sarahs-secrets2

[sarahs-secrets2]

ordered dr robby’s zip up he wears during the shift from hell because im anything but normal 🤸🏼‍♀️

[sarahs-secrets2]

safety net ˋ♡ˊ

dr jack abbot x reader

reader scared to admit feelings but jack is reassuring, super sweet, fluff, all the good stuff!!! (not my gif <3)

wc: 2.1k!

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

“So what do you have planned for your day off?” Dr. Shen asks, leaning against the nurse’s station as he swirls what's left of his very melted, old Dunkin ‘iced’ coffee. 

“Uh, I’m not sure.” You lie. Your eyes flick up from the computer and find Dr. Jack Abbot checking a chart as he leaves an exam room. Trying not to stare, you quickly shift your attention back down. 

“See if it were my day off-” Shen is about to go into grand detail about his perfect day off, before a voice cuts him off. 

“C’mon, brother,” Dr. Abbot laughs, his hand falling to John’s shoulder, giving him a light shake. “Got something for you.” As Jack pulls Dr. Shen away, his eyes meet yours, giving you a side smile and quick wink before heading towards a fresh trauma.  

“Hey, you have tomorrow off too,” the voice is far away, but you know it’s Shen. Your eyes glance off to the side, seeing Abbot shake his head with a small laugh while snapping on a fresh pair of gloves before entering the trauma room. 

It was no coincidence that the two of you shared a day off. It had been something quietly in the works for a while. Jack asked you to go to a new restaurant that opened a few blocks from the hospital. It wasn't a fancy spot, very casual, a perfect place for a summer evening and some drinks. The restaurant was no longer new by the time you were both able to get the same night off, most of the hospital staff had already been with their family or friends, or spouses. Except you and Jack, who both promised not to go until you could go together. 

You two were just really good friends, at least that’s what you told yourself. It was easier to compartmentalize it that way than dive into feelings that you were far from ready to unpack. It was a silly little crush, nothing serious. 

Now you’re lying to yourself. 

Dr. Abbot was attractive. There was no denying that, but he was also patient, thoughtful, thorough, you could go on and on. Every move he made was precise and thought out, he exuded quiet confidence that pulled you directly into his orbit. Abbot was also extremely good at his job, which just made it all the more impossible to deny any sort of attraction to him. On top of it all, his no bullshit demeanor made him intimidating in the best way. It had come from his military background, which he told you about briefly. The stories were told away from work, mornings in the park, or a rare night off at the local dive bar, always a few beers in, the two of you being the last ones left. 

Maybe he figured the stories of his past would scare you away, put some distance between growing feelings you both hid from each other. Wrong. It only made the two of you want to be closer.

While you were trying to deny your feelings, Jack was adamant about his. The tension is always palpable between the two of you. Stolen glances, hands brushing in passing, slow walks home, Abbot made it a habit to always be there for you. He picked up on your fears of falling in love without you having to verbalize them. It was easy for him to notice you, you mirrored him and the fears he once carried. Jack knew what it was like to lose love, he had mourned, and had put the work in to heal. It’s not a linear journey, he knew that, but he knew himself enough to know that he was ready to let himself love again when he saw you. It was cliche, but it was a feeling he hadn't come across in a long time, and he didn’t want to regret letting it go. 

The rest of the shift is a blur.

It’s busy in a way that doesn't allow your mind to wander. It’s perfect. The sun is rising, and like clockwork, the day shift filters in, cases are handed off, and you are bag in hand and out the doors. 

“Hey,” Jack’s voice stops you before you can cross the street to start your walk home. 

“Hey,” you turn to see him with tired eyes, and his military bag slung over one shoulder. 

“Better not be trying to come up with an excuse to get out of our date,” he offers a side smile, eyes crinkling. There was that word date, the very thing you were trying to convince yourself it wasn't. 

“Don’t give me any ideas now, Abbot.” 

He gives a genuine but exhausted laugh. “Can I pick you up around…7?”

“7 is good,” you smile, “I’ll see you then.” You start to cross the street when you hear him again.

“You sure I can’t walk you home?” He makes it a habit to offer every time he sees you start your walk. Most of the time, you turn him down, not wanting to burden him. There is the rare occasion where you say yes, and you two walk together, mostly in silence. It’s a cherished moment, one you allow yourself only so often. It’s hard not to get attached to a man who makes himself available in the ways Jack Abbot does. 

“I’ll be okay,” you nod and give him an honest smile.

He smiles back, walking backwards, giving a wave. “7,” he tugs the strap of his backpack up onto his shoulder. “Don’t forget.” 

“I won’t.” You drag it out laughing and giving a small wave back as you walk away. 

Jack steals a glance, looking back and watching you walk through the park. Part of him wished you had said yes today. Anytime spent with you was time well spent. It wasn't like he had anything else going on, he planned to sleep and then see you, and walking you back to your apartment would have made the time in between seeing you bearable. 

The second you get home, you’re showered and in bed in record time. 

Sleep comes easily after shifts like the one tonight. Before you know it, the alarm on your phone is beeping, waking you up and reminding you of the date (that you keep trying to tell yourself is not a date) with the guy you work with, and who you’ve only had a crush on for the longest time. Time dwindles, and after distracting yourself with cleaning, reorganizing, and other mundane tasks to take your mind off later, you finally start to get ready. It helps tremendously that the restaurant is casual, so it’s easy to dress for. Despite giving yourself plenty of time to get ready, you feel anxiety building up as the clock ticks closer to 7 pm. Knowing Jack as well, he would be sure to be early, but not early enough that he would show up before you were all set.  

6:53 pm, there’s a knock at the door. 

The knock is soft, gentle, it’s thought out. It’s almost a peek into how nervous Jack truly is, which doesn't happen very often. Opening the door, you see Dr. Jack Abbot standing with his hands in the pockets of his dark wash jeans. The button-down polo he's wearing has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, freckled forearms on display. It’s rare to see him in anything but scrubs, and damn does he look good. The dinner wasn't fancy, but you could tell he still wanted to put effort into how he looked.  

“You clean up well, Doctor Abbot.” You smile brightly at him, catching a whiff of his cologne wafting in the air: teakwood, eucalyptus, and worn leather. It’s intoxicating. 

“So do you, Doctor.” His eyes flick up and down your body. “You ready?”

Nodding, you step out and lock the door behind you. Jack’s hand grazes your lower back, letting you lead the way. 

“You don't mind walking, do you?” 

“Of course not,” you bump your shoulder into his softly, earning a light laugh from Jack. 

The two of you walk in a comfortable silence for a while before Jack speaks up.

“You know, Robby was trying to get me to go to this place for at least two weeks straight before he took a hint.”

“Really? You could’ve gone, you know.” You steal a glance.

“As badly as I want to go on a date with Robby, I wanted to save my first time for tonight, with you.” He shrugs, meeting your eyes.

You can spot the restaurant from a mile away, with glowing string lights illuminating an outdoor patio, lively music playing, and other patrons chatting away with drinks in hand. Jack’s hand returns to your lower back, guiding you through the busy restaurant and to the host stand. 

You two are led back outside, the table located in a corner, making it more private than the others. Drinks and appetizers are ordered, and the anxiety hanging over your head seems to vanish. Jack and you slip into conversation, and it flows through dinner. Swapping stories of the past, and some of the present, and sharing glimpses of what you both want in your futures, you see more into Jack than you ever have before. The voice in the back of your head warns you of what happened last time you got close to someone like this, but you push it down, turning all your focus to the man in front of you. 

Time seems to fly by, and Jack, being the gentleman he is, pays the tab despite your protest to split it. 

The sun has fully set, the stars are out, and a light breeze blows through the night air as the two of you walk slowly back. Shoulders bumping occasionally, fingertips just barely touching each other as the two of you walk closely together, trying to preserve the night, neither of you ready for it to end.

Back at your apartment, you linger at the door, not reaching for your key just yet. Leaning against the door slightly, you smile at Jack.

“Thank you for tonight, I had a lot of fun.”

“Me too,” even though it’s dark, the small glow from the porch light illuminates his smile.

The moment hangs in the air, his eyes never leaving yours. Jack steps closer, closing the already small distance. Taking a deep breath, you get another rush of his cologne, making your head spin. Your hand reaches back, grasping the door handle, trying to steady yourself.

You wish Jack Abbot wasn't so in tune with your emotions, he cuts through your exterior and sees you for what you are in a way no one else could. You can see it on his face how he is reading you, he feels your hesitation, building a wall between the two of you.

“You don’t have to run away from this, you know.” His head tilts slightly as he speaks, eyes never leaving yours. 

“I know.” 

“I don’t think you do.” 

“Jack,” it comes out softer than you expected. It’s vulnerable. It’s a plea. This is uncharted territory. You could turn away and run right now, literally. He would let you, he wouldn't push you if you weren't ready. Jack Abbot was patient, he had already waited months to take you to dinner. He would wait till you were ready. 

“I know.” He echoes your words back to you. He understands what this would mean for both of you, at work, with each other, a permanent crossing of a long-standing boundary. On the other hand, it was a boundary both of you ached to cross. The idea of doing so weighed more in theory than had crossed your mind. 

Jack’s hand reaches for yours, he half expects you to pull away. Instead, you reach out, meeting him in the middle. He squeezes your hand gently, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. He’s put the power back in your hands, he doesn’t want to rush you. 

Your head is reeling, trying to compose yourself, trying to make sense of what you should do. The part of you holding yourself back seems to vanish the longer you look at Jack Abbot in front of you. 

A switch flips, and you listen to Jack’s words and stop running. With a simple nod, he knows exactly what you mean, no words needed. His hands move to cradle your face, holding you close. Jack’s lips crash into yours, the tension between the two of you finally snapping. Your hands paw at his chest, trying to get him closer.

Everything else is quiet, and for once, it all makes sense now that you’re kissing Jack Abbot. 

You’re not sure how long you two are like this, only stopping to catch some air. 

“Been waiting for that for a while,” Jack smirks, his hands wrapping around your waist, holding you close.

You bury your head into his chest, attempting to hide your smile, "Me too."

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

hope you all enjoyed :) (bear with me if there's typos, its 4am loll i will fix!!)

[sarahs-secrets2]

this being real is killing me 😭

[sarahs-secrets2]

SHAWN HATOSY as JIMMY HALL Criminal Minds S07E10

[sarahs-secrets2]

SHAWN HATOSY as DEPUTY CHIEF CHARLIE REID Chicago P.D. | Season 12

[sarahs-secrets2]

3 drafts in the works🙈 take this as an apology for my slow writing habits & proof of work

[sarahs-secrets2]

ahh tysm for the luv on my abbot fic !! ily <3

well of course, your writing is my fav!!!! ily!!! 🫶🏻

[sarahs-secrets2]

Graphic cred: @clubsoft (obvs, who's doing it like her?)

@𝘢𝑛𝘢𝑛𝘰𝑛𝘺𝑚𝘰𝑢𝘴𝑎𝘧𝑓𝘢𝑖𝘳 @𝑐𝘭𝑢𝘣𝑠𝘰𝑓𝘵 𝘢𝑛𝘥 𝘐 𝘣𝑟𝘪𝑛𝘨 𝘺𝑜𝘶:

𝘈 𝘋𝑂𝘊𝑇𝘖𝑅 𝐴 𝐷𝘈𝑌— 𝘢 𝘤𝑟𝘦𝑎𝘵𝑖𝘷𝑒 𝑒𝘷𝑒𝘯𝑡 𝑓𝘰𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑃𝘪𝑡𝘵 𝘧𝑎𝘯𝑑𝘰𝑚!!

Aʟʟ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ— ꜰɪᴄs, ᴍᴏᴏᴅʙᴏᴀʀᴅs, ᴇᴅɪᴛs, ᴀʀᴛ, ᴇᴛᴄ.*

*works created using AI will not be accepted.

ʜᴏᴡ    ᴛᴏ    ᴊᴏɪɴ: 𝑠𝘦𝑛𝘥 𝘢𝑛𝘺 𝘰𝑛𝘦 𝘰𝑓 𝑢𝘴 𝘢𝑛 𝑎𝘴𝑘 𝑤𝘪𝑡𝘩 𝘢 𝘯𝑢𝘮𝑏𝘦𝑟 𝑓𝘳𝑜𝘮 1~30. 𝘞𝑒 𝑤𝘪𝑙𝘭 𝘱𝑟𝘰𝑣𝘪𝑑𝘦 𝘺𝑜𝘶 𝘸𝑖𝘵ℎ 𝑎 𝑙𝘪𝑛𝘦 𝘰𝑓 𝑑𝘪𝑎𝘭𝑜𝘨𝑢𝘦 𝘢𝑙𝘰𝑛𝘨 𝘸𝑖𝘵ℎ 𝑎 𝑟𝘢𝑛𝘥𝑜𝘮𝑙𝘺 𝘨𝑒𝘯𝑒𝘳𝑎𝘵𝑒𝘥 𝘤𝑜𝘭𝑜𝘶𝑟 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑚𝘶𝑠𝘵 𝘶𝑠𝘦 𝘪𝑛 𝑦𝘰𝑢𝘳 𝘸𝑜𝘳𝑘. 𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑎𝘳𝑒 𝑤𝘦𝑙𝘤𝑜𝘮𝑒 𝑡𝘰 𝘱𝑖𝘤𝑘 𝑦𝘰𝑢𝘳 𝘰𝑤𝘯 𝘤ℎ𝘢𝑟𝘢𝑐𝘵𝑒𝘳! 𝘉𝑢𝘵 𝘪𝑓 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑤𝘰𝑢𝘭𝑑 𝑝𝘳𝑒𝘧𝑒𝘳, 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑐𝘢𝑛 𝑎𝘴𝑘 𝑢𝘴 𝘵𝑜 𝑎𝘴𝑠𝘪𝑔𝘯 𝘺𝑜𝘶 𝘰𝑛𝘦 𝘢𝑠 𝑤𝘦𝑙𝘭 :)

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[sarahs-secrets2]

⠀˖⠀⠀⠀✶⠀⠀⠀BACK TATTOO JACK ABBOT HEADCANON (wc : 1757) ˖ ✦⠀

Jack Abbot has one tattoo.

It covers nearly his entire back — thick black ink pressed deep into the skin, running from the base of his neck down the length of his spine. A gothic cross, built wide across the shoulders and heavy through the middle, the lines rough-edged from the start. Not sloppy — just deliberate. Meant to hold. Meant to last.

Behind it, broad wings stretch low and battered across the blades of his shoulders. No soaring angles. No graceful lift. The wings look like they've been dragged through hell and stayed standing anyway, snapped at the ends where scars have broken the ink, feathers ragged, blackening into the burn-scored skin.

It isn't a decoration.

It isn’t a statement.

It’s a brand.

It’s a map of a man stitched together out of survival and failure and the kind of duty no amount of discharge papers can strip out.

He got the cross first.

Late 2003. Afghanistan.

Jack had just finished his first back-to-back rotation.

He was twenty-seven and already carried himself like someone older — shoulders squared against the weight of shit he didn’t have the time or the luxury to process.

He wasn’t a grunt, not exactly.

Combat medics never are.

His job was to keep people alive long enough to die somewhere cleaner.

Tourniquets. Decompressions. Chest tubes jammed through ribs slick with blood and dirt. Dragging men out of wrecked Humvees with their legs hanging by threads. Holding arteries shut with bare hands. Telling men who knew better that they were going to be alright even when Jack could already see it in their eyes — the knowing.

When they died, Jack made sure the bodies went home right.

Flagged caskets. Dusty salutes on the tarmac. Honor, at least, if nothing else.

But what nobody told you was what stayed behind — the blood that didn’t wash out of the sandbags. The personal effects that never made it onto the inventory lists. The things they never trained you to carry.

He didn’t go out drinking with the others when they got home.

Didn’t crash motorcycles or get in bar fights trying to feel something.

Didn’t call his family, not even once.

Didn’t tell them he was back.

Instead, he drove forty miles outside of Columbus, Georgia in the middle of the night, past the closed gas stations and darkened diners, until he found the place someone in his unit told him about — a concrete block of a tattoo shop, all flickering neon and cracked windows.

The artist was an older guy. Ex-infantry. The kind of man who looked Jack over once and didn’t say anything stupid like, “You sure about this?”

Jack stripped off his jacket. Turned his back to the counter.

Said, flat and unflinching: "Cross. Centered. Big."

That was it.

No explanation.

He sat down in the chair and took the pain without a flinch, the buzz of the machine burning low into his bones.

Three hours.

No breaks.

When it was done, Jack paid cash and walked out without glancing at the mirror.

He didn’t need to see it.

He already knew it was there.

For a while, the cross was enough.

It wasn't about God. Jack stopped believing in anything higher than the people bleeding out in front of him years ago.

The cross was a mark. A ledger.

The weight of every body he couldn’t save.

Every face he couldn't scrub out of memory.

Every time he held pressure over a bleeding chest and knew it wouldn’t be enough but stayed there anyway because you don’t let go until someone else makes you.

The cross is the line between standing and falling.

Between duty and despair.

It’s what he chose when he realized coming home didn’t mean coming back clean.

A reminder that there are weights you carry even when nobody else sees them.

He didn't talk about it.

He didn’t show it.

He didn’t even think about it most days — the way you don’t think about breathing when you’ve done it long enough.

It just was.

Then Iraq happened. 2005.

Jack had been attached to a mechanized unit, running convoys through streets that changed loyalty every two hours.

He wasn't supposed to be in the blast radius.

Wasn't supposed to be on that street at all.

But orders change, radios go silent, and Jack went where he always went — where the bleeding was loudest.

The explosion ripped through the front of the convoy, tossing the first Humvee into the air like a kicked can and sending debris raining down onto the asphalt. Jack was moving before the dust even cleared, tourniquets slapping onto stumps, IVs jammed into collapsing veins, adrenaline and muscle memory dragging him forward.

He didn’t make it out clean.

He doesn’t remember the blast that took his leg.

Just waking up in a field hospital in Baghdad, throat raw, leg missing below the knee, an unfamiliar medic looking down at him and saying:

"You're still here."

Like that meant something.

Recovery was hell. Not because of the pain.

Jack could take pain.

It was the slowness that killed him — the waiting, the crawling pace of days stacking up like bodies you couldn’t bury.

Learning how to walk again wasn’t heroic.

It was survival, stripped down to its ugliest parts.

He got his prosthetic.

Did the work.

Moved forward.

Because there was nothing else.

When he was cleared to leave, Jack didn’t go home.

He went back to the shop.

Same cracked concrete. Same flickering neon.

Different guy behind the counter this time — younger, trying too hard to look tough.

Jack didn’t explain anything.

He pulled off his shirt.

Turned his back.

Pointed once at the black cross burned into his spine and said, voice low: "Add wings. Heavy ones."

No more words.

The artist didn’t ask what kind. Didn’t offer designs.

He just nodded, pulled on gloves, and started building them straight into the skin.

The machine buzzed steady over old scar tissue, dragging new lines over broken skin.

Jack sat through the whole thing in silence.

No grimacing.

No posturing.

No fucking catharsis.

Just pain.

Real. Clean. Useful.

They spread low across his shoulders, broken at the ends, snapped where the ink drags over old shrapnel scars.

They aren’t wings built for flight.

They’re built for burden.

Jack never wanted to soar.

Never wanted to be lifted out of the dirt and the blood and the endless fucking work of keeping people alive long enough to break again.

The wings carry weight.

The wings remind him — every time the prosthetic clicks against the tile, every time he feels the stitch of old wounds under new movements — that some things you don’t escape.

Some things you live with, whether you want to or not.

When it was done, Jack pulled his shirt back on and left.

Now, twenty years later, the ink rides over every scar the surgeons couldn’t smooth out.

The cross still holds fast over his spine.

The wings still stretch wide across his back, battered and blackened, torn at the edges by old shrapnel wounds and skin grafts.

He never touched it up.

Never will.

The breaks are the point.

The fact that it held together — not perfectly, but still standing — matters more than any clean line ever could.

Nobody at the Pitt sees it.

Not unless they catch him stripped down in the locker room after a shift gone bad — the kind where blood stains deep into the seams of his scrubs and there’s no pretending you can just walk out without washing it off.

Not unless they’re careless enough, stupid enough, to glance over at the wrong moment — when Jack pulls his top over his head with the sharp economy of a man who doesn't waste movement, exposing the thick black lines burned into the wreck of his back.

Even then, most of them don’t realize what they’re seeing.

They look away fast.

Learn not to ask.

Jack doesn’t invite questions.

He doesn’t offer answers.

He peels the ruined scrub top off, tosses it into the biohazard bin, and steps into the biting rush of the locker room shower — washing off blood that isn’t his, wounds he can’t name, losses too old to mourn.

The water stings where the skin splits open again along old scar lines, where the ink feathers into the broken places, but Jack doesn't flinch.

Pain is familiar.

Pain is simple.

He scrubs until the pink water runs clear.

Pulls on clean black scrubs with his back turned to the rest of the room, working around the ache in his knee, the stubborn old prosthetic that never fits quite right when the humidity climbs high.

The tattoo isn’t about grief.

It isn’t about forgiveness.

It isn’t about the dead.

It’s about what you bear when no one else will.

It’s about standing up when every goddamn inch of you has been telling you to stay down.

It’s about the blood you wash off and the blood that stays under your skin no matter how many times you scrub.

It’s about the debt you can’t ever pay back because there’s no one left to take the payment.

It’s about surviving when surviving means dragging the dead with you — not out of guilt, not out of penance, but because it’s what they deserve.

Because they deserved someone to remember.

And Jack remembers.

He remembers every tourniquet that slipped under his fingers.

Every heartbeat that flatlined under his palms.

Every name he never let himself learn because it was easier to bury strangers than brothers.

He carries them all.

Quiet. Heavy. Without complaint.

The tattoo rides the same way.

Not a badge. Not a wound. Not a plea for understanding. Just a part of him. Fixed in the bone. Written into muscle and scar tissue.

Same as the limp he pretends isn’t there.

Same as the uneven thud of his boot against the tile — a sound no one dares to call out.

Same as the empty silences he leaves between sentences, where everything real still lives.

Jack carries it.

Has carried it for twenty years.

Will carry it for twenty more if that’s what’s asked of him.

Without complaint.

Without prayer.

Without hope.

Because that's what you do when the cost isn’t yours to decide. When you survive and you shouldn’t have.

You carry it.

You stand up.

You move forward.

And you never, ever forget.

Even when the rest of the world does.

[sarahs-secrets2]

Moonlight

Dr. Jack Abbot x f!reader

[18+]

— Dr. Jack Abbot’s nights off were some of his favourite nights to spend in bed with you.

— about 3800 words.

— 18+ [mostly porn hardly plot, unspecified age gap, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving; he’s a munch your honour), dirty talk, lowkey possessive abbot, strong language].

— no use of y/n, not beta read (or edited very well, for that matter).

writer’s note: 1. first time writing for abbot, 2. need that old man bad, 3. if this does ok, i might write some more of him in the future :) — enjoy, and lmk what you thought !!

Jack’s nights off were some of the only times you ever had sex with the moon bathing you in its ghostly light. When you hadn’t pulled down the black-out curtain, and sheer drapes swayed softly in the movement of the circulating fan. When your dewy, sweat-slick skin seemed to shine in the pale light. When he seemed to take his time with you— he was never as tired, never as fatigued. You could spell his name over and over with your hips and he’d let you.

When he did work, and he arrived home after the sun had risen, he was often completely drained and an immovable force when his weathered body hit the plush of your mattress. Sometimes, if you were desperate, he’d let you fuck yourself on two of his thick fingers— usually so you could feel the cold brand of his wedding ring against the molten heat of your folds.

If he did have a bit of energy, shaken up and fizzing from a ridiculously caffeinated energy drink (one which he drank way too close to the end of his shift), or he was riding a high after successfully bringing a patient back from the precipice of death (and received a ton of praise for), he’d bend you over the kitchen counter the moment he walked through the front door. Fuck you within an inch of your life, then fuck you in the shower, then head to bed after a kiss to your cheek.

After each shift, though, in which the two of you connected, it was always with the presence of the sun. The room was always bright and golden and warm, even on the cooler winter days. The colours of the city sunrise bathing you as you reached your peak and came around his cock or his fingers or his tongue, before you had to get ready for work and he had to catch some well-earned sleep.

And (but?) it seemed that sometimes, the sun separated you.

So when it was his night off— finally, after what felt like an eternity —you knew exactly what you were looking forward to. Looking forward to aligning your body with his, aligned with the stars, and taking as long as you both wanted.

As witnessed by the moonlight.

Jack took you out to dinner. Your favourite place, where he spent half the time looking at you adoringly with a painful amount of love in his eyes. The other half, eyes sweeping down the soft curves of your body, was an amalgamation of lust and yearning— and of which set your body alight.

Your front door closed with a soft click, followed by the rhythmic slide of the lock, and that was the amount of time you had before his hands were on you. He backed you up against the front door with his hands immediately finding your hips, pulling you flush against him as his mouth found the side of your neck.

He mouthed at the pulse, letting out a short and quiet groan as the front of his slacks grew tighter, your chest pressed tightly to his as you felt along his pectorals with your palms.

“My beautiful girl,” he uttered against you, nose nudging up the curve of your neck to place his lips against the pulse below your ear. “Fuck, you looked so good, baby. So fuckin’ good.”

“Jack,” you whispered, head falling back as he kissed back up your throat, grinding himself up against you.

He kissed along your jaw, slowly, with his stubble coarse on the soft skin of your cheeks, which were warmed with a pleasant heat. His lips found yours, and he immediately groaned again as his lips split yours and he licked into your mouth. The kiss was fervent and heated, and you grabbed at the front of his shirt as his tongue ran over your teeth and smoothed against your own.

You’d never get tired of this. You were in the throes of an addiction. Hooked on him.

“Jack,” you gasped out again, and he grunted in return, chasing the heat of your mouth. One of his hands, calloused and warm, gripped the back of your neck and anchored your head, holding you to him as he slid his mouth back to yours.

And then you were moving. You’re not sure how exactly, but with his mouth still moving against yours, he pulled you away from the front door and leads you down the hall and straight to your bedroom.

“‘Atta girl, baby, keep walking,” he whispered against your mouth. You trusted him blindly, completely. You’d trust him with your life. After all, you really were in the most capable hands.

The backs of your knees hit your mattress and you fell backwards. He lets you go, removing his hands from your hips and neck and watching you with lowered lids as you splay out for him.

All for him.

Slowly, Jack’s hands found his belt. Nimble fingers make quick work of the buckle, and the sound makes your pussy throb, anticipation shooting through your veins. You caught his eyes as the room filled with quiet clinking, and you swallowed thickly at the heat burning beyond his irises.

“Take your clothes off,” he said quietly, almost a whisper. He slid his belt off and tossed it aside before resting his hands near the waistband of his slacks, thumbs hooked in the belt loops. Watching you.

With butterflies erupting in your stomach, your skin on fire, you shimmy out of your clothes and try desperately to ignore the way his gaze set your body alight. The way you could feel him looking at you. Analysing the way you slid your clothes off of your body.

When you were in your bra and underwear, he stopped you with a gentle hand to your knee. A hand which slowly, carefully, pushed your knee to the side. A hand that forced your other leg aside, too, so you were perched at the very edge of the bed with your legs wide open.

He groaned as he got to his knees, eyes transfixed on the darkening cotton between your thighs.

“Jack,” you called for him.

“S’a matter, baby?” He cooed, nearly completely distracted, hands branding hot on the soft skin of your inner thighs. His left hand slowly inched towards your underwear, the tips rubbing against the stitching.

“Need you,” you told him. “Please—”

Jack’s fingers hooked into your underwear and he pulled them aside— not down, but aside, baring your soaked cunt to him and forcing an unabashed moan from the depths of your throat. You heard him hum, satisfied, before he leaned in and placed a delicate kiss to your clit, his eyes once again finding yours.

His lips rested for a short moment against the swollen little bud. Feeling the pulse beneath it. So incredibly warm. And all for him.

Then, he licked a stripe top to bottom, then bottom to top, and sealing his mouth across you as his tongue moved. Your eyes slammed shut and stars burst behind your eyelids, much like the ones glittering beyond your window. Body alight, thrumming with everything he was giving you.

Your hand immediately found the short salt and pepper curls on the top of his head. Fisting tight, gripping, pulling him closer as you rutted your hips in time with the movement of his tongue. God, it felt so good— he felt so good. Warm mouth, moving with the beat of your heart, following your pulse like he was trying to revive you. Resuscitation, with his tongue deep in the slick of your cunt. His hands kneaded the flesh of your thighs, the cool white-gold of his wedding ring refracting moonlight.

“Jack,” you moaned, and it felt as though that had been all you’d said in the last ten minutes. It was the one word that filled your mind like an echo, bouncing off the curved walls of your skull. Infected your mind. Some doctor he was, with his name infesting your thoughts. No cure for that.

“God, Jack,” you continued. “Feels so good.”

He hummed, nose nudging your puffy clit while his tongue curled inside you, eyes watching the way you writhed against the soft sheets. Body rolling with each flick of his tongue, sweat shining over your skin, eyes struggling to stay open.

It was thoughts like these that got him through tough shifts. Of course, just the thought of you had him calm, collected. But like this, pussy open to him, leaking and ready, all saccharine and sin, was what kicked him awake more than any kind of caffeine.

And the sounds you made. Your pleading, your whimpering, your moaning. His name, over and over, and over—

“Jack, baby, fuck—”

“Oh, Jack, feel’s so good—”

“Please, Jack—”

That was fuel to fire too.

Heat pooled in your lower belly, the base of your spine tingling as your legs began to tremble. Thighs clenching, which he could feel beneath the strong spread of his fingers, which continued to knead and grip like muscle-memory. Muscle shifting beneath his palms, pleasure coursing through your veins, following your arteries, pumping through your blood.

Jack didn’t have to say anything, didn’t have to ask you. Sometimes, it’s if he knew your body better than you did.

Tongue curled deep inside you, he felt the silken walls of your cunt pull tight as you came into his mouth. Back arching, toes curling, you came with his name a burning liquor on your tongue, flowing past your teeth with no regard for the way it spilled into the night air. Loud and clear cut.

That had Jack’s cock straining painfully against the front seam of his slacks. With a tacky lower face, he placed one last kiss to your fluttering hole, which was just short of drooling, before getting to his feet. His knees clicked, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Something funny?” He asked, cocking his head to the side as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside. His voice seemed a little hoarser, a little deeper. It made your pussy flutter.

“Old man,” you teased, sitting up as the remnants of your orgasm fizzled away. You sat up, watching him with waxy eyes as he rid himself of his slacks too, leaving him in just his boxers.

“Old man, huh?” The corner of his mouth quirked upwards a little. A teasing smile as he approached the bed, one of his hands dipping past his waistband. Your eyes followed, and he laughed. “Need something from this old man, baby?”

You rolled your lips into your mouth, trying not to smile. Your eyes watched the visible print of his cock against the fabric, and the way he rested his hand over it had your heart fluttering in your chest.

Jack smiled down at you. A grin, all vulpine and knowing. He knew what you were thinking. He could see it in the way you watched him. So, slowly, he pulled his cock out of his boxers, gripping the thick of it near the base as you stared at him, releasing your lips and letting an audible sigh slip from your mouth.

“Yeah? You want it?” He teased. You finally looked up at him with those beautiful watery eyes of yours, and nodded. A slight movement, it was, as if you were embarrassed. Nearly imperceptible, but to his trained eyes, obvious. The need inside of you was building, poisoning your very thoughts, and who was he to deny you the antidote?

“You want it bad, don’t you, baby?” He continued to tease, and this time you whined at him. A high-pitched keen as your brow furrowed, heavy with petulance. He tutted, stroking his cock a couple of times, drawing your eyes once more. “So desperate for it, aren’t you? So fuckin’ needy.”

You pressed forward, and he let you: soft, glossy lips flush to the aching red head of his cock. It twitched against you.

While you did that, Jack reached behind you and, one-handed, unclipped your bra.

You pulled back, smiling, throwing your bra across the room. “You really love doing that, don’t you?”

Jack smiled back. “I have skilled hands. You of all people should know that.”

Shaking your head ruefully, you shimmied backwards, finally pulling off your underwear. You pretended not to hear the way Jack’s breath hitched at the sight of you. While you moved (and after regaining his concentration), this gave Jack time to remove both his boxers and his prosthetic, which accidentally fell to the side with a resounding thud.

“Jack,” you gasped. “Be careful!”

He laughed, finally crawling onto the bed and kneeling between your parted legs. “It’s been through a lot worse.”

“Still,” you grumbled playfully. “And you need to wipe down your leg—”

Jack leaned forward and covered your mouth with his, stealing the words from your tongue and swallowing them. When he pulled away, after a quick nip to your bottom lip, he smiled. You rolled your eyes, and then he was on you again— this time, with his hands roaming your body, pinching and squeezing your flesh, rubbing at your curves.

His large hands found your breasts, which he cupped gently and squeezed as he kissed you. Massaging gently, rhythmically. The flesh was so incredibly warm, he wished he could just bury his head between them.

Another day.

He took his thumbs and forefingers and began pulling at your nipples purely for the noises he knew you’d make. The jolts elicited a harsh moan from you which, once again, was silenced by the lull of his tongue and a near silent laugh from the rear of his throat.

Jack’s hands moved down, down still, until he was massaging the fat of your thighs and spreading your legs even wider, blindly exposing your leaking pussy to the air of your room. You whimpered into his mouth as you felt him— warm and solid, the tip of his flushed cock pressing at the entrance to your cunt, smearing your slick over your folds.

“Mmm,” you hummed as he pulled away, hot and not at all bothered by the butterflies hatching in your stomach again. Excitement bubbled alongside them.

“That’s my girl,” Jack said, just above a whisper. He gripped his cock and inched forward, pressing the head of his cock tighter against your hole. “You gonna be good, baby? Are you gonna be a good girl and take it?”

He knew the answer. He just wanted to hear you say it.

And you would gladly say it. Tens time over.

“Yes,” you answered with a sickly-sweet lilt in your voice. Coated in sin, rolling off your tongue like a prayer, a confession. “Please, Dr. Abbot—”

“Don’t start,” he growled out through gritted teeth as he pushed inside, your pussy molten-hot. Slick, too, making the slide easy for Jack, who inched in with a practised roll of his hips and a deep groan caught in his throat. “Just be a good girl and take it.”

He kept going, and you let his name— his first name, this time —dangle in the air, formed on a shaky breath, as he stretched you open. Split your aching pussy open on his cock, prying you apart, rutting through your silken walls until—

He bottomed out with a grunt. That old man grunt, you often teased. The sound he made when he exerted himself, picked up something too heavy, or when he sat down on the couch after a strenuous shift. A grunt of pure effort, and a sound that had you squeezing around him.

His dark eyes flitted down to where you swallowed him.

“Look at that,” he uttered, more to himself than you. “Perfect fuckin’ pussy— all for me.”

Then, he was moving. Retracting his hips and then rutting forward, pulling and pushing his cock into the slick heat of your cunt. You moaned loudly, body writhing with his movements, hands scrambling to grip onto the expanse of softening muscles that corded along his back. You could feel the strength of them contracting beneath his warmed skin as he held himself up and fucked into you hard.

It didn’t take long for Jack to build up a rhythm (he’d always been good at finding it. At listening to what you liked, paying attention. He had structure at work, and that wasn’t going to change when he got home).

His hips slammed against yours. The bed creaked lightly, the only other sound in the room bar the moans flying out from between your kiss-swollen lips, and the animalistic grunts coming from the grizzled war veteran above you.

And then, and only then —when the sounds of your wet cunt became audible —the talking started.

As grizzled and serious as he was, Jack Abbot could talk up a storm— especially with his cock wrapped tightly in the heat of your cunt, your hands wandering down his body.

“Just like that, baby— doing so well. Doing real good for me,” he squeezed his eyes shut as he whispered praise to you, lost in it. His mouth dropped open though, a moan lodged behind his adam’s apple, which bobbed as he sucked in a hurried breath. “Yeah, fuck. Good fuckin’ pussy.”

Your head was spinning. “Jack—”

He opened his eyes, and then refused to lose the contact. He was always incredibly good at keeping eye-contact, and at seeking it out. With others, it was a connection thing. So he could read them, and understand the way they were feeling. That kind of thing was important in the ER.

With you, he loved seeing your pupils blow up. Loved seeing your eyes go all glossy with pleasure when he sank his cock into you. Loved it. Loved you.

“You’re taking me so well,” he said, panting. He could feel his back slowly starting to ache as he rolled and rutted his hips into you, maintaining his rhythm. A rhythm he knew he had nailed with the way your eyes struggled to stay open. “You feeling good?”

“So good,” you whispered. And then, “Jack, fuck, so good. M’gonna come.”

Music to his ears.

“Oh, yeah? My baby wants to come, huh?” He cooed, and the cockiness in his voice was like a shot of adrenaline— your body arching deeply, hips grinding desperately against his in chase of a high you knew was coming. A high you could feel pulsing with each beat of your heart.

“Jack, please—” The world around you was burning white-hot.

Jack bent down and kissed your jaw, nose nudging your ear so he could whisper, “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

The head of his cock rutted right up against that perfectly tender spot inside of you and you were gone. Your orgasm slammed into you, bones seeming to rattle with the intensity of it. Belly pulling taut, the release was heavenly as you gushed around his cock, moaning his name over and over until you could taste it. And it tasted like warm scotch and him (everything that made him Jack Abbot).

He talked you through it.

He always did. Muttering filth in your ear while he pumped his cock into you, driving you through your orgasm as the night’s stars vanished from view and the ones behind your eyes seemed to glow a little bit whiter.

“That’s it, give it to me, baby. There we go. Yeah, there it is— oh, big squeeze, huh? Such a good girl.”

And then that praise stopped. Cauterised mid-sentence as he grunted and groaned and rutted into you; proving he really wasn’t that kind of old man. Thick cock splitting you open, a frothy white ring building at the base, your slick smeared everywhere and soaking the sheets.

He definitely wasn’t that kind of old man.

When the wound split (when his obsessive praise resumed), he was right on the cusp of release. Teetering on a cliff edge. A knife’s edge, as you lay there and took it with your hands scratching down his spine and your mouth glued to the sweaty column of his throat.

“M’comin’, baby,” he growled, teeth gritting, before he allowed his jaw to go slack. “Fuckin’ Christ, fuck. Oh, m’gonna fill you up—”

Jack buried himself to the hilt inside you before finishing. Liquid heat filled you, consumed you. His head dropped onto the curve of your shoulder as he let go of a guttural groan, hoarse, having ran-through gravel. A tired groan.

His cock twitched inside of you, before he was collapsing to the side, half-pinning you to the mattress.

The two of you breathed. Together. Lying in silence as your bodies caught up. Healed.

“You alright?” Jack was the first to break the silence. He had his arm around you and refused to let go.

“Yeah,” you replied wistfully. “You?”

“I’m good,” he said, turning his head to kiss you on the cheek. “Really good.”

You giggled, dazed. He kissed your cheek again, so you turned your head to catch the third kiss— to which he hummed contently in return, eyes drifting closed, bathed in moonlight.

———

[sarahs-secrets2]

trying to be normal after this draft i just started for abbot

[sarahs-secrets2]

At first glance, Jack Abbot’s handwriting looks almost unremarkable — neat, steady, deliberate. The words don’t crowd each other, but they don’t drift apart either. There’s a structure to it, like someone who’s spent a lifetime forcing order onto chaos. Each word stands upright, solid in its own space, but never so stiff that it spills into the next. That control — that quiet refusal to unravel — mirrors the discipline Jack holds in his chest every day, pressing his grief, guilt, and rage into something survivable.

You can see it in the letter he writes to Raymond Orser’s family. Jack’s words aren’t clinical, but they’re contained. He doesn’t stumble into sentimentality or dress up the pain. He offers the truth plainly: I am sorry I could not save Ray’s life. He takes responsibility without dramatizing himself — the way a man who’s seen real battle understands that sometimes, even when you do everything right, it still isn’t enough. His handwriting reflects that same quiet acceptance. It’s not decorative or desperate. It’s functional, clear, pressed so firmly into the page that even if the ink wore away, the shape of his words would remain, cut into the surface.

Physically, Jack writes with a firm hand and a slight forward tilt — always moving, never wasting time. His script is quick but not sloppy, urgent but never panicked. There’s a soldier’s efficiency to it, a medic’s precision: fast because it has to be, careful because it matters. His letters stay mostly upright, bowing just enough to show you something essential — that Jack is always leaning toward action, toward duty, toward other people’s emergencies, never his own. Even the structure of the letter mirrors him: no unnecessary paragraphs, no wandering sentences. Jack writes the way he lives. He makes the unbearable survivable, the unspeakable speakable, using whatever small space he's given. His life has been a constant act of bearing witness — to violence, to love, to failure, to sacrifice. His handwriting doesn’t beg for attention. It stands steady. It says: I was here. I saw him. I tried.

And even though he couldn’t save Ray, he refuses to let him be forgotten.

If you look closer, you’ll catch it — the way Jack’s baseline wavers, just slightly, like a breath he’s trying not to show. His words don’t fall apart. They don’t lose control. But they tremble, almost imperceptibly, under the weight he’s forcing them to carry. In handwriting analysis, that kind of subtle shift says everything. It belongs to someone who’s weathered real storms — who has carried grief, fear, and failure — and still wills his hands to stay steady. Jack’s handwriting doesn’t cry out. It absorbs the cost quietly, the way he carries everything else. It’s the signature of a man who can talk someone back from the edge even when he’s still catching his own breath from standing there.

In a world where Jack has had to document more death, injury, and loss than anyone should, the fact that he still writes with this much care — that he refuses to let his words collapse into detached scrawls — tells you the most important thing about him: Jack Abbot still believes people deserve to be seen. To be understood. To be honored.

Even the way he writes "MD" at the end of his signature tells a story. It’s not a title he lifts up to be admired; it’s tucked into the rhythm of his name, almost thrown on like a quiet fact — not a decoration, but a duty. The same way you can imagine him still wearing his dog tags. The same way he still wears his wedding ring. Jack doesn’t use "MD" to separate himself from the people he treats. He wears it the way he wears everything: quietly, permanently, without performance. That fast, clipped way he writes it says more than a thousand words about him. Jack Abbot didn’t become a doctor for prestige. He doesn’t measure his worth in accolades. To him, "MD" isn’t a crown. It’s a promise. A vow to every person he couldn’t save: that he would show up again tomorrow. That he would keep trying. That no one would go unseen.

[sarahs-secrets2]

7:00 A.M. // 9:00 P.M.

[sarahs-secrets2]

“The Pitt” characters + tumblr posts that are definitely about them part 2 (original posts: x, x, x, x, x, x, x) (part 1, 3, 4)

[sarahs-secrets2]

cut from the same dilf cloth 🧘🏼‍♀️

[sarahs-secrets2]

okay doctorˋ♡ˊ

dr jack abbot x resident!reader

jack pulls rank during a shift, angsty with happy ending! obv medical inaccuracies, mean jack but only for a little for the plot :) (not my gif!)

inspired by this tweet/scene

wc: 1.6k

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

“That’s enough,” Abbot’s voice was strong, it hammered through your head.

“Just give me a second, I just need-” 

“You’re done.” Abbot moves behind you, waiting for you to back away. The room falls quiet. Only the sound of beeping monitors echoes through the room. Everyone is too afraid to get in between whatever is going on between you and Doctor Abbot. 

Your eyes are pleading, hoping he’ll just give you a few more minutes with the patient so you can fix it. His gaze is sharp and unforgiving, giving absolutely nothing away as he stands, gloved hands up, ready to take over. 

“Jack,” it slips out, you’re desperate. 

“You’re off the case. Out. Now.” He doesn't even look at you, which is rare, as he moves in front of you to take over the patient. The room has gone cold, along with Doctor Abbot’s demeanor. You’re too embarrassed and upset to argue, and you need fresh air immediately. Jack’s voice echoes orders as you head towards the doors, only stopping at the bin to dispose of the trauma gown and gloves. 

The ER is chaotic, but it was easy to navigate even in your state of agitation. Weaving through nurses and gurneys being pushed through the halls, you almost miss Doctor Ellis calling your name from across the nurses' station. 

“Hey,” she looks concerned but knows better than to push, “You wanna join me?” Her thumb juts over her shoulder.

“I’m…” You think for a second, running your hands down your face, trying to hide your defeat. “I’m good, gonna get some fresh air.”

“Okay.” Ellis, still unsure, lets it go. “Feel free to join when you're ready.” 

You nod back and continue towards the doors of the ambulance bay. The sun still hasn't even begun to rise, you steal a glance down at your watch as the automatic doors slide open as you approach. It’s only 3:14 am, Jack is pissed at you, and you’re not sure if you’ll even survive the rest of this shift. 

The air is cold, and the small gusts of wind don’t help either. Grateful you went with the long-sleeved shirt to go under your scrubs, you tug down the sleeves you had previously rolled up during the rush of the last case. Your hands run up and down your arms, trying to get warm. Going inside wasn't an option right now, not after the debacle with Jack. 

He was frustrating, usually right, but that’s what made him frustrating. He had given you the chance to try, and you failed, but couldn't admit it. Not to him and definitely not to yourself. You hadn't realized it, but you had begun pacing around the ambulance bay. Thankfully, there were no incoming traumas, which gave you plenty of time to mope and replay the events over in your mind. 

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath looking towards the city. Hands running down your face, which feels warm despite being in the cool air. 

“Don’t let a patient hear that, can’t risk our scores getting any lower.” 

His voice makes you jump; it’s low and gravelly, which doesn't help you as you try to decipher his mood. Jack’s hands are stuffed in his pockets as he walks towards you. He’s returned to his normal, intense eye contact, making you squirm. You’re the first to break it, looking down at your shoes, kicking some of the loose rocks near your feet. 

“Ha,” it's a forced, short laugh at his joke. Abbot doesn’t speak, he lets the silence build, making this increasingly difficult for you. You can’t pinpoint what he’s waiting for, and you know he won’t be the first to speak. 

You steal another glance at your watch, 3:21 am. 

“I had it,” your voice is sharp, cutting through the cold air. Your eyes finally meet his. 

“Hm,” it’s all he gives you. His eyebrows are raised, and his eyes look darker outside. 

“I just needed more time.” 

“No,” Jack shakes his head, now his turn to look at the ground for a split second before he looks back up. “You tried, and time was running out. You weren’t putting the patient first. You need to learn it's okay to step away.”

“That’s not true-”

“We are not doing this.” He lets out a dry laugh, but nothing is funny. “You can’t do that, you are a resident. I am your attending,” he pulls a hand out of his pocket and rubs the back of his neck. “You don’t listen, even when I’m lenient and give you the opportunity to learn. You push that boundary.” 

You’re not sure what to say. Jack and you had always been close, and getting closer. Night shifts would end, the two of you would linger at the lockers chatting, walking out together, conveniently heading the same way home, and on the rare occasion, the two of you would stop for a coffee (that you probably shouldn't be drinking if you had a shift the next day). Some nights off you would end up at the same shitty dive bar, sipping cheap beer, talking about things other than work. You had found yourself wanting to be around Jack, maybe that’s why you followed him into the triage room for a case you were unprepared for. 

“And,” he goes on, “You can’t call me Jack, not in front of everyone, not within these walls,” his finger spins around, motioning to the Pitt. 

A beat passes.

“Okay, Doctor Abbot,” you make sure to emphasize the doctor, your face giving nothing away. 

Doctor Abbot sighs, his hands tug on the stethoscope draped around his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut, tilting his head back. Your words sting. He knew what he was saying, but he didn’t expect to regret it instantly. He was rough around the edges. He knew that, but for once, it seemed like someone didn’t mind. You didn’t mind. Yet here he was ruining that, tarnishing away at that trust the two of you had built over the past few months. 

He didn’t even truly mean it. He was in his own head, beating himself up, and it ended up being taken out on you. Abbot knew you didn’t deserve it, he knew you were smart, he knew you were capable, but something about this patient reminded him too much of things he wasn’t ready to visit. Doctor Abbot’s tunnel vision consumed him in moments like these, and he put you, unwillingly, in the crossfire. It was unfair, cruel, and deeply unlike him. Even this conversation outside in the ambulance bay was unlike him. 

You were occupying his brain, making him lose his footing, questioning himself. It’s feelings Jack hasn't felt in a long time. Maybe that’s why he was short with you, maybe that’s why he needed you out of the room to think clearly. 

You’re about to head back inside. Doctor Abbot had said what he wanted to, and you weren’t interested in more of a back-and-forth with him. Just as you brush past him, his hand reaches out, lightly grabbing your arm. 

“Wait,” his voice is low, almost a whisper. You’re closer than normal, your eyes flick up to meet his, making your heart pound. “I didn’t mean that.” 

You know what he means. He doesn't need to elaborate.

“It’s okay,” you offer a nod, and you mean it. You understand Jack in ways others don’t, while it stings, you know how hard these nights can get. It’s an understanding between the two of you, and the bubbling tension seems to reside with a quiet agreement. 

Jack is still holding your arm when the sound of sirens breaks through the moment. The flashing red and white lights illuminate the ambulance bay as Jack pulls you over to the sidewalk. 

“You ready?” he nods his head towards the ambulance.

“Mhm.”

“Good,” he squeezes your shoulder, “It’s all yours.”

“Wait, Doctor Abbot-” 

He’s already headed back into the ER, turning around to offer a double thumbs up. It’s his way of saying sorry, giving you the fresh trauma. Putting his trust back in you. 

The next hours fly by, it’s busy, and you barely get a moment to apologize to Jack for your own behavior earlier in the night. You hadn’t even realized the time until you saw Doctor Robby walking into the Pitt. Your eyes flick down to your watch, 6:50 am. Immediately, your mind goes into autopilot, wrapping up cases, handing them over to the day shift, all while trying to find Abbot before you leave. 

You don’t see him till you're grabbing your bag out of your locker, “Doctor Abbot.” He closes his locker, camo backpack draped off one shoulder as he turns towards you. “I never got the chance to apologize for earlier. You were right, I'm sorry.”

He smiles and lets out a small, teasing laugh, “I usually am right.”

You laugh with him, he’s magnetic in that way, “And thank you for trusting me even though, you know.”

“We both had a moment, and we’re both still learning, we’ll get through this together.” The sincerity of his words goes straight to your heart. “Now let’s get out of here before Robby pulls us onto a trauma.” His serious tone makes you laugh a bit too loudly, resulting in some glances from the nurses' station as the two of you head out.

You and Jack are back outside together, but under much better circumstances. It's not as cold as it was at 3 am, with the appearance of the sun warming your skin as you take in the morning.

Jack takes a deep breath. “You’re off tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, I am.” It’s not a question, but you answer it anyway. 

“Coffee on me, c’mon,” Jack tilts his head down the street, towards your usual coffee spot. 

“But don’t you work tomorrow?”

“I don’t sleep anyway,” he shrugs, bumping his shoulder to yours as the pair of you walk together, falling into your routine. 

You smile, sneaking a glance at him, happy that the two of you are back to normal. “Whatever you say, Doctor Abbot." 

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

[sarahs-secrets2]

writing for jack abbot is giving me motivation i haven’t felt in a minute whoaaaaaa