out calm.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said. “But my friends call me Bucky.”

“Is that what we are?” You raised a brow, “Friends?”

He gave a smirk. “We will be.”

You hummed, looking him over like he was a piece of art you hadn’t quite decided on. “Didn’t expect a man like you to send me diamonds.”

Whatever that meant. For all he knew, you were just trying to get under his skin.

“I sent more than diamonds,” he said, stepping even closer. “You never answered.”

You shrugged. “I don’t usually respond to men who try to buy me.”

“You wear the earrings.”

“Because they’re pretty,” you said innocently.

You walked across the room, as if knowing exactly what was on his mind, and popped open the ottoman.

Bucky’s blood went cold.

Inside were jewelry boxes, perfume bottles, lingerie, notes.

So many fucking notes.

“That’s where all the gifts go. I don’t have time to sort them all. There’s just… so many.” You turned back to him, smiling like sin. “It’s sweet, though,” you added lightly. “All these men trying to impress me.”

A nerve twitched in his cheek.

He wanted to burn the whole pile. He wanted to take the earrings off your ears gently and push the pin through the eyeballs of all these men. He wanted you marked by him — in bruises, in scent, in his name whispered into your skin until there was no room for anyone else.

He wanted to destroy it.

To flip the ottoman, scatter everything, scream mine like a fucking animal.

Instead, he walked toward you. When he stopped, he was close enough to feel the warmth of your body, to smell your perfume. Your breath hitched — just slightly — and he caught it.

But instead, he took a slow, calculated step toward you.

“None of those men matter,” he said slowly.

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “No?”

“They don’t even know how to touch a woman like you.”

You gave a little laugh “And you do?”

“I’d learn you,” he said, taking another step. “Every sound. Every look. I’d ruin you for anyone else.”

You pretended to be amused, but your breath was already shallower. He could tell.

“So dramatic,” you teased, stepping back toward the mirror, deliberately putting distance between you. “All this because I didn’t say thank you?”

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he said.

“Don’t I?” you whispered, sweetly mocking. “You look like you want to strangle me and kiss me at the same time.”

He looked down. “Something like that.”

You tilted your head, lashes low. “And what exactly do you want, Bucky?”

“I want you to look at me when you sing,” he said darkly. “I want you to wear those diamonds and know they’re from me. I want you to stop letting a dozen pathetic men think they’ve got a chance.”

“Get in line,” you whispered.

My fucking god.

But still — you leaned in close. So close your lips almost touched his jaw.

“What,” he asked through gritted teeth, “do I have to do to get your attention?”

Your lips brushed his ear. “Try harder.”

Then you pulled away with a soft, smug smile and turned back to your mirror, reaching for your lipstick— the one he gave you.

It was pretty clear— he was dismissed.

Bucky stood behind you, breathing shallow, watching the way your hand trembled just a little as you uncapped the lipstick.

So… you weren’t entirely immune.

Good.

—

He became impossible to ignore.

His attention became more deliberate. More romantic, possessive in a way that felt carved into the bones of the earth. Bucky Barnes didn’t just want you. He worshipped the very ground you walked on. He moved heaven, hell, and every dollar in between to make sure you knew it.

And he did it beautifully.

Every night, your dressing room transformed.

Fresh roses, red as blood, climbed the walls like ivy. You tried to count them once, just for curiosity. You gave up somewhere around two hundred. Their sweet scent wrapped around your throat every time you stepped inside. Even when you went home, it lingered in your hair, on your sheets.

This was Bucky’s scent. This was Bucky’s intention.

Then came more gifts. Not tokens — treasures. You’d find them tucked into satin-lined drawers you had in your dressing room. Designer gowns in every shade he’d ever seen you in, stitched to fit your curves like a second skin. He bought out the entire fall collection of a Parisian house you once mentioned in passing. You opened the boxes one by one, gowns tumbling out.

There were perfumes — rare, discontinued blends that couldn’t be found in stores. He must’ve hunted down perfumers in underground auctions to get them. Each bottle had the same engraving:

Don’t want you wearing anything that’s not mine. — J.B.B.

Oh, did he keep his promise.

He upgraded your shoes. Italian leather stilettos, and then ballet flats for after your set.

And the jewelry — Christ, the jewelry.

The diamond earrings were just a start. He gave you a delicate bracelet that you’d worn every night since. He gave you a choker of black opals that complimented your eyes. A silver anklet with sapphires so dark they looked black in the shadows. Each piece came in velvet boxes with his handwriting tucked neatly inside.

There were nights you tried to reject it all. You’d say to the staff and band backstage, “He’s insane. Who needs this much lace?” but even they noticed the way your voice faltered when you said it.

See, you used to throw out letters from men after one read — now, you hid his in a drawer. You kept every one. You read them when you couldn’t sleep. You memorised the way he described you.

And you did crave it.

You loved it.

You loved how he knew you preferred gin over bourbon, so he sent crates of imported gin from Belgium. He knew your feet ached after sets, so a footstool appeared beneath your vanity, carved with roses. He bought the painting that hung in the corner of your dressing room— the one you said reminded you of your childhood— and replaced it with the original, pulled from a gallery in Rome.

And then the world started changing around you.

The other admirers you had vanished. Gifts started dwindling from everyone else. You didn’t know where they went, and you were too scared to ask. The banker, the actor, the smarmy rich boy with a champagne smile, the countess who offered you a villa in Sicily — all gone. One left town. One was caught in a scandal. One had a car accident. One ended up in the hospital with a broken jaw and no memory of how it happened.

Bucky never brought them up.

And though part of you resented that you couldn’t toy with your audience anymore — couldn’t keep them orbiting you like moths — another part of you… loved it. You loved his singular obsession on you, loved the tunnel vision he got when he looked at you.

Still, when the curtain fell and the stage lights went out, you packed your things and went home to your father and told him everything.

—

You’d just finished your set tonight, when a waitress leaned in and whispered, “Mr. Barnes is waiting for you in his booth.”

You knew which one she meant.

The private one, high above the main floor. Bucky rarely let anyone join him there — just his tight-lipped entourage. But tonight, as you approached, he barely glanced up before giving a command, “Leave us.”

His men didn’t argue.

You slipped into the booth as they filtered out, leaning in just enough to tease. “Fancy seat for a man who claims he doesn’t chase,” you teased, lips curled into a sweet smile.

Bucky didn’t smile — but there was something in the way his eyes flicked up that made you feel seen. “I don’t chase,” he insisted. “I watch. Different thing entirely.”

You leaned back, kicking one heel off lazily. “Mmm. Well, while you’ve been watching, I’ve noticed I’ve lost a few admirers lately.” You pouted, dragging the tip of your finger around the rim of his half-drunk glass. “One used to bring me opera tickets. Another had a private jet. I was building a little collection. And now they’re all…” — you fluttered your fingers — “poof.”

Bucky didn’t flinch.

“Tell me, Bucky.” You leaned closer, teasing. “Did you kill them?”

He didn’t answer at first. He just hummed, then he reached for his bourbon. He sipped, and finally — infuriatingly — shrugged. “Define kill.”

“Jesus,” you shook your head.

“Or maybe I just gave them… a little nudge.” He tilted his head, looking at you from beneath his lashes.

You batted your lashes. “So you just threaten them until they cry into their daddy’s wallets?”

“Not exactly,” he said smoothly, twirling the glass between his fingers. “Some people hear a whisper and imagine thunder. I can’t help what they’re afraid of.”

“Bucky…” you sighed, “what does that even mean?”

He just leaned back and gave you a maddeningly unreadable smile. “Some things just… work themselves out.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m consistent,” he corrected.

Before you could come up with a snarky comeback, he reached down beside him and produced a slim black box, tied with a red silk ribbon. “Here.”

“What now?” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “The deed to the building?”

“Not yet.” He paused, as if seriously considering it. “Open it.”

Inside was a set of lingerie — deep burgundy silk and delicate black lace, soft as you imagined clouds to be, the kind of thing meant to be seen. It was stitched with your initials on the inside band — not his, like many other men would — and for a moment, you were stunned silent.

This just feels so… intimate.

“Bucky…” you said, quieter now, fingers skimming the lace. “This is… beautiful.”

“All yours,” he smiled.

You leaned in to kiss his cheek and in the movement, your skirt hitched just enough for the hem to slip high along your thigh.

Just high enough to reveal the faint purple of a bruise.

His eyes dropped, and his body tensed immediately. “What happened?”

You cursed under your breath before feigning innocence. “Oh, that?” You tugged your skirt down quickly. “I’m just clumsy. Slipped on some stairs backstage. You know how I am.”

He said nothing, just stared. His fist clenched slightly.

You kept smiling — too wide to be genuine. “Don’t look at me like that, Bucky. I’m not porcelain.”

“I know,” he said simply, but he didn’t believe you. Not for a second.

Still, he didn’t press. Didn’t raise his voice or question again. Instead, he knocked twice on the side of the booth. A waiter appeared as if summoned.

“Bring me the Cristal,” he said. “The '56 with a bucket of ice.”

Minutes later, a gloved waiter returned with the most expensive bottle of champagne the club had — nestled in crushed ice and frosted glass. Bucky took it without a word and dismissed the server with a glance.

Then, he wrapped the bottle in a linen napkin and gently pressed it to your thigh.

The chill made you hiss through your teeth. “Jesus, that’s cold.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky lulled. “Sit still. This’ll help.”

His touch was careful and never inappropriate. Not once did his fingers stray. Not once did his eyes flick up your clothing. He didn’t try to peel your skirt higher, didn’t crowd your space, didn’t make a single move you didn’t allow.

Still, he sat with you in that shadowed booth, icing your bruise with four-figure champagne, his own glass untouched beside him. For a second, you wondered if he’d burn cities if you asked. Or even if you didn’t.

“Good girl," he murmured under his breath.

Fuck.

You couldn’t look at him.

“You didn’t have to…” you muttered, maybe a little embarrassed.

“I wanted to,” he insisted, eyes still on the bruise.

After a good fifteen minutes, the bruising became more mild and less angry.

And… you didn't really feel it anymore.

It did help.

He carefully poured two glasses and held on out to you.

You just shook your head, smiling faintly. “Not tonight.” After all, your father probably wanted you home sober.

He nodded, setting it down and turned back to you.

“Need anything else iced?” he asked with dry amusement.

“Depends.” You laughed softly. “You got enough champagne for the rest of my body?”

“I could buy the vineyard,” he said, all too serious. “If that’s what it takes.”

You bit your lip, heart thudding a little too fast.

After that, he didn’t touch you beyond the bottle. He didn’t even lay a hand on your waist, your thigh, your cheek — even though you knew he wanted to.

—

It was a week later when Bucky Barnes was in his usual place. Not a single night had passed without a gift sent backstage.

But tonight…

Tonight you stepped onto the stage wearing black sheer fabric across your skin, your heels clicking like gunshots. The lights hit you in all the right places, illuminating a shiny something new on your left hand.

Bucky saw it immediately.

A diamond ring.

It was not subtle. Worse yet, it was not his.

The music hadn’t even started yet, and Bucky Barnes was frozen with rage.

You had an engagement ring on your finger. A big one.

His jaw ticked once.

Twice.

You didn’t look his way. Not once. Not even when you adjusted the mic and let your lips linger near it like a kiss.

Still, he could tell you were wearing the lingerie he gave you — he could see the faint black lace strap peeking out from the deep plunge of your dress.

But all he could think about was the ring. A fucking ring on your finger.

His fingers curled into fists on the table.

He could barely hear the band start behind you. He couldn’t even taste the drink in front of him. He couldn’t breathe past the blood pounding in his temples.

You were smiling, singing— your voice as honeyed and sultry as ever — but to him, it was venom. Every time you raised your hand, the diamond caught the light, winking like the devil.

Was this a joke?

A punishment?

He couldn’t even look away. He couldn't think about anything except the fact that someone — some other man — had dared to put that ring on your finger while his lingerie lay against your skin.

And you… you knew exactly what you were doing.

You sauntered across the stage, hips swaying in rhythm, that ring gleaming like a brand. Bucky could see the faint indentation of the garter belt strap against your hip under the cling of your dress. His teeth clenched so tight, he could feel the ache in his gums.

He wanted to tear the ring off your hand and replace it with diamonds of his own.

It didn’t belong there.

You didn’t belong to someone else.

—

After your set, after the velvet curtain fell and the stage lights dimmed, sweat started pooling down your neck.

You knew before you even reached your dressing room that he was waiting.

You stepped inside, and there he was.

Bucky Barnes was waiting in the light, suit perfectly pressed, rage rippling beneath his skin like a dog barely leashed.

He was seething.

His eyes dropped immediately to your left hand— to the glittering ring.

He hated it. He knew the stone was too big for your liking— you liked it small and dainty. That was when you saw the muscles in his forearm twitch.

“Who’s that from, huh?” He asked.

You let the question hang for a second too long, deliberately pulling the pins from your hair, letting them fall around your shoulders. You walked slowly toward your vanity, knowing he was watching every sway of your hips like a predator tracking prey.

You met his eyes in the mirror and smiled, fake and honey-sweet.

“Oh, just a fella my daddy wants me to marry,” you said with a lightness that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You reached up to toy with the ring, twisting it idly on your finger. “He’s rich. Handsome, but mean.” You turned. “Not nice, like you.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, stepping forward into a pool of light. “I’m not fucking nice.”

You shivered.

There it was—his truth. He was not nice, but protective. Dangerously, obsessively attentive.

He stalked toward you slowly, like he was trying not to break glass. You could practically feel the tension pouring off of him.

“You wore my lingerie onstage tonight,” he murmured, looking at the strap peeking out.

You bit your lip. “Did I?”

“You wanted me to see it.”

“Maybe.”

You were playing, but he wasn’t. His expression darkened, his eyes dropping again to the ring.

“You don’t love him,” he said. It was a question.

You turned back to the mirror, reaching for the lipstick he gave you. “Who says I don’t?”

He took another step forward. He was so close now, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“Because you still wear everything I send you,” he said, looking at the pile of paper on the side. “You read my letters. You haven’t missed a single one.”

You didn’t argue—he was right.

“So tell me…” he continued, “Why the fuck are you wearing another man’s ring?”

You tried to joke again— tried to deflect. “Maybe I like the attention. You boys get all riled up.”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he leaned in just enough for his breath to brush your cheek. His voice was a growl, “You like me riled up, sweetheart?”

You turned your head, lips inches from his. “I like knowing you’re watching. I like that you’d burn the world if I asked.”

He still didn’t touch you.

But his eyes burned into you, holding himself back like a beast on a leash, and somehow… that made it worse.

“You think I’d still want you with his ring on your hand?” he asked, voice harsh. “You think I’d share you with someone who doesn’t even know what perfume you wear?”

You swallowed hard. Your mouth was dry, your knees… shaky.

You turned fully to face him, eyes searching. “Bucky—please.”

Your hand reached up, cradling his cheek gently.

He breathed out through his nose, like he was trying to smother wildfire in his mind. Still, his hands stayed at his sides. His control was infuriating, and it only made you want him more.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, voice almost regretful. “Not unless you take that fucking ring off.”

You stared at him.

And then, with trembling fingers, you slipped the engagement ring from your finger and dropped it onto the vanity with a small, deliberate clink.

“Good girl,” he murmured, dark satisfaction curling into his smile.

His hands reached for you then— fingertips brushing your waist like he was learning you note by note. You felt his breath at your throat before his lips even touched your skin, and when they finally did—

Oh.

He kissed you like he’d waited centuries. His hands cupped your jaw, your back, your hips. The kiss deepened, and your knees buckled, his arms catching you before you fell.

“You don’t want to marry him,” he growled against your mouth.

“No,” you breathed. “I don’t.”

“Say it again.”

“I don’t want him. I want you.”

That was the only permission he needed.

He lifted you up onto the vanity and whispered all the filthy, possessive things he’d been holding back for weeks.

His hands were on either side of your face, holding you. Your thighs parted naturally, your heels slipping against the stool as he stepped between them. His tongue slid against yours and your fingers tangled in the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer, closer, until your hips tilted against his and you could feel exactly how badly he wanted you.

Your lipstick smeared, your breath came out in whimpers, and still—he never once lost control.

You gasped into his mouth when his hand curled around the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your earlobes.

“Fuck,” you whispered against his lips, “I can’t—can’t think.”

He gave a dangerous chuckle and pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His pupils were blown, his control hanging by a thread.

“Stop thinking, darling,” he whispered against your skin.

You surged up to kiss him again, and this time it was messy, desperate—your body pressing into his, your hands sliding beneath his jacket to feel more of him. He let you, just for a moment.

Then he pulled back fists clenched tight.

“Enough,” he rasped, eyes blazing.

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

His fingers slid to your hips, gripping firmly— as he pulled you forward to the very edge of the vanity. His lips brushed your cheek, down to your ear.

You tried to chase his mouth again but he gently pushed you back with a hand on your thigh, shaking his head.

“I’m not fucking you here,” he growled. “You’re not some backstage fantasy,” he said. With a smooth motion, he helped you down off the vanity, keeping you steady when your legs wobbled. “I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” you echoed.

“My home,” he clarified, brushing your tangled hair back. “Where you can scream if you want.”

You shivered.

He reached for your coat, draped it over your shoulders, and kissed the top of your head.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me ruin you comfortably.”

—

Bucky's penthouse was exactly what you’d imagined— dark wood, steel, and bulletproof glass. It sat above the city, high enough that the chaos below couldn’t touch him.

From what you heard, no one ever got this far. No one ever made it inside.

Except you.

No one else was here.

No guards. No staff. No distant footsteps. This was a space no one entered unless they were meant to stay.

He brought you in without a word, his hand firm on your lower back as he guided you across marble floors.

He didn’t offer you a drink or make small talk.

Bucky walked you into his bedroom like he was leading you to a confessional. As if he was finally going to sin the way he’d always wanted with you.

When he finally turned to face you, his eyes were darker than you'd ever seen.

“You sure?” he asked.

You nodded, heart already in your throat. “I’ve never been more sure.”

That was all he needed.

He stepped into you and kissed you again. His jacket hit the floor first. Then your coat, your shoes, his tie. The tension between you was molten, almost unbearable.

He touched you like he’d memorised every curve without ever laying a hand on you.

He laid you down on your bed. His hands skimmed beneath the hem of your dress, and then higher, higher, until—

Fuck.

His hand was on your hip, and his thumb had just brushed the edge of ink into your skin.

Bucky froze completely.

Then he pulled back and knelt in front of the bed.

You watched the moment realization hit.

His eyes locked on the tattoo on your right hipbone, just beneath the strap of the lace underwear he had bought you. Black ink— a skull with tentacles.

The mark of a rival, of Alexander Pierce’s syndicate.

“What the fuck…” he rasped, heart caught between betrayal and disbelief. “That’s Pierce’s crest.”

You looked down lazily, like you’d forgotten it was even there, then let out a dry, amused sound.

“Oh,” you said, mock-sweet. “That old thing?”

He looked like he’d been shot.

He stood slowly, hands dropping from your skin.

Your heart twisted.

“Daddy says hello,” you scoffed, propping yourself on your forearms now.

Bucky stared at you like he didn’t even know your name anymore.

“You…” he breathed, shaking his head. “You’re his daughter?”

You tilted your head in shame, but didn’t deny it.

His fists clenched at his sides.

Pierce. Fucking Pierce. He knew the man had an apprentice he adopted as his own daughter. He had heard whispers of an heir’s engagement.

He didn’t realise it would be… you.

“You’re engaged to Brock Rumlow,” he realised, saying the name through gritted teeth, as if the name burned his tongue.

“In name only,” you said quickly.

“The son of a bitch torched my cache on 52nd!” he nearly shouted

You bit your lip, hating that you were making excuses. “He didn’t do it personally. Just ordered it.”

“Oh, great,” Bucky snapped, his hands flying up. “Then it’s totally fine.”

You could see it behind his eyes—see the brutal, bloody instincts pulling him in two different directions.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same if you had the intel.”

“But I didn’t,” he snapped. “Because you kept me distracted.”

You tilted your head, unbothered by his fury, by the way he looked like he might put a bullet in the wall just to bleed off the rage.

He ought to step away and find a less maddening obsession. He ought to send you back to your father in a body bag. Fuck, he had killed people for less.

But he was in too deep now.

“Why?” he growled. “You get off on making me want you?”

You sat up now, brushing your fingers down his bare chest. Your eyes didn’t quite meet his.

“How was I supposed to know,” you said, defensive now. “That I was going to fall in love with the man I’m spying on?”

You loved him?

You—this woman who outsmarted him, danced around him, haunted him—you loved him?

He should’ve grabbed the nearest gun. Should’ve asked you what intel you’d passed on. Should’ve demanded to know how many of his secrets you’d whispered into your father’s ear.

But instead… he smiled.

Just a little. Just for a second.

“You love me,” he said, almost to himself.

“Bucky…” You reached down and hiked your skirt higher, the fabric slipping over your thighs until the black lace revealed more skin marked by bruises. Some were fading, but there.

One above your hipbone, as if someone had gripped your waist in place, and another over your tummy.

Bucky's stomach dropped.

Your voice was almost a whisper. “My fiancé,” you said bitterly. “He touches me when I ask him not to. You… always ask.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. He looked at the bruises like they were mortal sins.

“I’ll kill him,” he said to himself, quiet as the grave.

He already suspected it, but he didn’t want to believe it. He just found it so difficult to even think that someone touched you without love. That someone put their hands on your body and didn’t worship it.

Fuck, he hated how much he cared.

You were supposed to be a spy. A trap. But here you were, with tears clinging to your lashes and bruises blooming like violets and you hadn’t asked him for revenge.

You asked him to understand.

“He’s mean,” you whispered again, “but you… you’d never hurt me.”

You expected him to yell.

You didn’t expect the way he suddenly closed the space between you, grabbed your face in both hands, and kissed you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

It was not rough, not bruising. He kissed you like a man dying of thirst and finding water for the first time.

His hands were everywhere, palms sliding over your ribs, your back, your arms, anchoring you to the bed.

“You love me?” he whispered against your lips, as if he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks, breathless and shaking. “I tried not to”

He hoisted you up, pushing you back on the bed until your back hit the headboard. You reached for him, pulling him down with you. His body was all tension, all hunger, but his eyes were tender.

He hovered above you, lips tracing down your neck, your collarbone. You arched into him, gasping his name like a prayer.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “Tell me now, sweetheart, or I’m not letting go of you ever again.”

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then take it off,” he ordered, voice wrecked.

You pulled the dress up and over your head, revealing the bruises, the lace, the curve of your body. He hissed when he saw the full extent of the marks, dragging his fingers along your skin.

“I should’ve known,” he cursed to himself. “I should’ve fucking known.”

He kissed your stomach, slowly dragging your soaked lingerie down your hips, his mouth trailing behind the path of the lace. He reached your hipbone and paused. His lips ghosted over the tattoo. He kissed your thigh, just beside the bruises, and you sobbed.

He kissed every inch of your skin like he was rewriting the damage Rumlow had done.

Then… he took his time.

He worshipped you.

He dragged your pleasure out until you were sobbing into his neck, clawing at his back, begging him to stop teasing and just take you—until finally, finally, he did.

“Fuck,” he gasped, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve been dreaming of you. Every fucking night, princess.”

Tears slid from your eyes. You were overwhelmed by the stretch, the need, the overwhelming feeling of being wanted—not used, not claimed, but desired.

It wasn’t about power, not anymore. It was about need and connection and love so stupidly strong it felt like it could tear the sky apart.

Your fingers clawed into his back, your legs tight around his hips as he fucked ou. He watched every change in your expression. Every gasp, every whimper. He kissed you through every little tremble in your voice.

He grunted your name like a mantra, his hand gripping your throat—not hard, just there—a reminder who your loyalties should lie with.

And you took all of it, screaming his name breaking again and again beneath his hands, his mouth, his body.

And when you came beneath him, he followed you into the abyss.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t even move. He held you there, forehead to yours, both of you still shaking.

You were quiet, lips still swollen from his kisses, heart threatening to burst through your ribs.

You touched his face. “You should hate me.”

“I did,” he said, kissing your cheek. “For about five seconds.”

You could only laugh.

Then he pulled back, just enough to see your face, to make sure you heard him.

“I don’t care who your fucking father is,” he said. “I don’t care what deal he made with the Rumlows. No one gets to treat you like a pawn. No one gets to hurt you, okay?”

You nodded, smiling through your tears.

“Okay.”

—

A year later…

Bucky Barnes finally got his wish.

He got you.

Not just on your knees, not just in his bed, not just in pretty two-pieces — no.

He got all of you.

That dark though he had when he first saw you? He got it.

He got you his cabin surrounded by evergreens, miles from the rest of the world.

Six months ago, Bucky helped fake your death — a fiery car wreck on a rainy night outside of the city. The funeral was closed-casket. Rumlow didn’t even show up. Alexander Pierce wore black and whispered to his men that someone would pay. But no one ever found a body.

And now here you were.

Hidden.

The cabin was tucked into the woods, an hour from anything that mattered, and only 30 minutes from the small town that knew you both as Mr. and Mrs. Barnes — newcomers who only paid in cash and loved black coffee and kept mostly to themselves.

Bucky bought the land under a different name, of course. It’s untraceable, just to make sure Pierce would never use you as his pawn ever again. To make sure Rumlow would never place a hand on you.

You spent your time planting vegetables in the garden and singing with the birds every morning. He chopped wood shirtless just to get a reaction out of you.

He married you shortly after your fake death, a private ceremony with only two of his closest men as witnesses. So now, he spent most of his days playing house with you — which is absurd if you think too hard about it.

The infamous James Buchanan Barnes — mob royalty — wiping down countertops and building you a porch swing just because you mentioned it off-handed one day.

He could still snap a man’s neck with one hand. Still has a gun in every drawer. Still keeps a go-bag under the floorboards.

But now, he reads next to you in bed.

He sleeps with his arms around your waist and his nose in your hair.

He does the dishes.

You kept your diamonds — tucked away the ottoman he managed to transport discreetly— but you haven’t worn them in months. You used to live off silk and lace, but now you live in oversized sweaters and cotton panties, lounging across Bucky’s lap with a book while he traces lazy circles on your thigh as he rubbed herbal ointments on the bruises that never quite disappeared.

You still get gifts, of course, because he can’t help himself.

But they’re different now.

He gave you boots for the cold, handmade pottery from a local artist, and a woven scarf in your favorite shade of green. Things that say I see you instead of I own you.

Every once in a while, when he’d go to the city for one of his business trips, he’d still buy you Cartier just for the hell of it.

In return, you wore his shirts, made him breakfast, smushed his cheek against yours after he shaved. You teased him about the way he always kissed your ring when he thought you weren’t looking.

Today, you were slicing peaches by the sink, the hem of Bucky’s shirt you stole this morning brushing your thighs every time you moved. The cabin windows were cracked open, letting in a breeze that smelled like pine and rain. His favourite soup simmered on the stove, and the radio played sleepy jazz in the background.

It was the kind of evening you never thought you’d live to have.

And Bucky was sitting at the kitchen table, shirtless, reading a book he’d never admit was romance.

You glanced over your shoulder and caught him staring.

“Y’know,” you said playfully, flicking a bit of cinnamon onto the peaches, “you’ve been spending less and less time in the city lately.”

He made a low groan in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You licked the cinnamon off your finger, knowing it would drive him crazy. “Almost like your… business is running itself.”

He chuckled — the kind of laugh that always made your toes curl.

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “Just saying, someone’s gotta keep your empire from burning down. And you’ve been out here pretending you’re a farmer.”

Bucky rose from the chair. “Well, now I’m thinking…” He walked and stopped in front of you, crowding into your space, sliding his hands beneath your shirt to rest against the bare skin of your waist. His thumbs brushed lazy circles just above your hips. “…I might just retire.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Retire?”

He kissed your nose, your cheek, then the corner of your lips.

“Let Steve and Sam run the show,” he said. “They’re ready. Besides—” he leaned in, whispering now, lips brushing your ear— “I’ve got more money than I could ever spend in a lifetime, and only one woman I give a damn about sharing it with.”

You melted into him instantly, wrapping your arms around his neck, cheek pressed to his warm chest as you swayed to the gentle sound of Nina Simone’s Sinnerman.

“And who might that be, Mr. Barnes?”

He held you tighter and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“You, Mrs. Barnes,” he said simply. “Only ever you.”

You listened to the steady thump of his heart and only heard calmness.

“Retirement does sound lovely,” you whispered, letting your hands drift down his back, your fingertips tracing the scars there. “No more blood or deals. Just you, me, and these peaches.”

“And a cat,” he said into your hair.

You looked up, eyes wide. “Are we getting a cat?”

He grinned. “You want a cat?”

“I always want a cat.”

“Then we’re getting a cat,” he said like it was a goddamn decree.

You kissed him, soft and messy, the cutting board and the peaches and the stove completely forgotten.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes a little glassy.

“I’d still kill for you, though,” he added casually. “Just so we’re clear.”

You laughed, sniffling. “You say that so sweetly.”

“Just facts, baby,” he said. “Anyone ever tries to hurt you again—” he kissed your neck, “—I’ll paint the whole fucking forest red.”

“I know.”

See, the obsession never left.

It lingered, peeking out in the way his eyes tracked your every move, in how he still slept with a knife within reach, in how he looked at you like he wanted to crawl under your skin and live there.

It should’ve scared you, but goddamn you, a sick, twisted part of you loved that somewhere deep in this domestic life, he was still willing to ruin the world for you.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

@shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder @natalia42069

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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 2 months ago

Text

Bruises Pt 2 | Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: When you find yourself in an abusive relationship, you never thought your attending Jack Abbot would become your protector and saving grace.

TW: domestic violence, addiction, alcohol, age gap relationship (reader is in late 20s & Jack is 49), fluff, thoughts of su!cide, mentions of not eating, vomiting, gun violence, violence against women, Jack beats ass, angst, eventual smut. Not beta read. Likely typos. Lmk if there is anything else!

Word Count: 4.5k

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Omg TYSM for all the love on Part 1. I love you all.

& thank you to @lavenderdaisychain for helping me brainstorm a bit !!

"Wait, what?" you asked, following Jack down the stairs, struggling to keep up. For a guy with a prosthetic foot, he sure was fast. You protested all the way down the elevator; as you gathered your things, on the walk to the parking garage, but you still found yourself in the front seat of his truck. Your mind said one thing, yet your body said another. It was like he was a magnet, and no matter hard you tried, you could not fight the gravitational pull.

"You like Pearl Jam?" he asked, playing with the radio as the cars engine warmed up.

"Uh, yeah, they're okay."

"Well then who do you like?"

"Oh I dont know, lots of stuff..."

"Such as?"

"Pearl Jam is fine, Jack." You slumped back into the seat, your heart beating out of your chest at the situation you found yourself in. You weren’t entirely sure you’d make it to his house without vomiting.

Jack turned the music up a little bit, trying to cut the tension between you two.

“I just want to scream hello” he sang to himself as “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town” played quietly over the hum of the cars engine. You were a bit shocked, he actually had a nice voice. Smooth, soft and quiet. As the two of you drove, the lively crowded city streets of downtown Pittsburgh soon faded into the affluent suburbs of Upper St. Clair.

He pulled into the long driveway, and turned the engine off with a click. He watch as you studied his home, looking at the brick exterior and the perfectly landscaped lawn. You didn’t exactly know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t something as charming at this. It looked homey and welcoming. You were so preoccupied, you didn’t even notice Jack hop out and walk around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you a hand.

Each step closer to the front door you felt more and more nauseous. Before stepping inside the mud room you swallowed the impending vomiting rising in your stomach. He sat down on the bench sat by the front door and removed his prosthetic. He groaned a bit as he massaged his sore stump before grabbing his crutches and making his way to the kitchen.

“When’s the last time you iced your eye?” He asked, pulling out a frozen bag of peas. He flipped on the TV to watch the reruns of the Pirates game. It was strange to see Jack in his natural habitat, moving around his home with ease.

“Uh not since yesterday morning.” Your phone buzzed with a call from Charlie, and you tried to silence it before Jack could notice.

“That Charlie?” He asked, his face almost turning a shade of crimson as the anger bubbled in his chest.

“No uh- just a scam call.” He knew you were lying again as he handed you the peas. You couldn’t get anything past him. Jack nodded and disappeared down his hallway only to come back with some sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"I can run you a shower and you can change into this. Unfortunately, my nightgown days are long behind me, so I hope you dont mind settling for these." he showed you the bathroom and set them on the sink.

"Nightgown? Im 28, not 82." you chuckled. "These are fine... thank you, Jack."

He stood there in the door frame staring at you, those damn hazel eyes always staring at you, into you. It wasn't until you raised your brow at him that he snapped out of his daze and excused himself. As you waited for the water to heat up you took the time to water the dying plant on the windowsill. He could crack a chest, crike a man under gunfire, and do a REBOA with his eyes shut, but couldn't keep a plant alive?

Before you knew it, you were snooping in his medicine cabinet. It was just typical first aid supplies- gauze pads, Neosporin, Advil, but what caught your eye was the bottle of oxy. You assumed it was for his injury and the pain that still lingered. However, the dust that collected on the lid made it safe to assume its been mostly untouched. Nevertheless, it didnt stop you from popping the lid off and pouring a few into your hand. The temptation was there. Just take them. Swallow them. You'll fall asleep and hopefully never wake up. Painless. But Jack- he would be the one to break down the door and find your lifeless body. You physically tried to shake the image from your mind as you quickly put the bottle back where you found it.

Climbing into the hot shower, the water stung your fresh wounds. You had been afraid to look at your back, you just knew it was bad. You weren't exactly sure what he beat you with, a cord of some sort. Each lash feeling like hot coals on your back. The way your scrub top rubbed against the raw flesh made your breath shake and words falter. You could wash away the dirt and grime of the day, but you could not wash away the feeling of Charlie's hands on your body.

As you hopped out you wrapped the towel loosely around your chest, not wanting to further irritate your back any further. Shutting your eyes you braced yourself for the mirror. Opening, your breath caught in your throat as you choked back a sob. One lesion in particular was red, hot, and weeping; sure sign of an infection, and you needed antibiotics before cellulitis set in. You raided his medicine cabinet one more time, looking high and low for something so you didnt have to ask Jack to write you a fucking prescription. You found some amoxicillin which didnt you much good since:

A. It was expired.

B. You were allergic.

When you exited the bathroom wearing Jacks baggy sweats, you found him camped out in the living room, his arm draped over the back of the couch.

"Hey," he said softly "Feeling any better? Figured you could take the bedroom and go get some sleep."

"I'm not letting you sleep on the couch. That cant be comfortable."

"I spent 3 tours sleeping in the middle of the desert. I think I'll manage." he furrowed his brow and sat up, flipping off the TV. "What's wrong?"

How the fuck did he know you so well? Was your poker face really that bad? Or could he just read your mind.

"Can you write me a script for antibiotics?"

"For what?"

"Just a little something on my back. Might be infected."

"Let me take a look" he said, patting the couch next to him, motioning you to sit down.

"It's in a really awkward spot, I'm just not sure I'm comfortable..."

Jacks face fell, his jaw clenching even tighter.

"How bad is it?" he asked, almost demanding an answer from you. You bit your lip, looking up at the ceiling to stop the tears that were rising in your eyes. He grabbed your hand, pulling you down next to him on the couch, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

"Umm," your voice began to shake, "It's not great. But I'm sure its not as bad as it looks. I mean- Charlie always says I'm a bit dramatic when it comes to my own health. Probably all the stuff we see at work, ya know?"

Jack cupped the side of your neck, his thumb moving back and forth across your cheek. The feeling nearly took your breath away, and you werent entirely sure you didnt let out a small gasp at his touch.

"If you want me to write a script, I need to see what I am treating. Can I please look at what is bothering you?" Jack was practically pleading. If he had not been studying your face, he'd have missed your subtle nod.

He began to talk you through it, his hands finding the bottom of your shirt- well, his shirt, gently pulling it away from your skin. He began to raise the shirt higher and higher as he exposed your back, covered in zig-zagged cuts that almost resembled a Pollock painting. When he reached the particular spot on your back- the spot you were worried about- his hands froze. He clenched his jaw so tightly that he thought his teeth would shatter.

“It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it looks…” you try and break the tension.

“This looks like the start of cellulitis. I think I have some amoxicillin in the medicine cabinet. I’ll be right back…” he stood up but you stopped him before he could get too far.

“I’m allergic… plus it’s expired. I already looked…” his frowned slightly at your admission. “I was hoping I’d find something so I wouldn’t have to show you. I’m sorry.” Jack shook his head assuring you it was okay, that he understood.

“What did he hit you with?” He asked, pulling up your shirt once more to see the damage. His fingers brushing delicately against your skin. You shrugged your shoulders, because again, you didn’t know what he used. What he used to lash you with, over and over and over again, like you were some animal. You can still hear the sound of it making contact with your skin, your eyes shut, begging, pleading, praying for it to stop.

Jack knelt in front of you, steadying himself by placing his hand firmly on your knee.

“I’m gonna run back to the hospital and get you some IV antibiotics and some lidocaine injections for your back. You rest…in the bedroom not the couch. And I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Jack you’re exhausted, I can go pick something up if you call it in.” He shook his head, putting his prosthetic back on. He pointed down the hallway to his bedroom before once again speaking, “rest. I mean it. You need to rest.”

After he left you made your way down the hallway. A few photos were on the wall. Childhood photos, one with his family after what you can only assume was basic training, and some artwork Robby’s daughter made for him. It was a portrait of Jack in his Army uniform, holding an American flag. She made note to draw an arrow pointing to the shortened leg and write in all caps “YOUR FAKE LEG.” You audibly chuckled at not only the drawing, but the fact he decided to frame it and hang it up.

Walking into his room felt you were traveling into some unknown territory. Somewhere you know you shouldn’t be. It felt taboo. Forbidden. Your stomach flipped as you sat at the edge of the bed, trying to figure out which side was his. Eventually you crawled under the covers, the pillows smelled like him- minus the hospital. Warm, cozy, and inviting. Your eyelids began to grow heavy as his scent lulled you to sleep.

Hours later you woke up in a cold sweat, your heart racing. Something was attached to your arm, and it took a few moments and the flick of the bedside lamp to realize it was an IV.

He started the IV when you were asleep? How didn’t you wake up?

You checked the IV bags and found an empty bag of antibiotics and an empty bag of saline. Poor Jack stayed up to change the IV bags for you. You checked the clock and it was 6:15. There were 35 missed calls and over 100 texts from Charlie.

"Where the fuck are you?"

"Called the hospital. They said you left."

"When you get home you are in for it."

"Stop being a fucking bitch and answer your phone."

"Come on baby, I miss you. Come home please?"

"You fucking cunt."

Walking down the hallway you found him asleep on the couch, hugging a pillow to his chest. You smiled at how peaceful he looked, but still somehow seemed to be on guard. He sat up quickly causing you to jump backwards.

“Shit,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Likewise…you gave me IV fluids?”

“Your lips were chapped, you’re dehydrated.”

“You’re a good stick, I didn’t even wake up.”

“Either that or you sleep like a brick.”

"Take the compliment, Jack."

Your phone buzzed again, another call from Charlie, and then a pound on the door. Did you ever turn off your location? Fuck. Jack stood quickly, ushering you back into the bedroom.

"Lock the door." he demanded before opening his gun safe, and pulling out his handgun. Your eyes widened as you crouched down beside his bed, away from the view of the door and windows. You tried to slow your breathing, but it felt as if all air has escaped your lungs. Your legs were shaking, your hands were tingling, and with each gasp of breath, your vision got more and more blurry. You saw stars. When Jack knocked on the door, you barely heard it.

"It was a pizza delivery man, wrong house, for the Hamiltons next door. You can open up." when you didnt answer, he knocked again but this time a little harder. "You okay?" He tried the handle once more before pressing his ear against the door. He heard your quiet sobs, and gasps as you struggled to catch your breath.

Your head began to fall forward as the darkness crept in. There were two loud bangs and suddenly you felt hands on you, scooping you up and laying you on the bed. You couldn't see, your eyes still glazed over with darkness.

"NO! NO! NO!" You began to scream, kick, hit, and scratch.

"No, no, its Jack. Take a deep breath for me. Slow your breathing for me, baby." he tried his best to restrain your trashing body. His words were fuzzy as the adrenaline and cortisol coursed through every inch of your body. A cold compress on your forehead made your entire body jolt. As Jack gently wiped away the perspiration it began to slowly bring to back down to earth.

"J-j-j-" your teeth chattered and eyes fluttered as he slowly shushed you.

"You're okay, I got you. You gotta slow your breathing for me." he placed his hand firmly on your stomach, his other still gently wiping the beads of sweat from your forehead and chest with the cold rag. "You gotta breathe with your diaphragm. Feel my hand? Make my hand go up and down, okay?"

He tried to ground you as you let out a slow, long, shaky breath. His hand rising and falling on your stomach.

"That's it, good girl." he whispered. "It's almost over."

You dont know how long it took you to come out of your panic attack, but suddenly you felt like you got hit by a bus. Jack standing over you as your body dripped with sweat, teeth still chattering.

"I'm- I'm s-" you tried to apologize as the room spun. Your eyes shut as Jack began to rub his hand across your hair.

"Shhh, shhh...its okay. Catch your breath." he whispered as he wiped away a tear that had fallen down your cheek. You let out a soft moan at his soft touch, causing his stomach to do a flip.

He came back with a glass of water and his backpack, pulling out a prescription bottle from the front pocket.

"I'm gonna give you something to relax. I take this when I...it'll help." Jack cleared his throat and pulled out a Klonopin. Helping you sit up, he held the glass to your lips.

He took out his pulse ox and put it on your finger, showing you that your oxygen saturation was 99%, assuring you that you were getting enough oxygen as you waited for your breathing to normalize. He took your blood pressure and checked your heart rate.

"BP is a bit low, 90/60. Your heart is compensating for that so your a little tachy at 125. But I got you, you're safe."

It took about 15 minutes for the Klonopin to lower your heart rate enough to feel like you could breathe again. You were exhausted, sore, and a sweaty mess. The door was broken off the hinges, splinters of wood strewn about the floor. When the reality of what happened began to sink in, you were mortified. He broke down the door. You head fell forward and he began to massage your shoulders that were still incredibly tense.

"I'm so sorry, Jack." the words came out muffled as your head was buried in your hands.

"Dont apologize..."

"But your door! I'll pay for a new one. I promise."

"Screw the door. I'm just glad you're okay. You scared me for a second."

Scared? Jack Abbot didnt get scared. This was the man who has been elbow deep in someone’s chest cavity performing internal chest compressions. The many who has done a thoracotomy under gunfire. The man who has quite literally lost his leg to an IED.

“I just thought that…”

“That it was him… I know. Look at me.” Jack took your face in his hands. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, understand? He’s not gonna hurt you anymore.”

As the medicine began to kick in, your body started to grow heavy against the pillow, eyelids fluttering.

“Lay with me until I fall asleep?” You asked in a sleepy delirium. Jack hesitated but crawled into bed next to you. He tested the waters to see how close he could get, inching closer and closer when you said, almost incoherently “I feel safe with you, Jack.” It was almost an invitation.

“I like keeping you safe.” He whispered into your neck, wrapping his arm around your midsection. He didn’t want to let you go, and as you drifted into a deep sleep, you melted deeper and deeper into him.

As morning broke, the suns rays shone through the cracks in his blackout curtains. He tightened his grasp around you as your stirred beneath him, his arm still tethering you to him. You felt puffs of air on the back of your neck, and you smiled to yourself at the sensation. The broken bedroom door snapped you back to reality; the reality of the night prior; the reality you were in Jacks arms and not your fiancés. You only remember bits pieces of the panic attack that consumed you, clouding your mind and judgement. Your body jolted which shook Jack awake.

“Hey, hey, hey, you okay?” He sat up quickly, his curly hair sticking in every which direction. God he looked absolutely perfect.

“We slept together?”

“I wouldn’t say it like that. You had a rough night and you asked me to lay with you. I must have fallen asleep.” This was unlike Jack. He didn’t sleep. Especially at night. He thrived in the darkness, sought comfort in it. Not to mention is circadian rhythm was totally fucked from working the night shift.

Jack got up and made some eggs, which you pushed around the plate with your fork.

"What you dont like my cooking?" he chuckled as he watched you frown at your plate.

"No, I dont have much of an appetite, probably from the antibiotics." In reality, you dont remember the last time you had a full meal. You had lost a considerable about of weight and Jack noticed, hell, everyone in the Pitt noticed. It wasn't something that was intentional, but you couldn't seem to stomach anything without a mouth watering gag. But you didnt want to seem rude, so you held your breath and took a bite. It wasn't until you swallowed that things turned sour. Your skin was soon cast with a green hue and you sprinted to the bathroom. Jack followed to find you with your head in the toilet, your stomach revolting against you from only one solitary bite. He held your hair back and you gagged and heaved, and then placed a cool rag on the back of your neck.

"I know I'm no Gordon Ramsay, but I didnt think my cooking was that bad." he joked as you wiped your mouth and slumped against the wall. Despite the circumstance, a chuckle managed to escape your lips.

Suddenly Jacks face fell and he quickly stood, using the bathroom sink to steady himself.

"Jack?" you called out to him, "Jack what wr-"

"Shhh" he whispered, signaling with his index finger to his lips.

"Shots fired, shots fired, Pittfest. Multiple victims."

His police scanner blared as police, fire, and EMS were dispatched to the scene.

"I gotta go. They'll all be going to The Pitt." he quickly threw on a scrub top that was probably still dirty from the night before.

"I'm going with you." you grabbed your things.

"No, you've got broken ribs, a broken face, and an infection. You're staying here."

"Jack." you repeated "I'm going with you. I'll triage, but I'm coming with you."

"Triage, thats it. Not traumas. Got it?" he grabbed his go-bag and the both of you sped out the door. The sirens blared as you inched closer to PTMC, the traffic and chaos already ensuing outside. Jack ran towards the ER like he was back in the army running towards gunfire. You set up your post in the ambulance bay with Shen and Ellis. People came by ambulance, police car, work vans, its was nothing you had ever seen before. Body after body, they just kept coming. Suddenly your heard a voice, and your blood ran cold.

"Hey!" it was Charlie, his face darkening as he saw you. "It's Jeff! He's been hit. You gotta save him." You leapt into the back of the pickup and felt for a pulse. When you didnt feel a thing, you screamed for a gurney and immediately started administering chest compressions. You could hear Jack's voice in the back of your mind with each thrust,

"Triage, thats it. Not traumas. Got it?"

You felt your own ribs cracking with each compression, the air nearly escaping from your lungs as you pushed through the pain. The cuts on your back that begun to close were now opening again. Jack was too busy with his hand in someones intestines that he didnt see you wheeled into Trauma 3, Charlie following. After 45 minutes, multiple rounds of epi, and 2 bags of O neg, you knew he had no chance. The bullet went straight through his heart, it was unsurvivable.

"Time of death.. 13:4-"

"Where the fuck have you been?" Charlie hissed.

"Charlie...I-I-"

"What the fuck are you doing? Why'd you stop? Go save him! Save Jeff!"

"I did all that I could, I'm so-"

"You fucking killed him!"

"Charlie, the injuries were too severe. There was nothing else I could do. The bullet hit his heart." he was taking slow steps towards you, until you finally hit the wall with a humpf. Before you knew it, his hands were around your throat. You tried to scream but nothing came out, no words, no screams, just silence. You frantically searched for the code blue button on the wall, kicking, pawing and scratching at him. He was trying to kill you, and he was succeeding. Your legs began to buckle beneath you as your airways were desperate for oxygen, your vision blurring as you saw stars. You clawed at his face, tried to pry his hands away from your neck, but thats when you felt the first crack. Your head slamming against the wall over and over before you were hit with an unknown force.

As you fell to the ground, gasping for air you heard Robby scream.

"STOP IT JACK!"

Dana rushed to your side as you started to become more coherent, the reality of what just happened sinking in.

"I'm fine, Dana. They need you out there." Your voice was hoarse, you could feel the warm blood soaking the back of your head. Your nose began to run.

But with each passing second you begin to deteriorate.

"No, you need me in here. I'm not going anywhere." she started to assess you, but the sound of Jacks fists hitting Charlies face were deafening, both of your heads were turned in his direction.

"YOU SON OF A" a punch landed across his face "FUCKING" and another "BITCH" and another. You held your breath as blood splattered across the cold tile floor.

"ENOUGH JACK, HE'S OUT! HE'S OUT! YOU'RE GONNA KILL HIM!" Robby tried being the voice of reason and finally got a firm grip on him, yanking him backwards. Not before Jack got in one last kick, his titanium prosthetic shattering Charlies jaw.

"You touch her again," Jacks spit, he panted as his chest heaved with each ragged breath, "You touch her again and I'll finish the fucking job." He looked down at his bloody hands, his knuckles already beginning to swell.

Robby knelt down to check for a pulse on Charlie, not entire sure that Jack didnt kill the man. He cant say he would have lost sleep over it if he did. As he pressed against his carotid, he felt the mans jaw shift, it had been completely eviscerate. His pulse was faint but it was there.

"J-j-" you tried to call out to him, your head laying in Dana's lap. You looked so small and helpless lying there on the floor. Your pupils were fixed and dilated and you kept wiping your nose.

What kept coming out of your nose? You asked yourself.

"She is leaking cerebrospinal fluid, Jack..." Dana looked up in worry. "She has a probable basal skull fracture. We need CT immediately."

"CT is backed up for hours." Robby muttered "They'll want t-"

"Like fuck it is." Jack hissed, and without hesitation, he scooped you up. No gurney, no wheelchair, just holding you in his arms.

Dana and Robby called out to him but he began to almost run to radiology, holding you tight against his chest. You felt his uneven gait become more and more uneven as he walked faster and faster.

The bruising on your face already began to show up under your eyes. You groaned as the artificial lights blinded your eyes. You tried to hold your head up but the weight was too heavy.

“Stay awake for me, baby. Let me see those pretty eyes, okay?”

“It hurts” you cried out. Everything hurt. Your eyes fluttered open.

“There she is. There’s my pretty girl” Jack smiled.

When he reached radiology, and he called for Maxine, everything went black.

Tag list //

@michasia24 @emma8895eb @nosebeers @runawaybaby3 @antisocialfiore @xxxkat3xxx @livingavilaloca @lavenderdaisychain

#jack abbot x reader #❤️

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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 2 months ago

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𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

jack abbot

☆ these walls have eyes | @asxgard

rumors always start somewhere - and the one about you and a certain attending started somewhere between a whispered confession and myrna overhearing you.

☆ no man's land | @butyoudidthis4what

there's a shooting where you work. jack is at the ed when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.

☆ edge of the dark | @thepencilnerd

what starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer - until the only place it makes sense is in the dark.

☆ this city doesn't forget | @abbotjack

you weren't supposed to see him again. not like this. not in this dress, not in this city, not with his last name still catching in your throat. but pittsburgh remembers what you tried to bury.

☆ you, me, and the empty space between us | @mercvry-glow

jack abbot talks the reader off of the ledge.

☆ just a walk-in | @abbotsanatomy

jack's worst nightmare is you ending up in his er.

☆ bar fight | @tedmustache

a rough night leads the reader to the er, and jack's only priority is making sure she's okay.

☆ coffee swap | @tedmustache

it starts with coffee. then it becomes something more.

☆ safe and sound | @science-hoes

a stormy night in pittsburgh causes jack abbot to fall into a ptsd-induced psychosis episode, and the reader does everything in her power to bring them back.

☆ you say that like you care | @frombookstoretobookstore

after reader takes a punch to the face, abbot's emotions flare as he realizes he might care a little too much.

☆ overactive empathy | @lol-im-done

will a traumatic event force jack and the reader to confront their true feelings for each other or pull them apart forever?

☆ first thing | @stellamarielu

lazy mornings with jack are few and far between, but they always exceed your expectations.

☆ who you let in | @eddiesfaerie

jack has a soft spot. he didn't expect you to be the one to find it.

☆ you shouldn't be (down here with me) | @youvebeenlivingfictional

when you're almost shot at work, your body snaps into autopilot as your mind goes into overdrive. jack has always recognized parts of himself in you - he knows a mind teetering on the edge when he sees one.

☆ love me hard love me soft | @mercvry-glow

jack abbot isn't a soft man, but he'll learn for you.

☆ stop making this hurt | @mercvry-glow

you knew jack didn't want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.

☆ valkyries and betting pools | @nocapesdahling

one of the most popular and secret betting pools is focused on what's going on with you and dr. abbot. meanwhile, you just want to figure out if the man you've had a crush on for months likes you back.

☆ someone new | @quickestgold

after witnessing the fallout from jack's failed marriage, dana and robby have been skeptical of his new relationship. but when a freak accident forces them to see the depth of jack's feelings, their perspectives shift.

☆ don't make me someone you can't have | @abbotjack

the fallout didn't start the day of pitt fest - it started when you told jack abbot how you felt and he told you he didn't want you.

☆ say it first | @quickestgold

jack has grown used to the emptiness in his heart, a quiet companion that has kept him safe for too long. but when you finally speak your truth, he realizes the hardest battles aren't fought on the field or in the chaos of the er, but in the silence between two hearts longing for each other.

michael 'robby' robinavitch

☆ companionship | @asxgard

he’s not sure how he got here, perhaps it’s the aching loneliness or the overwhelming stress. you’re there because it seems like easy money and you have a pushy friend. all in all, it’s a good deal — he gets the companionship he’s after, no strings, and you get your utility bills paid on time. it’s pretty simple, easy, until your arrangement bleeds into something a bit more…complicated.

☆ lead the way | @traumaone

after over a year of pining over robby, reader gets into a relationship to try and get over him, and gets cheated on. robby comes to the rescue.

☆ booked for one | @abbotjack

a black tie charity gala in chicago. one bed. months of tension. and a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.

☆ glasses be damned | @thepencilnerd

lazy sunday mornings. you in his shirt. him wearing - glasses? what could be better?

☆ drunk confessions | @thepencilnerd

you're out drinking with your colleagues. robby's not there - until he is.

☆ sticky-notes and leftovers | @thepencilnerd

a glimpse into your daily notions with robby after moving in.

☆ sweet nothings | @thebestandworstdayofjune

you own a bakery down the street from ptmh, and dr. robby is one of your favorite customers.

☆ peace | @xximperioxx

the reader comforts robby after a hard shift (she talks him off the ledge).

☆ work crush | @xximperioxx

the reader has a crush on robby. spoiler alert: it's reciprocated.

☆ doctor's orders | @tedmustache

when one rough day pushes things to a breaking point, unspoken feelings come dangerously close to the surface.

☆ the right moment is you | @cherriready

robby didn't mean to propose today. not during a long shift, not without a plan, and definitely not in front of the er. but when he saw her, he saw the rest of his life. no speeches. no perfect moment. just her. always her.

☆ stitched together | @hauntedhowlett-writes

after accidentally cutting your hand, you seek out your neighbor for help. a favor becomes a friendship and a friendship becomes something more.

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hauntedwinchesterbros-blog · 2 months ago

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silence my storm

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: Abbot falls harder for you without even noticing, but he struggles to apologize for what he said. He might lose you before he finds the right words. part 2 of Can’t pretend

warnings: rivals to <friends> to lovers, slow burn, implied age gap (you can ignore it) / descriptions of war; mentions of dr*gs, horrible parenting and losing loved ones, dealing with PTSD and panic attacks / PITTFEST (mass shooting, blood and injuries), ANGST. but there’s a silver lining! ♡ / words: 9.5K / author’s note: I imagine Danny Glover as Donny because that man would def talk some sense into Jack ♡ this part is intense so buckle up! / {you also can read it on AO3}

As long as Abbot can remember, he always managed to stand out. He was unruly as a kid, flouting authority and speaking out against injustice. He got teased for his skin sprinkled with freckles, for curls that turned auburn in the sun; he was hated for his inability to yield. The same attitude got him into the army, the same relentlessness helped him push through the combat training — in ten weeks some men were broken and remolded to fit in; but not Jack. He was resilient and fast and competent — with first aid, hand grenades, and rifles, during the obstacle course and field exercises; he joked that it felt like a summer camp. It also felt like the perfect place for him, and the medic training only strengthened his resolve. He didn’t seek attention but he attracted people with his biting humour and his never-fading perseverance. And he believed he could withstand it all.

Then he got deployed to hotspots, to places where the earth under his feet was scorched by blasts, heat dizzying, pulse throbbing in his head. And he watched as the villages were flattened to the ground, vehicles made of steel reduced to wrecks, and half of the things he’d learned before were proven useless. It left him hardened but it didn’t break him. Because somehow Jack always knew the way and the right words, because if he could save a life a day, it was all worth it.

But then came the war zones, and those weren’t about saving as much as they were about survival: on battlefields, in trenches, on desert wastelands that stretched on for miles, sand swirling in the air, legs heavy with fatigue, skin slick with sweat. And death tore people limb from limb, never a negotiator but a butcher, only allowing Jack to dig more graves. Those years flayed him of his assurance and his ardor, and he was knocked down, beaten, maimed, his body scarred and heart shattered, the damage that seemed irreparable, pain that left so many soldiers hopeless. But Jack got right back up.

And he got rougher at the edges and he talked less, but he decided to give life another chance. Jack studied with the same diligence and he threw himself into his work, as persevering as before, as tough as ever. The patients found his stoic demeanor calming, and other doctors respected him for cutting to the chase and thinking quickly. And undeniably, there is some comfort in being the one people can rely on, a beacon that guides through the darkest nights.

But you make Jack feel like he is invisible. And that’s a first.

It would make sense for you to glare in his direction, to let hostility cut through your tone when he’s around. You do none of that. On Monday, when Robby finally comes back — sunglasses tucked in his hoodie pocket, a giant cup of coffee in his hand, a smile so big his cheeks must hurt — you rush in barely a minute after and greet him, quite warmly. You say nothing to Jack although he’s standing right there next to him. Jack stops himself from following you with his gaze and listens to your retreating footsteps. It’s Dana who is glaring at him.

Robby is yet to notice it, his eyes on the board. “I see, the house is packed as always. How’s everyone been doing?”

“Peachy,” Dana deadpans, then moves a medical tablet to him with one hand. “Enjoy.”

His smile wavers at her tone, his gaze darting from her to Jack. “And how is our new senior resident?”

Abbot doesn’t meet his eyes. “Good.”

“Okay, what’s with the one-word answers?”

Princess rolls her chair closer with a smirk: “She’s very good.” Robby groans and she huffs. “What? It was more than one word! Everyone’s so cranky post-COVID.”

“First of all, my test came back negative so it was not COVID. And I do not appreciate you guys trying to ruin my mood this early in the morning,” Robby remarks although he doesn’t sound offended.

But his gaze wanders back to Jack as if he can read something from his reticence, as if he had suspicions before he even came through the doors. “Dr. Abbot, why don’t you tell me about the patients admitted overnight?” Robby suggests nonchalantly. “Come on, let’s take a walk. I’ve heard it’s good for health.”

Jack’s thinking of an excuse to stay. But then he sees you coming back, fresh scrubs on and face focused, and he almost turns around after you, he almost calls out your name. He has to reason with himself: it shouldn’t be a public conversation, you’d never want it to be. And he is yet to find the words for his regret. So he complies with Robby.

They step away, and Jack looks down at the screen, a colored spreadsheet with names and traumas. Robby cautiously looks around. And then he asks:

“So, back to the new resident. Are you getting along?”

Jack accidentally walks into a gurney someone left behind, curses under his breath and forces out: “Like I said, everything’s good.”

Robby hums, hardly convinced and clearly concerned. But not surprised. “You know what I’ve been thinking of recently?”

“I’m sure you are about to tell me.”

“You coming to work here. Remember your first few weeks?”

Those weren’t easy — not to live through, not to reminiscent of. Jack can recall some bland moments and hollow dialogues, a lot of pitying glances given to him. He had to bury his wife six months prior to that.

“I know I wasn’t a ray of sunshine—”

“You were kinda insufferable,” but Robby’s brown eyes are filled with sympathy as he says that. “I mean, obviously no one blamed you. I can only imagine how hard it was in the beginning.”

A crease settles in between Jack’s brows. “And you are reminding me of it why exactly?”

Robby stops, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder. “Listen, we all adapt to new environment at our own pace. It’s easier for some people but for others, it can take time. And we, as the attendings, should give them that time and not take anything personally or rush to conclusions. If someone isn’t an open book, it may mean they have reasons to keep things to themselves.”

Jack only gives him a confused nod; although the words make sense to him, he can’t grasp their full meaning. “Okay?”

“Glad we are on the same page,” Robby gives him a pat and swiftly turns around.

“What about the patients?”

“Oh, I skimmed through the list, I’ll look up the rest if I need to. Go get some sleep.”

And Jack surely needs it. But Robby’s words stay on his mind, and the incomprehension bugs him, so much so that he comes back to the nurse station. Dana ignores him, loudly tapping on the same one key. He leans to her, lowering his voice:

“Was I insufferable when I first started here?”

“Why the past tense? You aren’t any better now,” she quips dryly.

He can’t hold back a heavy sigh, and when Dana casts a glance at him, he is equally tired and contrite. She grants him some reassurance, albeit begrudgingly.

“You were fine, Jack. All things considered. We knew you’ve been through some tough times. But you are a damn good doctor, and that’s all that matters,” she looks back at the computer. “Although you did scare half of our staff with your silent staring and your tactical knife. Please tell me you don’t have that thing with you.”

“I will refrain from answering that,” Jack straightens up, and her short chuckle gives him hope.

If only approaching you was just as simple.

It’s not that Jack cannot admit that he was in the wrong. Taking accountability for your mistakes helps you to learn from them, his therapist once told him, and words can hurt as much as they can heal. Jack’s had his fair share of hard conversations and harsh truths, and he would never shy away from either. But when he thinks of your heartbroken gaze, his usual equanimity escapes him, and no apology seems good enough to make up for his outburst. Still, he owes it to you to try.

Jack hopes to seize the moment before his night shift, he spends the day gluing together a small speech: he was unfair, he was wrong, he’s sorry. His gaze finds you as soon as he steps into the ER — a habit he doesn’t know how to get out of (nor does he want to). It’s almost laughable how hard it is for him to summon up the courage, it feels like every step to you takes twice as long. He is about to say it — Hey, can we please talk — but you breeze on by him, and then it is too late. Jack persuades himself the timing wasn’t right: he doesn’t want to distract you from your work, he’ll wait until you get a couple of free minutes.

You do not spare him even a second of your time.

It doesn’t seem unfounded: you are busy with patients, you help the nurses with case files, you keep an eye on Whitaker, and offer guidance to anyone who asks for it. Jack’s persuasion wavers but he clings to it, he is dead set on fixing things, he’s never been a quitter.

But your determination is a match for his — and you are awfully proficient at silent treatment.

One day of Jack’s futile attempts bleeds into two, then three, then a full week. And every time you walk past him like he doesn’t exist, like bones and tissues he is made of turned to dust. It should be a relief that you don’t make a scene; instead, your coldness wounds him, a deep incision somewhere at his ribs. And Jack is torn — he wants to put more effort in, he is afraid of taking it too far: it will not help his case if he ruins your lunch break or creeps up on you at the locker room. And it will make him reek of desperation.

But the uncertainty starts gnawing on him, a new bite with each day he fails. The short apology he crafted loops through his mind non-stop — until it sounds like a useless jumble of words, until Jack isn’t even sure him talking to you will not make things worse. You come and leave on time, you offer him no mercy, you master your avoidance as if he is a plague. And Jack is plagued with agitation, and by the third week he is already losing sleep: if he wasn’t desperate before, now he sure as hell is.

Jack checks his phone again because he keeps mixing up the days: it’s Tuesday, he came an hour early and hasn’t seen you yet. He pootles to the vending machine to give coffee another chance to wake him — and suddenly catches a familiar voice.

“Darling, I truly do not want to be a bother, but I have a friend here and I was wondering if you can —”

“Donny?”

It’s been a few years but he hasn’t changed one bit — six feet tall, gaze sharp but eyes warm, russet brown, short grey hair that looks silver against his dark skin, a charming half-smile. He’s also got a huge bruise on his forehead, and there’s a wheelchair he’s ignoring, leaning on the table with one arm.

Princess grins at the man and nods at Jack. “This is the friend?”

“No, this is my biggest pain in the ass,” Donny retorts but his smile grows bigger.

Jack smiles back and walks to him. “Of course, you can’t live out your retirement in peace. Did you head the ball again, sergeant?”

“You’re just jealous 'cause you suck at basketball,” Donny unceremoniously hugs him. But his poise falters slightly when Jack looks closer at his injury. “Apparently, I need a head CT. I keep telling 'em it’s no big deal —”

Jack shakes his head, silently tapping on the chair — Donny rolls his eyes and sits down without protest. “Page me when radiology is ready to take him,” Abbot tells Princess, then smoothly wheels Donny away. “Let’s get you comfortable in the meantime.”

“Do I get a cute nurse?” Donny curiously glances around. “Who can you page to sneak me a Margarita in here?”

“You get me and a cup of ice you can munch on.”

“Jesus, you do know how to kill the buzz.”

“This is me giving you preferential treatment.”

“Aw, you are honoring our unshakable camaraderie? Or have you gotten softer with age, Abbot?”

“It’s neither, but if you die on my watch, Martha will skin me alive.”

“Actually, she’d probably drink to it — we divorced last year.”

“Good for her.”

Donny snorts with laughter, boisterous and unapologetic, slapping Jack’s hand wrapped around the handle. He is about to talk back but then someone catches his attention — Donny turns his head, and his voice turns mellow:

“Oh, here you are, my angel! I was looking for you. Should’ve known the best doctors are the busiest.”

Jack pulls up short — not in reaction to Donny’s words but at the sight of you, standing a few feet away and looking right in his direction. And then the strangest thing happens — a miracle like an oasis in a desert, like a flower blooming in the dead of winter: you smile.

Jack’s breathing hitches.

And he watches like you a blind man who’s seeing sunrise for the first time in his life. It’s faint but undeniably sincere — joy dancing at the corners of your lips as you come near, your gaze kind when you talk to Donny. “Haven’t I told you to take it easy?”

“You know I can’t sit still, I like doing things. I’ll rest when I’m in the grave.”

“And I’d rather it happen later than sooner,” the words are stern but your voice is gentle, caring — something Jack suddenly wishes to deserve too. But you talk to Donny as if there’s just the two of you. “What was it this time?”

“That atrocious painting! I swear Martha superglued that thing to the wall. I spent an hour trying to tear it off, had to go grab a ladder. And I don’t know, maybe I slipped on the puddle of my own sweat,” he grumbles, a tad bit embarrassed. “And now I’m waiting for you guys to stuff me inside that noisy metal barrel. I better not get stuck in that thing.”

“You’ll fit just fine,” you say simply, gaze grazing his head: nothing too alarming for you to stare at. “You can close your eyes and pretend that you’re on a beach. Somewhere in Santa Monica, just like last summer.”

“Yeah, minus the imminent bump on my head,” he cackles. “Do you get lunch breaks in here? Will you come talk to me when you have a minute?”

“I’ll find you after you get a CT,” you promise — and then brush his shoulder with a quiet remark: “You are in good hands.”

And Jack can’t help another glance at you but you already round the corner to disappear somewhere in the hall. So he keeps his face straight and finds Donny a bed, then helps him sit against the pillows.

“You fell off a ladder? Should’ve mentioned it,” Jack takes the tablet and pulls up his medical records.

Donny squints at him. “Hmm, that’s weird. Man, what is this feeling...”

“What, does your head hurt? Vision getting blurry or —”

“It’s the tension between you two!” Donny hisses. “Why were you so awkward around her?”

Jack opens his mouth; then closes it, unsure. He’d love to know how you and Donny met but he doesn’t want to snoop around. His eyes are on the screen, his tone flat:

“Your angel, huh?”

“Oh, I’m sorry I don’t have a cute name for you. Your grumpy face doesn’t exactly call for it.”

“Luckily this face comes with a smart head and steady hands. That’s what you’d want from a doctor.”

“Well, aren’t you a modest one,” Donny doesn’t sound amused. “Now stop deflecting and tell me what’s going on. Were you hard on her, is that it?”

Jack wants to say yes. He was insensitive, he was an idiot, and now you’re giving him a cold shoulder, and it’s been driving him insane. But whining will not make things better. And Donny’s wisdom and support should be offered to you, not Jack.

Donny gives him a level stare. “Listen, I know seventy-eight doesn’t exactly instill fear. But I still can pack a hefty punch. And I swear I’ll punch you if you aren’t treating her right,” — and he immediately relents, his words in between a plea and a request. “Man, I’m serious. Go easy on her, the girl’s been through hell.”

“Haven’t we all?” Jack mumbles.

There is no bitterness and no harbored resentment — it’s just how life has been for Jack. And Donny is aware of that so he isn’t judging. He thinks over what he is about to say. Jack reads his file: irregular pulse, complaints of fatigue, some swelling of the legs.

“You know I’m not the one to sugarcoat all the crap we’ve been through,” Donny tells him bluntly, and it’s the truth. “When I hear random folks raving about their picture-perfect military days, I always call them out on their bullshit. But if there’s one thing I am grateful for, it’s the people. My closest friends are from the army and none are finer,” Donny holds a pause, like he is climbing over an imaginary fence, into an imaginary vault your secret’s hidden in — but not anymore. “Her brother was in the army too.”

Jack stops reading. He hesitates because he realizes right away that this is personal, this isn’t a story meant for just anybody to know. But then again, he knows nothing about you. How bad can this one story be? He looks up, and Donny continues.

“He was definitely one of the good ones. Damn, Sammy was a gem, such an enthusiastic kid. We served in Syria, and it was a shitstorm — well, you know what it’s like — but I can’t remember him complaining once. Good morals, quick reaction, awesome shooter.”

A happy ending is unlikely so Jack calculates the options: killed in combat or crossfire, body delivered in a sealed coffin. Or maybe never found, left somewhere in a foreign land, bones crumbling into dirt, a ghost that haunts his family for years.

“He got sent off to Kabul, a lot of snipers did. Back when Bush thought Al-Qaeda just ambles out in the open, waiting for the brave americans to show up and shoot everyone dead.”

“So, shitty planning?” Jack guesses.

“More like no planning. They got stranded in the mountains, Sammy and his squad. Lost contact with the base, half of them massacred within a week. He dodged a lot of bullets but he took a nasty fall — arm twisted backward, pulled his shoulder out of its socket.”

Jack instinctively grimaces. “That’s 11 out of 10 on the pain scale.”

“He gave it a 100. They were out of meds, completely lost, he was in and out of consciousness. Then, by sheer fucking luck, they found some tiny village, and one of the locals sheltered them. He was no doctor, and I’m sure he meant well... He suggested opium for the pain. The guys agreed.”

Abbot thinks he’d rather step on a landmine again. Any death in combat is a tragedy, but at least it’s quick. Addiction kills you slowly.

“They popped his shoulder back into place but the pain lingered,” — and Jack imagines torn ligaments and damaged blood vessels, the bruising changing color from red to blue. “It was hard to wear a backpack, hard to sleep at night.”

Abbot deduces grimly: “He needed more opium.”

“And he came back an addict,” Donny nods. “It wasn’t just opium, it never is. But Sammy did try to get better, I’ll give him that. Two years in support groups, in therapy, going from one rehab to another. And she would always follow him around, pay him visits, send him letters. She refused to give up on him, and he loved her to pieces, and we all wanted for him to get a grip… I wish I could tell you why he never did. He just kept falling off the wagon, and eventually, he ran out of money. So he borrowed some — from the people you should never be in debt to. And when he didn’t pay in time, they thought: what’s a better bargaining chip than his dear sister?”

Jack wishes he could go back in time and tell Donny he doesn’t want to hear this story. Heavy, hot rage already simmers in him — at the mere thought of someone hurting you; it also pains him deeply.

“They roughed her up, pretty badly. And one of them got out a gun — on trial, they insisted they didn’t mean to fire it, they just wanted to scare Sammy so he’d pay. The guy aimed at her but then a fight broke out, and someone pulled the trigger. Sammy pushed her away at the last second. The bullet went right through his heart. He probably died before those fuckers even managed to escape. When the cops arrived, they had to drag her away from his dead body. She was fifteen.”

Jack wants to bang his head against the wall.

And he thinks of you freezing at the doors, of how your gaze didn’t meet his when you were wiping off his blood, of your strained voice. And you weren’t reckless, weren’t prideful or condescending. You were afraid he might get hurt trying to keep you out of harm’s way. Because it happened to you once before, because it tore your heart in half. And his words made you relive that.

“It’s hard to bounce back after that. I don’t know how she did. Not with her parents' help, that’s for sure.”

Jack clears his throat; his voice is marked by sadness. “They aren’t very close?”

“I still can’t believe they are related,” Donny rants. “I’ve heard that money ruins people but her parents set a new low. Couldn’t say a single good word about their own son at his funeral. Didn’t care to console their daughter. They were ready to fuck off as soon as the priest gave his speech but she didn’t want to go. And they just left her at the cemetery, can you imagine? I was the one to give her a ride home. And I swear, at some point that evening I contemplated murder.”

And he doesn’t say the exact words, but Jack reads between the lines: you’ve got no other family. You had to grow up having no one to rely on.

“They wanted her to get a banking job. Said she shouldn’t spend her life digging into someone’s guts, it is not very lady-like. But she studied day and night, managed to get a scholarship — hell, I didn’t even know they offered those in med schools. The day after she got into residency, she cut ties with her parents. Haven’t spoken to them since. And I guess the silver lining is that she did become a good doctor, despite it all.”

Abbot gets paged to radiology. But his thoughts are far away — in his childhood home, at the dining table in the kitchen: here’s his mother with her contagious laughter, his father with the deep voice and crude jokes, the comfort of a family meal and sharing conversations. There were arguments too, even fights — his dad and he were too alike to compromise sometimes. But he knew that his parents would have his back, and they always did. Not getting that support as a child sounds hard, harrowing. You must’ve been very lonely.

Donny studies him for a moment. “So are you gonna tell me what you did or should I start throwing punches?”

After all the truth he’s just learned, it feels wrong to lie. “I... I did go hard on her. But I will apologize,” Jack says firmly and faithfully, like a vow. And he can’t help but admit: “You are right, she really is great.”

Donny can’t resist a chortle. “I’m always right. You should know by now.”

His CT comes clean but he does reluctantly complain of headache. Jack figures it’s a mild concussion and lists the basics: take paracetamol for the pain, rest for a week, no physical activity. No alcohol.

“Not even a splash of whiskey? Not even a tiny —” Donny reads no from Jack’s unblinking stare. “You are no fun, Abbot. Like, at all.”

“Your liver will thank me.”

“My liver is attached to me, and right now I’m not feeling very grateful,” but Donny isn’t aggrieved either because he swiftly adds: “Where’s that cup of ice I was promised?”

The walk to the ice machine and back takes Jack about five minutes. He hears your voice first — and he can tell you’re smiling just from the sound of it. Jack sees you from afar and gets his hunch confirmed: Donny is scrolling on his phone to show you something, his face expressions eliciting a laugh from you, genuine and carefree. And when you are like this — not wearing your usual defense, not rushing anywhere, not weighted down by every bad thing you had to live through — there’s so much light in you, Jack finds it hard to look away. Warmth threads through him, quiet and calming, and he can’t stop looking.

And he is drawn to steal more glances at you, like would a treasure hunter carefully steal pieces of art.

Jack catches on to small things: you mindlessly tap on the corner of the chart when you’re deep in thoughts, you often bite the inside of your lower lip while you are reading, eyes darting quickly from left to right. And he wonders what your favorite books are, and if you spend your evenings cozied up under the covers in the dim light of your bedroom. But what is readable to him under the LED lamps of the ER is weariness that spills under your eyes and tugs at your limbs, your voice quieter and your pace falling off a little.

On Wednesday you have to stay an extra hour when one of the patients goes into preterm labor: it ends with her hemorrhaging, blood trickling on the floor, and Robby steps in, and everyone is loud and maybe slightly panicking. You aren’t — still steady and unwincing and knowing all the right steps, no guidance needed, no mistakes made. But then you walk out and pull the edges of your sleeves down to your fingers, as if you’re cold, as if your grit is frailing, and it makes Jack’s heart ache. He grabs a knitted blanket he has stacked deep in his locker — thick, soft, bright plaid, a handmade gift from one of the army vets he treated years ago. He leaves it at the nurse station, as if by accident. You almost miss it on your way out, but then your eyes glide over it — and you can’t help but touch it, putting your whole palm onto the fluffy wool. It’s just a speck of comfort before you back away, hands quickly tucked in the small pockets of your denim jacket.

But the next day, when Jack trudges to the ER after another failed attempt to sleep, he sees that you’re already dressed to leave — your hoodie half a size too big, your hair down and head titled as you talk to Dana, — and you are holding to the blanket with your fingers, relaxed or tired enough not to fight a smile. He lingers at the doors and gazes at you for a long minute. And then he sneaks into one of the waiting rooms so your face won’t fall at the sight of him. When he comes out, you are gone, but the blanket still has some of your warmth. And he aches all over.

On Friday there’s a storm alert, and the evening comes dreary and drizzling. Jack isn’t surprised that they get a car crash victim barely ten minutes after he is in. It is a woman in her thirties — with a head injury and three broken ribs, clothes wet with rain and blood, her vitals weak. But somehow her daughter is intact, and she’s brought in by one of the paramedics: six years of age, tight curls and a tiara on her head, poofy dress that’s sky-blue and sparkling. And she can’t stop crying.

People are drawn to help — the nurses come to offer her kind words, to bribe her into calmness with some sweets. But her sobs turn into wails, cheeks red, and body shaking, and she’s too terrified of everything to be reasoned with. And Jack is bothered by how powerless he feels, how much he wants to be of help too but has no clue where to begin. There was a time when he really wanted kids; but recollecting it feels like reopening a wound he spent years on healing.

You emerge out of the trauma room and take the gown off with one swift motion, your gaze already on the girl. But you tread carefully, slowly, waiting until she sees you coming with her teary eyes. Then you crouch down next to her.

“Why is a princess crying in our hall? You are shedding tears all over your beautiful dress,” and your fingers smooth out the layers of satin and tulle, and she glances down at your hands. You give her a small smile: “You look just like Cinderella.”

She stops mid-sob, stares at you, then at her own dress again, bright sparks of glitter caught in the blue. She manages out, sniffling: “S-she is my fav-vorite.”

“Isn’t this what she wore to the ball where she met the prince?”

The girl goes quiet, wipes her nose. She gives you a nod — and then another one, more certain. Her words come out calmer: “Like in the movie.”

“Even prettier up close,” you assure her easily and wipe off her tears with your fingertips. She’s pouting but she isn’t crying anymore. You brush away a curl that stuck to her wet cheek. “I know you must be scared but you are safe now. And our best doctors are trying very hard to make your mom feel better. You just need to hold on for a little longer,” you murmur. Her lower lip trembles yet she fights against it, small hands grabbing the sparkling fabric. Her eyes are woeful but yours are warm, as is your voice. “What is that Cinderella’s mother used to say? Something about being kind and having courage.”

She looks like she’s about to burst into fresh tears. Instead, she shakes her head with defeat, curls bouncing at the movement.

“I don’t— Don’t think I have a lot of courage.”

“It’s okay, honey. You can take some of mine,” you tell her and take her hand in yours, fingers gently massaging the skin above her wrist. Her breath is even, all of the tears dried up; and timidly, she smiles. You get up, your hand still holding hers.

“We have a room with coloring books and a teddy bear who can keep you company. And on the way there I’ll let you pick a jelly, any flavour you like. How does that sound?”

She agrees eagerly, and you breathe out a short laugh, then lead the way. And Jack’s gaze stays on you, his own breath stilled — and a thought crosses his mind before he can stop it, vivid like a falling star: you will be a great mom. And in the next second, he forces himself to look away, to push back a myriad of other thoughts suddenly sparked into existence. Because it is unreasonable, because he fucked up, because it’s wrong to even think of that.

But it doesn’t feel wrong.

He battles with himself for half an hour. The girl’s mother pulls through — Jack learns about it from Robby who goes around looking for the kid.

Dana shrugs with the utmost indifference. “I didn’t see where they went. Dr. Abbot, any chance you did?”

He knows you must be still in the waiting room, and maybe now it’s time — he’ll walk in and make apologies, away from any prying eyes. He will be genuine and repentant, he’ll take all the blame. At this point, he isn’t above begging.

“I’ll bring the girl,” Jack mutters.

His heart rate instantly speeds up as he approaches, throat dry and body stiffening, even before the room comes into view. Jack breathes in and pulls the door handle — and right at the entrance, he comes to a halt.

It’s quiet inside, and on the small uncomfortable couch stuffed in the corner, you and the girl are sitting, covered with his knitted blanket. And you are asleep. The tension in his chest evaporates as he watches you — your head pressed to the wall, your face peaceful, and he wishes for nothing more than for you to always feel like this.

Jack takes one step in, and the girl peeks out from under the blanket. She puts a finger to her mouth, then slowly gets up, the blue dress shimmering and rustling slightly as she moves. The kid confidently struts to Jack, wraps one of her hands around his, holding the teddy bear in another. She looks up at him and whispers: “How is my mom?”

“She’s alright,” Jack whispers back. “You can come see her.”

She tugs at his hand, and Jack glances at you, commits the moment to his memory, convinces himself he’ll make it quick. The girl brims with excitement but she acts polite and walks slowly. And she peppers him with questions: how many rooms are there in the hospital? Can you fix everyone who’s hurt? Can doctors wear dresses at work? Are all of them as tired as the lady who gave her the orange jelly? Jack winces at the last one. But he likes talking to the kid — it’s actually quite easy, fun, not scary at all. When they reach her mother’s room, she turns to look at him again.

“This is Mister Courageous. You can take him,” she gives him the plushie, the bear’s paw pressed into Jack’s palm. The girl beams at him mischievously, and he sees her dimples when she adds: “Maybe you need some courage too.”

But with all his courage, Jack is short on luck: when he rushes back to you, the waiting room is empty, his blanket folded and left lone on the couch. It is upsetting because tomorrow is his day off; but he comes up with a flumsy consolation: he has more time to think over what he should say, to phrase it better. So in between the patients, he mentally constructs another speech, tactful and heartfelt, no less than you deserve to get. His nerves are eased a little by the morning; he gets home and gets about five hours of uninterrupted sleep: no dreams of oceans, no nightmares filled with fog.

The afternoon is sunlit, warm against Jack’s skin when he draws back the curtains. He takes a shower and makes lunch, then does the dishes and the laundry. And he turns on the police scanner — out of boredom, out of habit, just so he’s always in the loop. His day off lasts for about ten more minutes before the PBP frequency roars to life:

Shots fired. Multiple GSW.

He grabs the walkie and turns up the volume. It’s Code 3 — and he knows its meaning from the memo: Backup requested. Proceed immediately. All available units.

Jack gets ready like’s about to go back into combat — he dresses up in under two minutes, with measured breathing, and quick steps, and cold composure. He takes out the bag he’s got packed for emergencies: a mini ultrasound, tactical crickits, tourniquets, hemostatic dressings. He thinks about going to the ER on foot because the roads will get busy in no time. But he decides against it — running the distance with his prosthetics isn’t the wisest choice: it will be a long shift, he’ll need all his strength.

So he gets the keys to his pickup truck, hurries down the stairs and into the parking lot; he slams the driver’s door shut, then his foot presses on the gas. In nine minutes Jack’s already going through the sliding doors — Robby exhales when he sees him.

“Brother, I’m so fucking glad to see you,” he gives Jack a hug, his face laden with worry.

“I heard the news on the police scanner, drove here as fast as I could.”

“Yeah, I figured. You just missed the briefing.”

“Let me guess, colored slap bands? I’m in the red zone?”

“You and me both. Go grab yourself a fancy orange vest,” Robby nods toward the table already crammed with supplies.

“How many are we expecting?”

“I don’t know but it doesn’t sound good. Pittfest must’ve been packed.”

Dana walks past them, visibly nervous and holding up the phone. When Robby looks at her, she shakes her head no.

Abbot gets alarmed. “Wasn’t Jake supposed to go there?”

“He was, I gave him my ticket a month ago so he could take his girlfriend with him. But he went down with a nasty cough, and they had to cancel plans. Apparently, it’s COVID.”

“And he definitely didn’t get it from you,” Jack chuckles.

But Robby isn’t smiling, and Dana doesn’t put the phone away, doesn’t stop calling. And there is a feeling that crawls up Jack’s spine, like winter frost crawls up a window pane:

something is off.

He takes a look around, scanning the crowd of residents and nurses, and everyone is talking in hushed voices, and many faces that he knows now wear the expressions he doesn’t like seeing: fearful, hesitant, dismayed. A few are managing alright — Mateo and McKay are reassuring Javadi, Santos is helping Mel tie a gown, going over the instructions out loud. Whitaker is standing silent, his fingers clasped together and green eyes anxious, like deer’s.

That’s when Jack realizes that you aren’t here.

“Where’s your star resident?”

Robby averts his gaze. “She u-um... Took two days off. I heard that she’s been working overtime, and I didn’t want her to burn out. Seemed like she’s been a bit stressed these days.”

Jack is stung by guilt. Because he suspects it’s not just work that got you so stressed, because he is the one at fault and —

“Whitaker said she planned on going to Pittfest.”

Robby’s words have the effect of a grenade, the air knocked out of Jack’s lungs like doors out of a building by a blast. And he’s left deafened by the shock wave: Jack can see Robby talking but no sounds reach him, drowned out by the ringing in his head. He has to focus to read Robby’s lips — he’s saying you will be alright. You’re a tough kid. You are probably helping everyone who’s injured. You are too busy to pick up the phone.

But Jack’s imagination is adept at picturing the worst: deep wounds, deadly wounds, your heart flatlining, lungs stopping, every hopeless case from the textbook. And even worse is the razor-sharp realization:

he had so many chances to tell you.

Now he may never get another one.

His throat tightens like he’s about to get sick. A nurse bumps a disaster bin into him on accident, and Jack steps aside, unsteady on his feet. He has to bandage the pieces of his composure back together, and he desperately hammers disbelief into his head: no, you might actually survive, there is a good chance that you will.

He holds on to that thought like it’s his lifeline.

Jack gets the gloves and safety glasses, stands closest to the doors, waits for the first wave of injured. And once he sees it — fresh blood, torn flesh — the autopilot finally kicks in: Jack moves like he’s on the battlefield, where time is critical and every second counts. In the ER, it does too. In the red zone, it’s 5 minutes per patient, after that — it’s OR, ICU, or morgue. So Jack gives orders and intubates and cuts into bodies, his hands busy with tubes, bandages, and blades; he fights for every life. But then he notices a gurney fully covered — the first corpse — and he goes to look under the blanket, and his hands shake, a tremor that seeps down to his bones.

And it is getting harder to shake off his fear, to act like all his thoughts aren’t consumed by you.

Unwittingly, Jack looks for hoodies and denim jackets, for your hair color, for anyone whose face resembles yours. In the second hour, two more victims die, both male; in the third, they get a dead body from a civilian’s car — a woman, headshot to the head, a quick death. And every muscle in Jack cramps up when he sees her: it’s not you but it could’ve been. Maybe they’ll bring in your corpse next.

And he can’t take a full breath.

Jack makes up an excuse to leave for just a minute. He walks into the bathroom and presses his head against the cold tile wall. He slowly counts to 60 and gets back out, chugs half a water bottle. Then he sees Robby running out of the corner of his eye. Jack gazes after him — one second, two, three, four. And then his gaze stumbles upon you.

Dark green shirt, sleeves stained with crimson, blood drained from your face. But you are standing on your feet. You are walking on your own.

You are alive.

Relief hits him so hard, he almost chokes on his emotions. The ringing slowly fades as his lungs finally gulp air, his eyes now glued to you. You bring in an old man — one of the guards, shot in the leg: you stopped the bleeding, and he is responsive. Ahmad is following you, his shirt bloodstained too, a mark one of the victims left. He doesn’t care, he keeps mumbling something to you but you weakly wave him off. Your left sleeve is bunched up at the top like there’s a bandage underneath, and your every move is slowed down like you are fighting off exhaustion. Jack’s legs carry him to you with zero hesitation.

Robby glances at him and back at the old man. “I’m taking this one. His vitals are surprisingly good.” Then he barks out at Ahmad: “Go change your shirt, you look like you got stabbed. You’ll give someone a heart attack. C’mon, now!” — and he wheels the old man away, Mel treading on his heels. A nurse groans behind them at the amount of blood splattered all over the floor.

But Jack couldn’t care less about the patients, his focus on you, his voice aching. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

“I’m fine,” you tell him with your hand pressed to the wall, a little breathless, almost soft. Involuntarily so. Because of course he doesn’t deserve any of your softness. “Where’s the pink zone? I want to stick around.”

He wants to argue with you but then you meet his eyes, and your gaze is disarming, striking, and Jack is too guilt-ridden to oppose. So he concedes and points you in the right direction, then watches as your silhouette moves through the waves of white and red until you are out of sight.

Jack drinks more water and helps Mel with intubation. Whitaker passes by, maneuvering between the wheelchairs and the gurneys — he asks for extra bandages, and Robby shouts in reply that he’ll bring some. Princess asks around with irritation who the hell left bloody handprints on the wall.

“Speaking of not getting drenched in blood,” Robby comes running. “I just removed the absolute perfection of a tourniquet. Great placement, no cardiac issues, didn’t get a drop on me. Not that you can tell,” he jests tiredly and changes gowns.

“The old guard from the fest?” Jack asks absentmindedly.

“Yep. We patched him up so good, he’ll be dancing in a month.”

Whitaker’s face is suddenly splashed with incomprehension. “Wait, that can’t be right.”

Robby turns to him, one brow raised in a silent question.

“You just said the tourniquet worked well. But it’s his gurney that left a trail of blood at the entrance, I almost slipped on it,” Dennis explains.

That same feeling bites into Jack again — there’s something wrong. It’s something bad. Ahmad strides into the hall, clean shirt on, still half-unbuttoned because he’s in a rush. And he goes straight to Robby.

“Hey, man, can you reason with your resident? I ain’t no doctor but I’m pretty sure she shouldn’t be running around with a bullet in her shoulder.”

There is a lull — like one before a bomb strikes.

Then Robby roars: “She what?!”

And Jack’s already on the move, looking for you, heart in his throat, blood running cold. You never made it to the pink zone — you stagger in the hallway, holding yourself against a wall, the cotton shirt balled up in your hand. You wear a tank top, and now Jack sees it all so clearly as if he’s looking at an x-ray: your left shoulder slumped down, an entry wound right of your shoulder blade — the bullet must’ve missed the bone because there’s still some movement and you aren’t bent in pain. But dark maroon is smeared down your arm, the bandage soaked, the streaks of blood running to your wrist.

Then you sway slightly on your feet, and Jack reaches you just in time to catch you. Your eyes dip shut, and in a second you are unconscious, your body going limp and lifeless in his hands. Jack searches frantically for a pulse when he notices:

there is no exit wound.

So your shoulder is a minefield, six arteries waiting to explode on contact with the bullet — and now the count goes on for minutes. He knows that, he’s dealt with that, he should get to work. But he can’t move, swept by a wave of horror, dread filling him up like icy seawater.

Someone is yelling.

Someone is running to him.

A gurney hits the nearby wall, the metal screeching against concrete.

“Up, up, up!” McKay moves the gurney closer to him. “Why didn’t anyone check her for wounds? Does she have a pulse?”

“Yes,” Jack manages, voice hoarse, fingers unsteady on your neck. He moves them under your chin — and there is a beating, faint like a ripple on the water, enough for him to let out an exhale. “She does have a pulse.”

He picks you up and places on the gurney, one of his hands immediately slick with blood. McKay swiftly moves you through the hall with Robby running by her side, his face wracked with distress. “She didn’t say anything, she— Fuck, I should’ve asked.”

Jack is wracked with so many feelings that they are tearing him apart. He should’ve asked you too, he should’ve noticed, how could he not. How could he keep his penitence a secret for so long. The trauma room you’re wheeled into quickly fills with people — as if in some unspoken pact, it’s mostly women: Santos, Javadi, Mel; Dana is looming at the doors. Dennis peeks in from behind her back.

But in the sea of faces, Jack is only seeing you.

He registers some fragments, freeze-frame shots flashing through his mind: your body turned on one side, wound splashed with antiseptic, someone’s gloved hand gliding the transducer over. The gel mixes with blood, the clumps of it being wiped off your skin, more bandages pressed to the wound, more fluid leaking, soaking them. He knows the bleeding’s not arterial because it would’ve been much worse. It doesn’t make him feel better.

“Jack!” McKay calls out to him again; he only hears it on her third attempt. There is a rumbling outside — the thunder rolling in, a harbinger of rain.

“She’s O-neg, and we are short on blood bags. That’s your type, right?” Cassie asks louder. “Can you donate?”

“Yeah,” Jack replies distractedly. It takes a few seconds for the words to settle in. “How do you know her blood type?”

“We donated together,” Javadi hurriedly explains. “I mean, technically she was the one donating because I didn’t really— I’m kinda not a fan of needles and— Sorry, doesn’t matter. She’s O-neg.”

Jack gazes from you to Robby. “Did you locate the bullet?”

“It grazed the scapula and snuggled close to the axillary artery. No metal shards,” but the unease flickers through Robby’s concentrated face.

Because it isn’t just the arteries and bones: it’s webs of muscles, nerves and vessels — the bullet going through all that would leave a lot of damage. It can leave you in so much pain, you won’t be able to move your arm. It can put an end to your career.

The thunder claps once more. The nausea threatens to bubble up Jack’s throat again. “What caliber?”

“Pretty sure it’s a .22.”

Robby darts a glance at him, and Jack can read its meaning: a .223 bullet would’ve shattered the bone. Would’ve been lethal. A .22 is smaller, so you have better chances to recover. And Jack will get a chance to —

The monitor starts beeping as your blood pressure drops. More bandages are thrown out wet. The rain outside loudly scuds against the walls and windows.

“You sure the artery’s intact? She is still bleeding,” McKay notes, brows furrowed.

“Arterial comes in a different color,” Robby’s expression mirrors hers. He peers at the image on the screen, eyes narrowing, a moment that is unbearably too long. Then his brows shoot up. “It’s not the artery, it’s the vein.”

Your heart rate is bright before Jack’s eyes, the number inexorably increasing: 120, 124, 127, 130. Robby is aware of it too — he quickly moves the ultrasound machine away. Then puts on a new pair of gloves.

“The ORs are packed so we need to deal with this in here. Cassie, you’re with me, everyone else — get back to your patients. We will update you guys when I’m done.”

Jack’s gaze wanders back to you — your tank top cut in the middle, the fabric ruined, your shoulder marred by the open wound that will leave a lifelong scar. He only now realizes that he’s been holding to your green shirt. He grabs it tighter.

“Let’s do a direct transfusion,” he breathes out.

Robby has no arguments against it, and Dana rushes in without command. She rummages through the supply closet. “Hey cowboy, come sit.”

“I’ll stand—”

“No, you will sit. Don’t waste your time on testing my patience,” she stares him down.

Jack stalks in and takes the chair closest to you, his gaze fixed on you, his voice dull. “You can drain me.”

Dana glances at him with a huff. “I’d like to avoid that.”

She pulls his sleeve up, wipes his arm clean with antiseptic, then works fast: a cannula in, connected to the transfusion tubing, then to your vein. Then Dana gives him another look and asks more quietly: “Are you okay?”

Jack looks numbly at his blood flowing, then to the drops of yours left on the floor, harsh red against the muted blue. Robby inserts a tube into your throat. And Jack is not okay, he is very far from it. “I’m not the one on the table,” he notes despondently.

The fear stays wrapped tight around his ribcage like barbed wire.

Your arm is scrubbed with hydrogen peroxide, and Dana helps to hold it up. Your pulse is thready, and all the sounds are muted in Jack’s head, his mind clouded like the sky before the storm, the waves of agitation churning in. His gaze darts to your vitals then to the instruments — scalpels and forceps catching light, steel stained, dark crimson. He watches Robby work with bated breath: it’s dilute epinephrine irrigation to reduce the bleeding, then suture ligation to make it stop.

The red number of your heart rate is slowly going down. Jack’s nerves are tight like a taut string.

He is too overwhelmed to show any reaction when the bullet is extracted, the edges of your wound sewn, the breathing tube removed. He doesn’t notice when Evans takes the needle out and puts a band-aid on his arm. He barely feels his legs when he stands up, his eyes snag on your body being wheeled out to transfer to your room.

Jack follows you without a doubt, with no questions, in a heartbeat.

He leaves his vest at the nurse station, the reasoning he’s come up with is believable enough: his leg’s been hurting, he just needs a break. He takes the stairs and gets up to the patient’s floor right when McKay is coming out of your room. Jack snaps out of his pensiveness only when he’s sitting by your bed.

And he’s afraid to move.

He can’t concentrate on any thought, he doesn’t dare to make wishes, he’s learned not to rely on prayers. So in the silence that’s broken by the thrumming rain, he watches as your chest falls and rises with each breath. Jack balances right at the very edge of slumber, and the exhaustion is weighing on his body but he doesn’t let it up a bit. It feels like time is stretching into endless hours — in truth, it barely takes one. And then he sees your fingers twitching.

He anxiously drags his gaze — up from your hands to chest to shoulders. When he looks at your face, you are already slowly blinking, eyes on the ceiling. You let out a quiet groan — and unexpectedly, it’s followed by your voice:

“If this is about me being reckless again, I really don’t want to hear it right now.”

The hand Jack reached to you freezes midair.

You aren’t angry or annoyed, just tired — which hurts him more. All the unsaid words feel heavy on his tongue; he swallows them without a sound.

“I’m gonna call Robby,” he mumbles and quickly leaves the room.

Jack pauses when he’s outside, his heart pounding so fast he needs a minute to calm down. He takes a few deep breaths, one thought cycling through his mind like mantra: you are alive, he didn’t lose you, all his apologies can wait.

He doesn��t go back in with Robby. Instead, Jack leans against the wall next to the door and listens in on the conversation you are having. Robby holds back his discontent but you do offer him an explanation: you didn’t want to bother anyone, it didn’t seem too serious, you thought you’d ask for help when the ER’s less busy. Then come the standard questions: how much the shoulder hurts, how freely can you move your injured arm, is there still any discomfort? Jack’s getting mildly irritated with how long this process takes because he thinks you only need more sleep. And he does too. He bites his tongue when Robby finally walks out.

“We’ll monitor her overnight, probably will discharge her in the afternoon,” he taps on the tablet, then stretches his arms. “God, I’d kill for a glass of scotch right now. Wanna make a beeline for the bar across the street? I have about an hour left.”

“I think I’ll stay put. Maybe see if Evans needs some help with paperwork, or check up on Shen,” Jack trails off.

In all honestly, he feels like his legs are filled with lead. As soon as Robby leaves, Jack picks a chair and puts it right next to your room and almost falls on it, his limbs lumbering, his body worn to a frazzle. The floor is quiet, and he tells himself he’ll close his eyes just for a minute.

... He wakes up on inhale.

At first, he doesn’t know why.

The weather has calmed down, the raindrops tapping in the distance, the buzz of people echoing somewhere far enough to not be a bother. Jack rubs the back of his neck, his muscles tense, his mind a little drowsy — and he catches a small sound, something like a gasp. Then comes another one, sharp, desperate, like someone is struggling to breathe. And that someone is in the room he’s sitting next to.

Jack leaps off the chair and thrusts the door open, and instantly he meets your eyes — wide, terrified, lips trembling and parted. You are sitting in bed, one hand pressed to your chest as you are helplessly gasping for air. He rushes up to you, his voice low but firm, calm, coaxing.

“Hey-hey, you need to breathe through your nose,” Jack says, but you only shake your head, your fingers digging into the white hospital gown.

He sits on your bed and takes your hand before you can scratch into your skin through the thin fabric. “Can you think of a phone number? Any number. Try saying it out loud but backward,” he suggests, his gaze never leaving yours. “What’s the last digit? Let’s start with just one. You can do it, c’mon. Think about it and tell me.”

It takes you about a minute — with each new second your panic wanes, slowly but surely, like thick fog giving way to clear skies. Your voice cracks when you force out:

“T-two.”

“Okay, that’s good, you’re doing good,” Jack praises quietly. “And what’s the second to last?”

Without thinking, he brushes the inside of your palm with his thumb. You don’t recoil. You keep looking at him, and your voice grows stronger, and you are letting more and more air in as you name the remaining digits.

Only when he hears the tenth, Jack figures out: “That’s the ER number.”

You drop your gaze. “I don’t know many phone numbers. It was the first one that came to mind.”

But what he hears is that you don’t have many people you can call. He wishes there was a decent reason to share his number but he can’t think of any.

“How are you feeling?” he asks cautiously.

You take a deep breath in, then out. “Better, I guess. Thank you. I didn’t mean to bother you, it was just a bad dream.”

Jack guesses that it’s more than that: more serious, long-lasting, the imprint your trauma leaves behind, not letting you forget. Because he knows — from memories, from the experience, his own included. He almost sounds apologetic when he notes:

“That’s how PTSD usually works.”

“Isn’t this too soon?” you chuckle mirthlessly. “I was hoping I’d get one good night while I’m on morphine.”

But then your gaze flits back to him — and it’s wondering and heedful, like you are afraid to hurt him. Your question comes out in a whisper: “Did you have to deal with it too?”

Jack is taken aback although it’s not offense that paints his features — it’s genuine surprise. Did you ask around about him? How else would you know? You give him an explanation before he can find the words to ask.

“The dog tags. You tug at your chain sometimes when you think things over. That’s how I noticed,” and it’s your turn to be apologetic.

But your reply is softened by a smile, and you don’t move your hand away from his. It’s not the topic Jack likes bringing up: he’s rarely met with understanding, and he hates being pitied. But you don’t give him pity — instead, you look at him like you want to treat him gently. And he feels like he’d talk to you just about anything.

Jack slowly nods. “Hard to avoid PTSD if you’re in the military. But therapy helped. Lots of therapy, lots of patience. The good old recipe.”

“Can’t wait to break the news to my therapist,” you let out half a groan, half a laugh. “I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic.”

“My therapist would’ve loved it,” Jack blurts out.

You give him a puzzled look. But you sound intrigued. “Okay, you need to elaborate on that. Or find a better therapist.”

Jack breathes out a chuckle. “He just likes solving things — problems, puzzles, murder mysteries. And I feel like he’s getting a little bored of me. Sometimes when he is writing in his notebook, I wonder if he’s just got a crossword hidden in there.”

“Oh, mine loves baking. I used to leave with hands full of pastry. I shared it with colleagues, I even started feeding birds. It’s kind of a relief that we switched to online sessions. Pretty sure half of the pigeons in my neighborhood now suffer from obesity.”

A smile crosses Jack’s face — not at the thought of chubby pigeons but at the realization: you find it easy to talk to him too. But then your hand trembles in his, and instantly Jack is on alert for trouble: his eyes dart from your shoulder to the needle taped to your arm.

“Are you in pain?” Jack frowns. “What’s your morphine dosage? You can get a little extra if —”

“No,” you refuse sharply, and Jack’s acutely aware he chose the wrong words. You only sigh and tug at the blanket with your other hand. “It’s not about morphine, it’s just... My blood pressure is usually low so I get cold easily.”

Jack perks up: that’s something he can actually help you with. “Wait, I’ll be right back,” he promises and rushes out like he just got a second wind.

All his enthusiasm is blown out by the chaos in the ER: it takes him a mortifying amount of time to find where his wool blanket disappeared. He searches the entirety of the nurse station, goes through his locker, he checks both bathrooms and even ventures out into the morgue. He’s running past the entrance when he glimpses Shen — with the said blanket thrown over his shoulders.

“Hey man, look what I found!” Shen blithely tells him.

Jack darts to him and yanks the blanket off, his gaze burning. “Don’t. Just don’t ever touch this.”

Shen blinks uncomprehendingly. “What? It’s not like it had your name on it!”

When Jack comes back, he finds you curled up on the bed, the thin bedcover brought up to your neck, hands folded under your cheek. He tiptoes closer and puts the blanket over you, then tucks you in. He’s checking the IV line’s placement when all of a sudden, your fingers catch his palm — as if on impulse, or maybe out of habit you are unconsciously forming.

“You are so warm,” your voice is barely above the whisper.

His hand stays pressed to yours as you doze off, and Jack stands still. For a minute, five, ten; he doesn’t feel like moving.

And then, without letting go of you, he manages to reach the chair and pull it closer to your bed. He sits down and lowers one of the side rails, then leans to you, his elbows sinking into the mattress, your steady breath grazing his skin. Jack rests his chin on his free arm and watches you — with peacefulness that’s akin to tenderness, with some other feeling that fills him up with warmth.

And slowly, he gives in to sleep, lulled by the sounds of the rain and monitors, his hand tangled with yours, his thumb on your pulse.

GSW = gunshot wound / PBP = The Pittsburgh Police;

shout-out to @/thedarkesthistories who made a post about everything Jack’s got in his backpack ♡

I did a lot of research (the FBI agent watching me through my laptop was probably hella confused by me reading case studies and watching surgeries lmao) BUT obviously, I am not a doctor so please forgive me for any inaccuracies;

the title is a quote from “Wake” by SYML ♫

dividers by @/cafekitsune & me.

some bad and good news. the bad: this chapter originally was coming close to 20K and... no, I don’t think many people would’ve read that. so we’ll have 4 chapters in total instead of 3. the good news: the next chapter is half-written so hopefully it won’t take me forever to finish it (fingers crossed).

English is not my first language, so feel free to tell me if you spot any major mistakes!

I also want to take a moment to thank everyone who left a comment and reblogged my fic(s). obviously, I am grateful for every like I get. but if I’m being honest, my imposter syndrome often beats all the motivation out of me, and as much as I enjoy writing, I spend an embarrassing amount of time on self-doubting. I know my fics aren’t everyone’s cup of tea (I rarely write short stories, I don’t include smut in every single one, my writing style might seem overloaded or too detailed... the list goes on), and that’s fine. but I also have an unfortunate habit of joining fandoms a little too late. which feels like walking into a cafeteria where all the tables are already taken, and no one intends to spare you a seat. I don’t feel like a part of a community and at the end of the day, I write for myself. which is why it’s so rewarding when people find the time to say something nice about my fics and to share them. thank you so much to every single one of you, that means a lot to me. ♡

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