smiteswrites

[smiteswrites]

Okay I was going to answer the pitt ask game q's I got before work but I am going to cry writing these answers so that's a tonight task

[smiteswrites]

the pitt fic idea: patient comes in with a emotional support dog and the pup just sticks to robby’s side for the entirety of the shift and everyone thinks it’s adorable until they learn it’s a suicide prevention dog

[smiteswrites]

SOMEONE, SOMEDAY, SOMEWHERE [5]

MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH x F!READER

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wc: 6.2k

Warnings: typical medical gore, descriptions of blunt force trauma, blood, losing a patient, grief/mourning, conflicting emotions, original character intro, mel/langdon, frank’s full name is francis to me, department store dressing rooms

A/N: personally, i’m picturing the new guy as r.armitage, but imagine who you’d like. this chapter ended up hitting me super hard due to the patient in the first section. i had a similar one a few years ago, my very first “i’m never going to forget this kid’s name”, and a lot of those feelings came out here. anyway, take care of yourselves, drink water, love you <3

─── ⋆⋅ general taglist form

Without a certain ED department head lurking in your subconscious and peripheral vision, it’s much easier to focus on work, to really absorb the experience of your fellowship in neurocritical care. You’re more grounded in the present, forming slightly more personal relationships with a couple of the other fellows, Toba and Zamora, while also getting to know the department’s attendings better. 

Dr. Mehta is still your favorite—it’s hard not to like a goober like him—but you’ve grown to appreciate Dr. Li, a stern, sharp-featured woman with bigger balls than every man in the hospital, and Dr. Chiarello, who teaches through collaboration rather than condescension. 

Your first call shift is spent more or less at the latter’s side, some of it going over cases in the lounge on nine, but you also spend a good portion of the night winded as you try to keep up with his long strides. 

His phone ringing pulls your attention from the chart you’ve got open on the computer, and you wait as he holds a short conversation, your hand on your mouse hovering over the ‘log out’ button. 

“Yeah, got it—” he catches eyes with you and gives a short nod, prompting you to sign out and stand up, “—be down in a few.” Chiarello ends the call while striding to the door, holds it open for you while giving a brief history, “auto versus pedestrian, about mid twenties according to the resident. Obvious head trauma. We’ll do what we can as they work to stabilize the patient enough to get him to imaging.”

“Shit, okay,” you swallow, and for some reason you start stretching your arms, reaching across your chest with one and locking it into place, then doing the same with the other. 

Chiarello chuckles, glances down at you without actually moving his head. “How much experience do you have with severe, blunt force trauma?”

“It isn’t new,” though, since you’ve been in Pittsburgh you haven’t seen anything especially stomach-churning. Not in comparison to, “I was at Red Duke for a good portion of my residency.”

“This should be a walk in the park, then,” Chiarello says, punches the elevator button, adding, “don’t expect me to hold your hand down there.”

“I’m choosing to take that as your confidence in me.”

“Good,” he responds, “you should.”

The EC is always in some state of chaos whenever you step foot in it, and tonight is no different. Alarms are sounding from multiple rooms, phones ringing, sirens blaring outside. The sliding doors open, making way for a whole team of doctors and medics to usher in a stretcher. 

“That’s us,” Chiarello nods, and you fall into step with him as he follows the small crowd into one of the trauma rooms. 

“24 year-old John Doe, auto vs. ped, arrested twice en route, BP 80 over 60…”

Adrenaline is secreted straight into your bloodstream as you look and listen. The young man is battered beyond recognition— “multiple facial lacs and traumatic deformities,” blood has saturated his T-shirt and jeans— “open fractures on left upper and lower extremities, significant bruising over the ribs.”

“Alright, on my count,” an authoritative voice echoes above all, the man Jesse had introduced you to on your first day, Dr. Abbot, “one, two, lift.”

The now vacant stretcher is wheeled out by one of the paramedics while the other keeps spouting off history, “intubated on the scene without sedation, GCS of three,” and you jump into the fray. 

Blood vessels have burst in both of his eyes, dark brown surrounded by bright crimson. Unilateral dilation, fixed and nonreactive—unfortunate but unsurprising. 

You check another couple of reflexes, the ones that you can get to, then return to Chiarello whose only prompt is a leveled gaze. 

“Asymmetric, nonreactive pupils indicate a severe disturbance, probably hemorrhage, possible herniation. Positive babinski sign—injury to the corticospinal tract, and, I could be wrong on this, but I think he may be posturing.” 

You suck in a deep breath, eyes still on the John Doe, your thumb quickly and incessantly pressing the clicker of your pen light. 

“Posturing how?” Chiarello questions, his hand moving faster than you can track as he very briefly uses it to cover yours and get you to stop clicking. It’s gone before you can fully register the touch, just like it’s gone from your mind as you continue your report on the battered young man. 

You look up and over at Chiarello, don’t even bother hiding your cringe when you answer, “think he’s decerebrate.”

The other doctor hums, catches you off guard when he mutters a quiet, “well, that sucks,” because while he has been overall nicer than some of the other attendings, Chiarello still has a very proper air about him.  

“Y-yeah, it does.”

“Prognosis thus far?”

You don’t think much before answering, “not fucking good.”

“And, that’s your professional medical opinion, doctor?” he pushes, a hand covering his chin, and if you weren’t standing right next to him, you wouldn’t be able to catch the slight upward curve of his mouth, but you are, so you do. 

“It, uh,” you chew on the inside of your cheek, feel an extremely inappropriate laugh threaten to bubble out of your throat, “can’t be totally sure until we get some, uh— imaging, but I’d say we’re looking at some catastrophic… catastrophic brain damage.”

Speaking the words out loud is enough to wipe any ill-timed amusement from your face as well as your very in-tact brain. 

“I’d say the same thing,” Chiarello agrees, clears his throat, then transitions, “there isn’t much we can do here. We’ll get a call when he gets back from NucMed.”

“If he gets back,” you mumble. 

“Chin up, kid,” comes an unfamiliar voice, and you find someone standing right next to you, a young-looking doctor with his trauma goggles pushed up over his forehead like a pair of sunglasses. “If he comes out of this, he’ll have a nice, relaxing life full of sedatives and TPN.”

“Ever the ray of sunshine, John,” Chiarello responds. 

One side of his mouth lifts in a little smirk as he shrugs his shoulders, “someone’s gotta be a light in the darkness,” then to you, “John Shen. You’re Jesse’s… sister?”

“Cousin,” you correct, “but I typically go by my own name.”

Chiarello chuckles next to you before diverting his attention to yet another doctor who joins the pow-wow. 

“Jack,” he nods, “how’s he looking?”

Abbot looks back at the nurses and doctors who remain in the trauma room, working to keep the kid stable. 

“Probably won’t make it through surgery if I’m being honest.”

Three of you take a collective sigh while John checks his smartwatch and mutters something about being able to ‘go for some Vietnamese coffee’. 

Everybody compartmentalizes differently, you suppose. 

“Day shift should be getting here soon,” Abbot comments seemingly out of nowhere, but when you look at him you see that his eyes are locked on you. 

Is he… warning you? 

Fuck, and you were doing so well not thinking about Robby. Now your entire intestinal tract is twisted up in knots. 

“We should get back upstairs, right?” you suggest to Chiarello, “not like we can do a whole lot down—”

Alarms start blaring once again, and Abbot curses while donning a fresh pair of gloves. 

You look to your attending who grimaces, “might want to stay for a bit longer,” which, unfortunately, makes sense. Whatever is happening right now could result in further neurological trauma to John Doe, a point that’s proven about 15 minutes later when you check his pupils again and sigh, “blown.”

Even when you can tell from the beginning—when the patient rolls in and you know that they’re too far gone—coming to terms with it is never easy. No matter the day you’ve had, no matter the mood you’re in, seeing that prediction become truth never fails to drive a railroad spike straight through your heart. 

Adrenaline waning, the gravity of the situation sets in. 

He was just… he was just a kid. A person. Old enough to have countless memories, but with a whole life left to live. 

That was someone’s son. Someone’s best friend. Maybe a boyfriend, fiancée. He had hobbies and favorite TV shows and musicians. He had experiences. Emotions. 

And, he had just been, what, out walking? Relaxing? On his way somewhere, minding his own fucking business, no idea how everything was about to change, how everything was about to end. 

Maybe that car hit him hard enough to knock him unconscious instantaneously, but if it didn’t… if there was ever a moment that he came to—even for a second—then he must have felt the confusion, the lack of control, the fear. 

He was brought in alone and unidentified. The medics rolled him in with nobody but himself. You aren’t even sure if his family has been notified. You aren’t sure if anyone has managed to locate them. 

This boy died alone. Surrounded by hospital staff, yes, but without loved ones, without the reassurance and comfort that he needed. No one to hold his hand. 

Usually, you can at least sort of control your emotions, but you hadn’t slept all that well before your shift yesterday, you’ve been working for close to 14 hours, and your brain is swelling with all the new information you've learned over the course of the night. With this added grief, it feels ready to burst. 

You’re not surprised when you feel a lump rise in your throat, nor are you caught off guard by the burning in your eyes. 

Swallowing is painful but necessary to keep the sob contained in your chest. You blink quickly, clench your hands into fists, but eventually you have to sniffle to stop your nose from running, and it’s enough to gain the attention of both Chiarello and Abbot. 

Your attending stares forward while telling you that, “you can take a second if you need to,” and though you’re a little embarrassed, you’re thankful for the out. 

There’s no point in trying to speak, so you just nod and turn around, trashing your gloves before leaving the room. 

You look up just long enough to notice that the day shift has made it to the EC and that most of them are gathered at the central nurse’s station listening to Robby as he gives some sort of rundown, probably a daily huddle. 

Something you do must draw his eyes because they lock with yours for a few seconds. He doesn’t stop talking, doesn’t stutter or lose his train of thought, just blinks and turns back to his staff. 

It doesn’t matter right now. He’s so fucking inconsequential at the moment, you barely even register the flip in your stomach. All you can really focus on is keeping everything inside until you can find some privacy, which you do in the form of a little annex that’s home to a vending machine. 

The hum of it works nicely as white noise, and it anchors you to the present just enough to keep you from getting entirely lost in your feelings. 

Against the brick wall, you sink into a low squat, feet flat on the ground, your knees level with your shoulders. The position makes it hard to breathe, impossible to hyperventilate, which is kind of a good thing. Palms against your eyes, you inhale through your nose then shudder through pursed lips. 

It’ll be okay. He was so young. These things happen. His dark hair was so shiny with blood. You have to accept the tragedy. There were gaps in his mouth from missing teeth. He would’ve suffered if kept alive. 

There have been multiple occasions over the years where you’ve been told that getting emotional is a hindrance in the medical field. Counterproductive, one preceptor had called it. Unhelpful, another had told you. The worst descriptor, however, had been naive, and had been said by the chief resident at a children’s hospital. 

“Did you think this job would be easy? You thought it’d be all rainbows?”

Of course you hadn’t. You knew this field would be full of heartache and debilitating grief, and still, you went into it. 

“If you want to make it to the big leagues, you’ve gotta grow up. Time to stop with the tears.”

You’ll never forget the lecture. It hit you hard, made you try to turn off that soft part of your brain, and it worked for a while. 

Until it didn’t. 

Until you were driving on the freeway and saw the aftermath of a collision, and everything you’d been bottling up came out all at once. 

You had to pull over, and with the engine still running and a pop song playing through the radio, you cried harder than you ever had in your life. 

Once you got it out of your system (temporarily) you realized how fucking insulting and demeaning and inhuman that resident had been. To not let yourself feel in this line of work, to treat every patient as a number or a slab of meat—it isn’t healthy. It isn’t right. 

If the price of your empathy is getting teary eyed in front of your superiors, then so be it. You refuse to surrender that part of yourself. 

Because at a certain point, compartmentalization turns into a form of neglect, not for the patients (though there’s a level of suffering there, too) but for yourself. This job is full of trauma. Some don’t recognize that fact, some just ignore it, but it’s true, and without the proper care and attention, trauma festers. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat yanks you out from the recesses of your mind, and you’re about to apologize for blocking the vending machine, but the words die on your tongue when you drop your hands and see Robby standing at the mouth of the annex. 

You don’t bother wiping your face, don’t bother standing up. All you do is stare up at him, daring him to say something ignorant or rude or unsympathetic. 

Of course, he fucking doesn’t. 

“You okay?”

That deep, scratchy voice envelopes you like a weighted blanket, feels like knuckles between your shoulder blades. 

Fresh tears spring up in your eyes, and you have no problem admitting, “not really.”

He nods, one hand in his pocket, the other scratching the back of his head. His cheeks lift when he squints to glance over his shoulder, an expression so unsure and uncomfortable that you would probably laugh if you weren’t so upset. 

Rubbing your eyes too hard, you hear a muttered, “shit,” and then the squeak of sneakers followed by the serrated pull of material against brick. 

And, then he’s sitting next to you, and you hate it. You hate that this is what it takes for that deep sob to finally claw its way from your chest, tearing past your throat in a wet gasp as you fall into a messy rhythm of short, shallow breaths, chaotic and useless to provide oxygen. 

“This about the kid in trauma one?”

Your head is propped on your knees, but you still manage to nod. 

“A-hh—auto versus…” you squeeze your eyes shut until all you see is white. 

“Pedestrian,” Robby finishes for you, “I know.”

Trying to quiet your crying, you clench your jaw so hard, you think you may somehow shatter it, but a tiny, high-pitched whine still makes it out, and that’s even fucking worse. 

For a while, Robby doesn’t say anything else. When he does, though, it’s absolutely devastating. 

“His name was Marco. We found out a few minutes ago.”

You want to scream, the pressure in your ribcage growing and growing until something wounded echoes between the two of you. 

“His family is on the way,” Robby continues. 

You want to tell him to shut up. To leave you alone. This is only making it worse, making you cry harder, but…

It’s just that… he just—

You don’t think he knows it, or maybe he does, but Robby is giving you exactly what you need, filling in the blanks, making it easier to mourn Marco as a person instead of a patient. 

“His aunt and uncle are coming in. Mom is stuck in Mexico, apparently.”

“God dammit,” you huff, because how could this get any more gut-wrenching? “That’s… I-I don’t even…”

That’s about all you can get out before dissolving all over again, and when you feel a hand on the side of your head, fingers just above your ear to tilt you to the side, you don’t fight it. 

God, you’re so fucking tired, and your heart feels like dead weight in your chest, and your legs are numb from staying in this position for too long, and you’re crying on Robby’s shoulder. 

Robby who you really hadn’t planned on talking to ever again if you could help it. Who pulled rank on you and threw your qualifications in your face and acted like such a fucking dick. There had been no contact between you since the PNE kid aside from Robby grunting room numbers at you, EC patients that needed your attention. 

You’d done a truly amazing job of pushing That NightTM from your mind, have rarely thought of it over the last couple weeks, but right here, right now, you feel all that progress begin to crumble. 

His shoulder is wide under your head, warm against your ear that’s squished into his deceptively soft navy jacket. He smells like he did when you met him, and you can feel the coarseness of his beard on your skin where his chin touches the smallest corner of your forehead. 

“I know you have better things to do,” you mumble, and while your voice isn’t quite even, you can at least get the words out. 

“Better is a relative term,” Robby replies with a deep breath that crests and falls into an even deeper sigh, “I think I’m exactly where I need to be right now.”

You roll your eyes then cringe at how raw they feel. The burning isn’t enough to derail your train of thought, though, and you still tell him, “don’t do that.”

“Do what?” 

“Be all soft and sweet, like you didn’t tell me to fuck off, like, two weeks ago.”

“I was having a bad day,” it comes out toneless, but quick—as if he had it lined up. As if he’s been wanting to say it for a while now. 

“Yeah, well your bad day ruined mine.”

He doesn’t respond aside from angling his face downward, examining his hands as he curls his fingers and rubs the pad of his thumb over his pinky nail. 

You should probably move away from him. Should definitely lift your head back up. Your breathing has returned to normal, so there’s no reason to be here any longer. 

“I should get back to Chiarello,” you finally utter. 

It takes immense effort to actually move, and when you do, it’s much too fast, all your blood having pooled in your legs and leaving you dizzy when you stand up. 

“Oh, fuck—” 

You don’t actually fall, but you probably would have were it not for the wall that catches you when you sway dangerously. 

Robby wraps a hand around your knee, “woah, easy,” which isn’t the best support, but was probably instinct, some sort of stabilization offered until he gets to his feet. 

“I’m fine, just got up too fast.” (The dehydration isn’t helping either.)

You feel more than see the way Robby is hovering beside you, idle hands close enough to give you goosebumps but not close enough to touch. 

Turning to press your back to the wall again, head against the brick, you regard him with tired, aching eyes, and honestly, you don’t have it in you to be snarky, no bitter one-liners up your sleeve, all you really want to do is get back to the apartment and maybe suffocate yourself in one of your pillows. 

That limitless gaze is on you, though, pinning you in place like a moth under glass, and you let it, staring straight back into it with a quiet, “thanks.”

Robby nods, and you watch his eyes fall to your mouth for just a second before he grasps the nape of his neck, massaging away a growing tension, it seems. Face parallel to the floor, he shakes his head with a few tiny jerks, “ahh, fuck,” a rattling whisper, and without glancing up at you, he tells you, “go get some sleep.”

You hum, more than ready to do just that. On much steadier feet, you slip past Robby who seems to be in the middle of some kind of self-imposed mental warfare, a battle that you are very familiar with. 

You think about wrapping your arms around him, about running a hand down his cheek and forcing him to look at you. 

Then, you remember how mad you were a couple weeks ago, so angry at his behavior but even angrier at the fact that it had made you cry.

You also remember how perfect he was that night at the bar, how he had held your chin and flirted, what his lips felt like against yours. What they might feel like now. 

Nothing happens. You don’t let anything—for both your sakes. All you do is reiterate your thanks, “I mean it, Robby. I appreciate you sitting and… taking the time—I just appreciate it.”

And then, you leave. 

•

You find yourself getting more and more familiar with the EC crew just by being related to Jesse. 

This is both a blessing and a curse—a blessing because you truly enjoy getting to know and spend time with everyone your cousin introduces to you. A curse because they all work in the pitt, meaning they all work with Robby, meaning he comes up in conversation kind of a lot. 

You make the conscious decision to remain unaffected and unfazed whenever this happens, choosing to focus on the positive (and keep your new friends in the dark about your short history with their boss. They don’t need to know any of that).

So—the positives. The people. 

There’s Donnie who has that understated sense of humor that catches you off guard and Perlah who is wildly observant and brilliant because of it. Mateo, with his easy going nature, could probably get you to relax if you were dangling off a cliff. 

Sharp and sarcastic, Parker’s kind dark eyes betray any and all abrasive tendencies she may have. And John, who you’d met the morning of your breakdown, is quite possibly the funniest fucking person you’ve ever met, like, to the point of making you spit your drink out on more than one occasion. 

Out of all of Jesse’s buddies Mel King is probably your favorite, or really, Mel is who you resonate with most. 

She goes from dead silent to bursting with joy in a fraction of a second, talks endlessly about the things she finds fascinating, whether it’s a TV show she’s watching with her sister or an experimental medical procedure. She high fives a little too hard and wrings her hands until they’re pink when she’s anxious, and when you get quiet after somebody accidentally interrupts, it’s Mel who looks directly at you and asks, “what were you saying?”

You’ve known her for such a short time, and still, you feel completely comfortable around her. 

Because of this, you are also surprisingly comfortable around Dr. Frank Langdon who happens to be Mel’s doting, lovesick boyfriend. 

You haven’t forgotten about him shouting at you in a trauma room when you’d started at PTMC, but at the time you’d been much more focused on the patient (and also Robby snapping at Frank on your behalf), so you hadn’t really taken it to heart. 

Even if you had, there’s no way you’d be able to hold a grudge, not when you can see actual stars explode in Frank’s eyes whenever he looks at Mel. He’s a generally restless guy at any given time, you’ve noticed, but as soon as he’s by her side, he stills. Calms. 

You figured that the first real friends you’d make at the hospital would be the other fellows considering how much time you spend with one another, and while you’ve bonded with some of them, you don’t really see yourself going to lunch or out to a bar together. 

So, it goes without saying that shopping for home goods with those colleagues isn’t even really an option. 

Walking the aisles with Mel and Frank, however, is easy, even fun when Frank picks up every heinous bed set he can find, displaying each one to Mel— “this one?” as if she’d ever willingly bring them home. 

“Absolutely not,” she says in the same tone she’s used for the previous seven duvets her boyfriend has shown her. 

Snorting, you shake your head at Frank’s expression of fake shock that then melts into one of fake sadness—“it’s like you don’t even love me.”

“I can love you and disagree with you, Francis,” Mel replies, voice clipped and steady. God, you love her, especially when she pulls out the full first name. Francis will never fail to make you cackle. 

Leaving them to their banter, you turn the corner to the next aisle only to stop short, shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. 

Robby looks up from whatever plastic-wrapped sheet he’s holding and over at you. He’s tapping his incisors together in a way you’ve seen before, jaw sliding from side to side but stopping upon seeing you. Teeth still on display, his eyes narrow in a sort of cringe that makes you feel like an ant. 

“Uh, sorry,” you try, “just looking for…” you press your lips together, don’t even bother finishing your sentence.  

“What do you have to be sorry for?” His voice sounds extra gritty like he might be getting sick. “This isn’t my store. You’re allowed to be here.”

He looks curious, but there’s also a hint of amusement at play as he lifts an eyebrow. Is that the beginnings of a smirk on his face?

“No, yeah, I know. Just kinda… awkward, I guess.”

Robby spins the square package in his giant hands, middle fingers anchored in the plastic as he uses his thumb and ring to twirl and catch, twirl and catch, twirl and—

“Oh! Hello, Dr. Robby!” Mel’s pleasant voice calls from behind you, and you watch his mouth form a thin line that’s supposed to be a smile but just comes off as tired. 

“Hey, Mel,” followed by a sighed, “Frank.” 

Brown eyes flit between the two people standing further back, then find their way back to you, and you watch Robby’s face do something strange, his stare narrowing again but no longer holding the glimmer of entertainment that was previously there. He clenches his teeth, causing the tendons in his neck flex enough to notice, and you think his nostrils flare for half a second. 

“All here together?” he questions, spinning the sheet over and over, a bit faster now. 

You shove your hands into the back pockets of your shorts and nod, “I’m third wheelin’ it today. Need a few things for my room at Jesse’s.” (Your cousin has told you to stop calling it his, that you live there too, but it’s a habit you’ll probably never be broken of.)

Robby hums, nods, doesn’t really seem like he’s got a whole lot going on in his head at the moment, so you jut your chin toward whatever he’s holding and ask, “whatcha got there?”

You are not prepared for the return of that twinkle or the way his mouth pulls to the side to hide a smile that is completely betrayed by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. The way this man’s mood can change on a dime is giving you whiplash. 

What in the fuck—

Rocking on the balls of his feet now, Robby answers, “mattress protector,” looking so fucking self-satisfied. 

The implication is not lost on you, and it immediately makes your stomach drop. 

Mattress protector. To… to protect… well, it’s self-explanatory, but Jesus Christ, with that expression, he may as well be pointing a finger (or pistol, more like) straight at your forehead. He looks positively mischievous, boyish, something you haven’t seen on his regrettably handsome face in weeks. 

You swallow, thankful that Mel and Frank can only see Robby as you keep your back to them. 

Steeling yourself, you start, “having a—” have to clear your throat when your voice cracks. “—having a lot of accidents these days, Dr. Robby?”

He sucks his teeth, shakes his head, “not in about six weeks.”

And, what a coincidence, that’s how long it’s been since you were in his bed. 

“Must really be bothering you if you’re keeping track like that.”

You can do this. You can hold your own. You’re fine. 

“I’m taking care of it.” He sounds so casual, and it’s making you want to drag him to the back of the store. “Just wanna make sure I don’t ruin another mattress.”

“Wow, okay.” There is, perhaps, a chance that you cannot do this, you realize rather quickly. In fact, you can’t even keep the surprise and embarrassment from your tone when you press, “ruined?” 

It was his fault! You’d tried to warn him! 

Robby reads the genuine worry and shame written between your furrowed eyebrows, your bottom lip pulsing where it’s caught between your front teeth, and you don’t know if you’re relieved or horrified when he softens—his eyes, his posture, his voice when he tells you, “don’t worry about it. I’ve been wanting a California king for years now.”

The sentiment doesn’t help. 

The man had to replace his entire mattress, oh, you’re never letting this go, you’re gonna have to move states, make sure you never see him again, and you might actually cry as you stand here remembering what it felt like to have his hands on you, his fingers inside of you, his tongue against your clit and then lapping at the mess that you made on his bed to the point of him having to—

“Yeah, I’m leaving. I have a room to decorate.”

You’re able to turn away, but that’s as far as you get before he takes hold of your wrist, unrelenting and apparently uncaring of the other two people who are staring at you, Mel with her head cocked to the side and Frank with his blue eyes so wide, there’s no way he hasn’t put it together. 

“Good job at blowing our cover,” you grit. 

Robby sounds careless when he huffs, “I don’t give a fuck right now,” then orders, “come on. Let’s have a talk.”

When he gently tugs for you to follow, you see Frank’s jaw drop open. Circling your fingers into an ‘ok’ sign, you don’t have much else to offer, no explanation aside from the truth. 

So, you follow like a dog on a leash. 

As soon as you’re out of their line of vision, the hand that’s wrapped around your wrist slides down your palm until Robby is able to weave his fingers between yours. 

Without missing a beat, he justifies, “don’t want people to think I’m fucking kidnapping you,” which makes perfect sense—of course he wouldn’t want to drag you around a department store fucking caveman-style, but even knowing it’s a necessity and not a desire, your heart still skips a beat. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

The changing rooms seem like the worst place for the two of you to ‘talk’, and yet, that is exactly where you end up. Without an attendant in sight, Robby cranes his neck to glance around as if he’s about to burglarize a house, then more or less manhandles you into one of the vacant rooms and locks the door. 

“Okay, really? Of all the places?” you challenge, crossing your arms over your chest in a poor attempt at seeming standoffish. In reality, it’s to soothe yourself, apply some pressure, stay grounded. 

Because who knows how this little chat is about to go? Hell, you don’t even know what it’s about. 

“Would you rather I talk about the time we fucked in front of Mel and Langdon—and why are you even with him?”

You squint at Robby, trying to read him. It’s a Herculean task, but you glean just enough to correct, “them. I’m not just hanging out with Frank.” A couple beats of silence pass before you add, “what’s it matter?”

Robby smooths his hair back only to furiously rake his fingers through it a second later, and the memory of how soft it was beneath your own hands washes over you, how it felt and looked between your thighs. 

You should not be alone with this man. 

“It matters ‘cause…” he trails off as he stares down at his feet, laughs through his nose, “no, you’re right, it doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Okay, well, if that’s all, then—”

“Come on, you know it’s not,” like the mere suggestion is ridiculous. 

A quick gesture and raised eyebrows prompts him, “go on, then.”

Robby swears under his breath then finally looks you in the eye and admits, “I don’t know how to talk to you anymore—I’ve got two choices when I’m around you: I can either be a fucking pervert or a complete dick.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” you try to hide a smirk, still not sure where this is going, but it’s hard not to enjoy a grown man admitting his mistakes. “I’m sure you could manage to be both at the same time. You’re very talented when you put your mind to something.”

Shaking his head, Robby aimlessly points at you, a deep, “ohoho, see that’s what I’m talking about.” He takes a step toward you, eating up the distance in an already tiny space. “You say shit like that, and it puts all kinds of ideas in my head, okay?”

You’re tempted to ask, but it’s impossible to do anything but stare up at him, his looming figure slowly but surely crowding you toward the wall. 

Asking is unnecessary anyway because Robby answers all on his own. 

“You say talented, and I start thinking about how many times I might be able to get you to come. Get all huffy with me, and I have to stop myself from shoving my goddamn fingers down your throat—”

“Jesus Christ, Robby,” you breathe, eyes wide, and you vaguely recognize the texture of material clutched in your balled up hands, realize you're holding onto the bottom of his shirt. 

“But, I can’t do any of that,” he keeps going, speaking through his teeth and scrubbing at his neck like it’ll solve all of his problems, “so my only option is to be an asshole, you see where I’m coming from?”

“Not really.”

You almost laugh, standing in a fucking changing room, almost chest to chest with the man you’ve fantasized about both fucking and fist-fighting (sometimes in the same day), and he’s telling you that, “I don’t know what to do with you anymore.”

Somehow, your self-control snaps before his, forgetting whatever it was he brought you in here for as your hands replace his at the nape of his neck. A harsh tug brings him down exactly where you want him, and as soon as your lips touch, Robby groans from deep in his chest.

He cradles your head, protecting it when he backs you up into the wall, and you are so overwhelmed, so surrounded by him. God, the last time you were able to kiss him was your first day at the hospital, up on the roof—giddy, and nervous, and full of butterflies. 

This is different. Desperate. Teeth and tongues and Robby’s hands at the back of your thighs to lift you off the ground so you can wrap your legs around his waist as he grunts, “thank fucking God.”

The way he holds you, fingertips bruising your skin just like his mouth bruises your neck. You shiver at the sensation of his beard when it drags over your throat, your collarbone as he dips his head. 

And, your hips are rolling on their own accord, pressing against his stomach but begging for something below his belt. 

This should not be happening. You should not be letting this happen. He’s an attending and you’re a fellow, and obviously neither of you are all that great at communicating or thinking rationally, so there’s no way it’ll be anything but messy. Probably even painful. 

“I am not—” you stifle a moan when his teeth sink into the heated flesh between your neck and shoulder, dig your nails into his traps until Robby pants against your skin, “—not fucking you in a Nordstrom Rack.”

Robby chuckles, still latched onto you until he pulls back, presses a kiss to the mark he just left, then slowly guides you back to stand on your own. 

“You probably shouldn’t fuck me at all if I’m being honest.”

Well, at least you’re on the same page. Still…

“Okaaay,” you straighten your shirt where it’s ridden up, “what happens next, then?”

Robby holds his hands out while keeping his elbows tucked to his sides. 

“No fucking clue,” his shoulders lift in a shrug, “guess we’ll just have to figure it out.”

An awfully exciting idea that does not bode well for either of you. 

[smiteswrites]

The Pitt Ask Game

I want people to send me questions about The Pitt, so here’s an ask game with general questions.

Who is your favorite character?

Who is your least favorite character?

Who is your favorite recurring or minor character (i.e., not in the main cast)?

Which episode is your favorite?

Which episode is your least favorite?

Which patient/case is your favorite?

What is your overall favorite scene?

Which scene was the one that had the most emotional impact for you?

Which scene is the funniest to you?

Which character dynamic is your favorite?

Which character dynamic do you want to see more of?

Which doctor would you want to handle your care if you were in the ER?

Which nurse would you want to handle your care if you were in the ER?

If you worked at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, which department would you work for?

Would you rather work day shift or night shift?

Which character do you want to see the most in season 2?

Do you have any have any favorite ships? Which ones?

Do you have any crackships or rarepairs? Which ones?

Which friendship is your favorite?

Tell me your thoughts on [insert character A] and [insert character B]!

What are some of your headcanons for [insert character]?

If you were working on a patient, which doctors or nurses would you want to work with?

You somehow found yourself in the Pitt. What is the most likely (silly) medical reason, and would it happen during the day or night shift?

What storyline do you most want to see in the next season?

After a shift, how would you decompress?

[smiteswrites]

Can people from the United States stop making jokes about “WW3 😜”….there are people in Iran evacuating their neighborhoods, places they grew up, and all YOU are experiencing is watching the news and a few TikToks….

You are not at war, you will most likely never see war, and if your “dark humor” is coming at the expense of others then it is not dark humor, you’re just an asshole.

[smiteswrites]

Robby + daddy kink

The first time you say it is a joke you hardly even realize you make. ‘Cheeky’ has been used to describe you more than once—teasing and flirting, a lot of times unbeknownst to you.

So, when Dr. Robby, your senior attending, happens to buy you coffee at one of the kiosks a few floors down—a thanks for staying late the day before and helping him and many others through some especially grueling hours—you don’t even think before grabbing the cup from the counter and telling him, “thanks, daddy,” smiling with your tongue poking out from between your teeth.

You’ve made similar comments several times before to other men—Frank for reaching something too high up for you, John for opening the door to an Uber for you, Jack for checking you over after an aggressive patient had put his hands on you.

It’s just a thing you do! You laugh and click your tongue and the words just sort of tumble out. )Thank god they’ve all been good sports about it ‘cause it could easily send you on a trip to HR.)

So far, you’ve gotten a couple of chuckles, eye rolls, unimpressed looks, which is really all the joke warrants.

Robby reacts differently, however. Blushing to the tips of his ears, he fumbles his own cup of coffee so that some of it spills on the counter— “Jesus fucking Christ,” and when he glances over at where you’re standing, your eyebrows raised high in amusement, something dark flashes across face, there one second and gone the next.

Hm.

The elevator ride back down to the pitt is silent, way more tense than the ride up, and when the doors open you walk out first. You get a few steps in front of Robby before his hand closes around the back of your neck and he leans down close to your ear, “don’t call me that again.”

It doesn’t sound like he’s scolding you; it sounds like he’s warning you.

So, naturally, you do not listen.

The second time you say it is when he helps you off of a shelf (that you should not have been climbing on) in a supply closet. On your feet, a little too close to him, you look up at Robby and very pointedly say, “thank you, daddy.”

Again, he blushes, but there’s nothing in his hands to drop or spill. Letting his head hang lower, he slowly shakes it back and forth, but you can see the curve of his cheeks and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and Robby exhales through his smile, “ooh, you are going to get me into trouble.”

You would love for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, just turns and walks out of the room while swearing incoherently under his breath.

This is where you should drop it. Should let the man live in peace and stop terrorizing him. A person’s blood pressure can only get so high before they have a stroke, and with the way Robby tenses any time your in the near vicinity, you think he’s getting pretty damn close to keeling over.

There’s just one little problem, though, and that problem is that you’ve wanted to fuck him since your first day at PTMC.

Everything about the older man sets you on fire—his tired eyes and gravelly voice, the white coming through in his beard, his hands (oh, god, his hands), the way he rips off his jacket in times of crisis, the way he raises his eyebrows and cringes and yells when he’s frustrated, the way his body feels brushing up against yours—you’ve wanted him so fucking badly for way too fucking long now, and it would appear that you are finally starting to have an effect on him.

Your next opportunity is too good to pass up: outside of work and at a retirement party.

Almost everyone from the pitt manages to at least make an appearance at the nice cocktail bar, most of you staying to sip and laugh and share stories.

In a quintessential little back dress and a pair of strappy wedges, you look nicer than anyone from work has seen you, and with a single strong drink settling in your stomach, you feel good.

Or, you do until you almost fall flat on your face (the shoes may be just a little too tall and your ankles do have a habit of rolling). Before you can actually fall, Robby, who just so happens to be passing you from the opposite direction, catches you around the waist and swings you to his side like you’re some kind of rag-doll.

Now, pressed against him, a hand over his heart, you blink up at him and grin because how perfect is this? How utterly convenient.

He knows what’s coming, you see it in the way his jaw slides, a silent ‘don’t you dare’ that you completely dismiss.

In fact, you push yourself even closer, wedges giving you enough height to reach his ear, your tone low and sultry, “thank you, daddy.”

Robby shudders, growls, “fine,” and tightens his arm around your waist, “we’ll do this your fucking way.”

Honestly, you’re lucky there’s a restroom for single use rather than a row of stalls. The lock echoes when Robby twists it into place, and then he is all over you. Lips and hands and filthy words that pour from his mouth to cascade down your body—

“You are the biggest fucking cocktease I’ve ever fucking met. This what you wanted the whole time?” as he presses the growing bulge in his pants up against your hip.

Your dress is quickly pushed up, his nails scratching down your sides, fingers bruising the swell of your ass before migrating between your legs.

No panties. Maybe you did it on purpose, maybe you didn’t.

Robby groans when he sinks one of his thick fingers into your cunt, “you always this wet for me, or is tonight just special?”

You gasp, nod, clench around the delicious intrusion. “A-always am.”

“Sorry, I didn’t quite hear you,” he retorts, and his voice is so deep, full of what sounds like frustration, “who are you always wet for?”

Heart pounding, you stare into brown eyes that are much darker than usual, almost entirely eclipsed by wide pupils as Robby waits to hear you say it.

“You,” a whimper that grows into something more— “always wet for you, daddy.”

It doesn’t matter where you are or that he’s obviously the one calling the shots, Robby still flushes from neck to scalp, his skin sweltering where it presses against you.

But, it’s nowhere near as hot as yours when he chuckles and starts thrusting one, then two fingers in and out of your dripping pussy.

“That’s a good girl,” he hums smugly, “now, show daddy how pretty you are when you come.”

[smiteswrites]

No more apologizing for being horny on main. No more horny jail. We’re horny prison abolitionists. No gods, no masters! Wait. Okay maybe a few masters. Alright but no bars will hold us! No whips and chains will — fuck, hang on, let me start again.

[smiteswrites]

identity

[smiteswrites]

me opening my wip like a haunted house door. creaks. screams. regret.

[smiteswrites]

You could do it with me.

Jack Abbot x F!Reader - Best friends to lovers!!!!!!!

11.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: quickly resolved angst; patient death; coding that veteran for two hours; reference to DUI; suicidal ideation; discussion of Jack's injury; reader wants marriage and kids (I know this is not everyone’s fave or something everyone wants, but I needed it for the storyline so I’m sorry if it's not your thing); reader and Jack are idiots; reference to Shen’s wedding; reference and allusion to sex; allusion to masturbation; reader is briefly held hostage with a knife to her neck and gets a very light cut; mention of drugs generally; mention of demerol; blood; no use of y/n or related

This is for the A Doctor a Day event hosted by @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft and @letsgobarbs. Thank you for hosting such an awesome event! My prompt was "You are the very beating and pulse of my heart" and my color was black!

Summary: A message from your college ex changes everything.

AN: I love best friends to lovers. I love when they're so god damn blind to each other's romantic love and interest. I love when they do things that are so beyond what best friends (generally) do. Also for the record I do think people of opposite genders can just be platonic best friends. I challenged myself to stay under 10k and lost, but I was really close so I'm taking it. For some reason I really ended up struggling with this and don't really love or even necessarily particularly like how it came out in the end. I'm just very unsure about it. Could not articulate why to save my life. I hope it ended up coming out and reading okay. I really appreciate you taking the time to read and hope you enjoy!

You met Jack Abbot on the first day of your intern year, night shift.

He was an R4, but with the way he carried himself and practiced and the fact that he was older, you assumed he was your attending. You were both drawn to each other immediately. For both of you it was pretty much love at first sight and interaction. Neither of you could explain why if asked. It just was. By the end of your first twelve hours knowing each other you were in love with each other. 

Not, of course, that either of you told the other that. Because there was no way the other would feel the same. So instead you became best friends, almost instantly. Like after two weeks everyone had noticed how close you were. People hadn’t started assuming you were together at that point but they were assuming it was heading in that direction. 

Your reasons for not telling each other were slightly different then. For you, you were new and an intern to Jack’s R4, were quite sure Jack was not interested in you like that and, even that early on, having him in your life as a best friend was better than losing him and not having him in your life at all. For Jack, he was an R4 and you were an intern, plus he was older than you and missing a foot, he truly believed you weren’t and would never be into him like that and, as it was for you, even that early on, having you in his life as a best friend was better than losing you and not having you in his life at all.

And for a while you really were just best friends. But then over time you both seemed to greatly expand your definition of best friends. And after a while you were doing almost everything a couple did except for kissing and having sex and admitting feelings and saying you loved each other. To you and Jack though, it was all just being best friends, all things best friends did. 

The true beginning of that expansion was the first time you spent the night at Jack’s house, about three months after you met. 

Jack is confused when he sees you sitting at the hub eating the other half of the granola bar you’d started and not finished last night. It’s strange because he just assumed you guys would grab breakfast so why would you be eating. “Aren’t you off?” he asks you as he walks up to where you’re sitting.

“I am, but I just got a text from my neighbor that the AC in my apartment building is broken and won’t be fixed until this evening so I’m just gonna hang here.” You shrug. “Maybe work, maybe try to catch some sleep in the on-call room and then head home and pray it’s working.”

It has been disgustingly hot and humid the last week or ten days and being in your AC-less apartment on the fifth floor during the day was simply not happening. You’d rather be at the hospital getting shitty sleep in the on-call room or working. 

“Wasn’t this last shift our sixth straight night on?” Jack asks, with a raise of his brows.

“Indeed it was,” you sigh. “Pretty irritating because I would just like to go sleep. But what can you do? I’m not going home to sleep in this heat.”

“Yeah. No, you’re not.” It’s short, somewhere between disbelief and concern. “You’re not staying here either. Go grab your shit. You can crash at my place.” 

“Really?”

“No, I just said it to be a dick and take back the offer when you agreed.” Jack gives you a pointed really? look. “Yes, really. Now go get your shit before we both end up getting pulled back into something.”

“You don’t have to do that Jack, I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t want to intrude like that.” You shake your head at him a little. 

“I know I don’t have to offer, but you need to get some real sleep. I know you know that. You’ll make yourself sick. And you’re not intruding, you know that too.” Jack tilts his head at you.

“Aw,” you tease him a little, “are you worried about me?”

Jack rolls his eyes at you. You both know he is and that he does worry about you and that you worry about him. That’s what best friends do. “Okay, stay here then.” He shrugs.

“No, no. I’ll take you up on it if you’re still offering,” you say quickly. 

“I am.”

“Okay, let me grab my stuff.” You get up and head to the lockers, grab your things and make your way over to Jack. 

Once you’re out of the Pitt Jack turns to you as you walk towards your guys’ favorite breakfast spot. You haven’t discussed going there but it’s just unspoken at this point. “Why didn’t you just ask? How many times now have I told you you’re welcome at my place whenever? Open door or whatever. It’s not like you’ve never been to my place and don’t know I have a guest room.”

You shrug as he opens the door for you. “It felt like there was a difference between come over whenever and spend the night, or what’s our night, at my place.”

“Well there’s not,” he tells you as you slide into a booth sitting across from each other. “I’m telling you that now.”

Once you finish breakfast the two of you head to Jack’s place. Like Jack said, you’ve been to his place before. 

“You should take my bed,” Jack says once you’re at his place and both of you have set all your stuff down. “The guest bed mattress is really not the greatest. I need to replace it but nobody ever sleeps on it so I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

You’re thrown for a second at the prospect of sleeping in Jack’s bed. Even without him. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. My cheap mattress at home isn’t really the greatest.” 

“No seriously, you’ll probably wake up hurting.” He gives you a firm look. “Just let me take it.” 

“Oh, yes, because if it’s going to hurt the person who sleeps on it, the best idea is surely to give it to the older of the two of us.” You give him a look. 

“Did you just call me old?” Jack says in mock offence. 

“No, I just said you were older than me.” You soften a little. “I can tell your hip and back are hurting after six straight Jack.” You both know you’re right. This shift in particular he could really feel his hip and back compensating as his prosthetic caused him a little more pain than usual. “So just let me take the guest room.”

That makes Jack blush a little and you feel bad. You hadn’t meant to hit a nerve or make him self-conscious. “Hate than you can tell, but alright. You wanna shower before?” 

“If you don’t mind.”

“Wouldn’t have asked if I did. You’re going to have to use mine though. I don’t have any shampoo or whatever in the spare. And I’ll leave you a shirt and some boxers on my bed so you don’t have to get back into your scrubs.” He says it so casually, like he’s totally unaffected by it when he is in fact very, very affected. The thought of you in his clothes has him hardening. And the thought of wearing his clothes makes you feel warm and start to get slick between your thighs. 

You clear your throat. “Thank you.” 

Jack nods, flick his head to tell you to follow him and you do. He steps into his bathroom for a second and then comes back out. “Fresh towel and washcloth on the counter for you. I found a spare toothbrush too. Clothes will be on the bed. Shout if you need anything.”

It’s not until you’re in Jack’s shower squeezing some of his shampoo into your hand that you realize you’re going to smell like him at the end of this. You get even slicker between your legs at the thought and spend the entire shower telling yourself to stop thinking about him as anything other than your best friend. It doesn’t really work. 

And getting dried off and into Jack’s clothes does nothing to help the matter. His black shirt is oversized on you and he said boxers but he really meant boxer briefs which make you feel far closer to him in a way. 

You find Jack sitting on his couch reading. “Hey. Thank you for the shower and clothes.” Jack looks up at you and has to carefully control his reaction. He’s glad you’re far enough away that you don’t see the way his jaw clenches at how unbelievably hot you look in his clothes. It makes him feel possessive in a way he knows he shouldn’t. He’s also glad he’s sitting far enough away that you can’t see the bulge in his pants that starts to grow. 

“Of course.”

“I’m going to try and get some sleep. Wake me whenever you need me to leave.” Jack’s not waking you up. As far as he’s concerned you never need to leave. “And I hope you sleep well.” You give him a shy nod and turn to head back to the guest room. 

“Sleep well,” he calls after you. 

From then on, going to each other’s places after work slowly became a thing. By the end of your intern year it was far more common for you to end up at Jack’s place or him to end up at yours after work. Sometimes you’d spend what was your night at Jack’s, sometimes you wouldn’t. He only spent the night at yours once when you both fell asleep on your couch. You didn’t have a spare room and no way were you making Jack sleep on your couch and you knew he’d never accept your bed with you on the couch.

And then one day about a year and a half after meeting and being best friends both of you were clearly sore from your run of shifts and Jack floated the idea. 

“You wanna just sleep in my bed with me? It’s far more comfortable. And big enough so we don’t have to like… be particularly close or anything.” It takes a lot for him not to tack on ‘unless you want.’

“Oh.” His offer catches you by surprise. It feels like it should mean something, but best friends sleep in the same beds, right? It’s not that big of a deal. “Yeah, sure. That would be nice, thank you.” 

After you both shower you and Jack slide into his bed, staying respectfully at the edge of the side of the bed each of you is on. You wake up much closer, about a foot between you, and both of you have to fight the urge to snuggle into the other and try to use this opportunity to express your real feelings for each other.

After that, sleeping in the same bed became your usual thing. It opened up staying at your place more often after a while when you slowly started sleeping closer together since you had a smaller mattress. And before either of you knew it you had a drawer at Jack’s place and he had a drawer at yours, both of you had your toiletries in the other’s shower and on the other’s bathroom counter. It happened so naturally neither of you truly realized the implication for a while, and when you did you convinced yourselves that it was something best friends did.

You also convinced yourselves that getting ready in the bathroom together at the same time, bumping into each other and being close and Jack sometimes shirtless and you sometimes in just a bra and pants or shorts was something best friends did. And you wearing Jack’s clothes just because you liked to, not because you needed to borrow them, without asking him and wearing his shirt and boxer briefs to bed because they were comfortable was a best friends thing. So was Jack sleeping in just a pair of pajama pants and eventually just his boxer briefs in the same bed as you. Laying in his lap with your head on his chest cuddling or him snuggling up to you after a bad day as you watched a movie together was also just something best friends did. 

And then Jack had a really bad day. 

“Jack,” you say softly, moving your head down to try and get him to look at you as he keeps doing compressions. “We have to let him go.” Both you and Jack are sweaty, as are most of the people in the room with you. You’ve been coding the patient in front of you for two hours now. 

“Not your call to make,” he pants out. But it’s laced with anger and frustration. “You’re an R3 and I’m the attending. It’s not your call to make. So either keep running the code or get out.” It’s pretty close to snarled and makes you grimace. You and everybody in the room know that Jack’s anger and frustration isn’t truly at you. 

Jack knows you’re right but he can’t bring himself to stop. Because it’s unfair. It’s so fucking unfair. 

“Jack. Look at me.” He doesn’t stop compressions but he does lift his eyes to yours after a few seconds. “You know that I’m with you and just as aggressive as you. You know that if I thought for a second there was even the slightest chance of us getting him back I wouldn’t be telling you we have to let him go.” You nod at him, watch his jaw clench. The protective eye glasses he’s wearing might fool others into thinking that’s what’s making his eyes shiny but you know better. “He’s gone, Jack.” 

He just looks at you for another minute as he does compressions before he finally stops, panting hard. You both look up at the monitor. “Asystole,” you say quietly. You try to be quicker than Jack but aren’t and Jack’s the one to confirm with his stethoscope and you shut the monitor off. 

He pulls it away and puts it back on his neck as he speaks and glances at his watch. “Time of death 06:57.”

Jack is silent as he pulls his gloves, trauma gown and glasses off, tossing them in the biohazard bin before walking out. You tell everyone thank you before doing the same as Jack and walking out of the trauma room, head on a swivel as you look for him even though you’re pretty sure you know exactly where he is. It’s all but confirmed for you when you don’t see him in the immediate vicinity. 

It is confirmed when you step out onto the roof. You hate it when he stands on that side of the railing, it always scares the shit out of you because you always worry one day he’s going to do it. And if he was, today would likely be that day. You’re one of three people who work at the hospital other than Jack who knows that when it hit midnight seven hours ago it became the anniversary of the day of his injury. So yeah. With the significance of the day and the fact that you just coded a veteran for two hours, if he was going to do it, today seems like it could be the day. 

“You know you’re not allowed to leave me,” you call to him as you walk closer. Jack doesn’t say anything. “Seriously.” You reach the rail right behind him. “What the fuck am I gonna do if you jump?” 

Jack lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s unfair. It’s a fucking joke. Surviving over there to come back and be taken out by a drunk driver. Just like that.” He snaps his fingers as he says it. “What the fuck is the point? Of any of this anymore?” 

“It is unfair. And it’s pretty fucking cruel of the universe to have this happen ever, but especially to have it happen and put it in front of you today.” You let out a long breath. “And I don’t know what the point is either sometimes, or I lose sight of it. But I think the point is all the ones you can and do save and help, Jack. And if you jump then you can’t save or help anyone else. Civilian, service member or vet. You can’t teach others, pass on what you’ve learned. Every student and resident who comes through here would be worse off.” 

Jack knows you’re right. Some part of him wants to almost be mad at you for the way that you’re right and know what to say. He’s not though. He looks back at you a little to acknowledge he heard you. To tell you that you’re right and he knows it. 

“Will you come here, please, Jack?”

He gives a little shake of his head and lets out a shuddery breath before he turns and ducks under the rail so he’s standing right next to you. You turn into him and give him a hug. Jack returns it tightly and you can feel how hard he swallows. You know the last place he wants to show any further emotion is here so you pull out of the hug. 

“Let’s get out of here.” You grab Jack’s hand and start walking. Jack follows and the two of you only drop hands once someone else gets on the elevator with you. 

You guys manage to get out fairly quickly and unsurprisingly end up at Jack’s place. You take turns showering before crawling into bed together, both exhausted and ready to just pass out. You roll on your sides and look at each other. You know Jack needs to let some emotion out and you consider going to sleep in the guest room so he can be alone but the thought of him being alone today, especially after that code, makes you sad.

“Jack?” you say his name softly. He raises his eyebrows at you. “I know the real question you went up there looking for an answer to. Why were you the one to survive? And I’m not going to pretend to know the answer. I know this might be selfish of me, but I just want you to know that I’m really glad you were the one to survive.”

Jack’s mind spins. He can’t believe you knew that was the question. He can in a way, because it’s you and you always seem to know but part of him still can’t comprehend someone caring for him and knowing him how you do. And he wishes more than anything in the moment that he could kiss you. But he can’t. And he can’t risk losing you. His mind also spins trying to answer the question, why him, why did he survive over there, why does he survive over here? And it spins like it always does on this day, scenes of this day all those years ago playing in the background of his mind constantly.

He shakes his head a little at you, eyes glassy. He really didn’t want to cry. “You can come here, if you want, Jack.” 

Jack nods this time and slides over to you. You pull him close to you and wrap your arms around him as he buries his face in your neck and lets himself cry. You run your hands through his hair for the first time without even realizing it and keep doing it. Scratch at his scalp sometimes, play with the curls at the nape of his neck. You wish you could pull his head from your neck and kiss him, tell him you love him and have him know you mean it as more than just a friend. 

After that it became your guys’ normal. Cuddling together in bed, sleeping tangled up together or you on Jack’s chest or him on yours or with him as the big spoon or you as the big spoon, you running your hands through his hair, something you discovered relaxed him immensely and helped him fall asleep. 

Neither of you really dated over the years, not as such. It was just another thing that made everyone think you were already together or heavily in denial. As an intern and resident you didn’t really have the time, and it just wasn’t how you wanted to spend your free time at that point in your life. Jack theoretically had the time but he just didn’t want to put the effort into it really. He was content with you, even non-romantically. As you were with him. You did want more though, you did want to get married and have kids one day. With someone. You knew it would never be Jack and that if you wanted that you were eventually going to have to get over Jack and go try. You just never really brought yourself to.

Occasionally over the years each of you would pick someone up at a bar or somewhere and have some casual sex. Sometimes it turned into a bit of a friends with benefits situation and you’d see the person more than once. That was all more common for you. Jack wasn’t super into casual sex or friends with benefits. You went on a couple of dates to appease some friends and try to get over Jack. He did the same to try and get over you. Nothing ever went anywhere. 

People of course noticed how close you and Jack were. The way you always seemed to walk in and out of work together. The times you’d come in wearing Jack’s sweatshirt. The reactions you’d both have at times when the other got flirted with, either at work or when everyone went out to a bar or somewhere. 

Both of you were constantly getting asked if you were together, some people just assumed it. You both always laughed and said no, you weren’t, you didn’t know why so many people thought that, you’re just best friends. Bets were placed on when you guys would finally either admit you were together already or realize what literally everyone else could tell, that you were both in love with each other, and finally get together as a couple.

A few people bet on it taking one of you to get worryingly sick or injured or otherwise put in danger for the other to admit their feelings. They were proven wrong one night. 

Your mistake was something you’d done hundreds of times before. Walking out into the ambulance bay by yourself in the middle of the night. It’s how you find yourself being held hostage and walked back into the ED with a knife pressed against your throat. 

Sound seems to go. You’re only vaguely aware of the guy holding you making demands for drugs. Your eyes drag across the floor looking for a single person. One you can’t find. He must be in with a patient. You know he’s the only person who would give you any comfort in this situation but a part of you is almost glad you don’t see him. 

You don’t want him to see this. Especially if this guy ends up using the knife on you. You really don’t want Jack to see that. 

The scream a patient lets out and the general collective gasps he hears are Jack’s initial clues something is wrong. The chilly silence that follows is another clue and he decides to go look, makes his way to the door of the exam room he’s in. He doesn’t know what he expects to see when he steps out but it sure isn’t you with a knife pressed to your throat. And yet that’s what he sees.

Jack’s entire world stops, the vial of medication he was holding falling out of his hand. His eyes find yours immediately. “I’m sorry,” you mouth to him. He shakes his head. Why the fuck are you sorry? is all he can think. 

Jack walks forward holding up his hands. “What do you want?” he asks the guy. 

“Finally somebody with some fucking sense. Demerol. 150. To start. Then I want all the fucking vials of it and morphine you have with a bunch of needles.” The guy laughs, thinks he’s about to make out. 

“And then you’ll let her go?” Jack asks.

“I’ll walk her out with me and then I’ll let her go, yeah.”

“Fine,” Jack nods at him. “I’ll pull your dose now.” The way the guy laughs as Jack walks over to pull some demerol out makes him want to be sick. If something happens to you, anything at all, if you die, Jack swears he’ll die with you. He’d never forgive himself. He’s eerily calm and steady for how fast his heart is racing but he knows he needs to be calm and focused to get you out of this alive and physically uninjured. He knows the mental injuries are already there. 

Jack can’t quite pin down how sophisticated this guy is. The laughter makes Jack think he’s not very. That he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. So Jack tries it, sees if the guy will tell him to show him the vial first and pull it in front of him and make Jack give himself some to prove it’s nothing dangerous first. He takes a vial of etomidate out and pulls a dose, starts walking over to the guy. 

There’s no questioning. No telling Jack to go back and bring it all over and pull it in front of him, no asking Jack if Jack think he’s stupid. Only that fucking laugh that neither you nor Jack will ever forget.

“Need a vein,” Jack tells the guy as he gets close. 

“Back of the hand. The one holding the knife. She can watch,” the guy grunts at Jack and laughs as he tightens his grip on the knife and presses it into your neck hard enough to give you little deeper than a paper cut, but deep enough to draw some blood. 

The sight of your blood makes him want to be sick because, even though it’s only a few drops, you still have a fucking knife against your throat that’s making you bleed. Jack nods at you but doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to risk pissing the guy off, not with how tight that knife is against your skin. Jack feels the back of the guys hand for a vein to make sure they’re not all blown. He finds one and so Jack pushes the med and then steps back 

“I’m getting the rest now, okay?” Jack starts walking backwards slowly. It’s the longest onset time of Jack’s entire life but he can see when it starts to hit the guy and he’s already running back towards you as the etomidate renders the guy unconscious. “Etomidate,” Jack shouts at nobody in particular so at least somebody knows what he gave the guy and can deal with him accordingly.

The second the knife drops from your throat you’re stepping forward and Jack is right there to grab you and pull you away from the guy. Jack crushes you to him. “Jack,” you whimper as your hands fist at his scrub top at his chest, his arms wrapping around you and holding you tighter than he ever has before. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, “fuck, you’re okay.” You’re shaking in Jack’s arms just as much as he’s shaking having you safe and in his as the adrenaline crashes for you both. “Let me see your neck.” 

He tries to pull away but you cling to him and follow him. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Just stay, please.” 

Jack wants to look at your neck for himself but he knows you’re right that it’s okay for now and you clearly need him like this and frankly he needs you like this too. Safe in his arms. 

It makes you feel safe. If you’re in Jack’s arms nothing is going to happen to you. You trust him. You know he’s safe, will keep you safe. “Please stay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I need you.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. “I’ve got you. And I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Jack’s voice is shaky like yours. “I can’t lose you.”

Everyone who heard that line and the way Jack said it had thought it meant you in fact weren’t together but Jack was going to admit his feelings to you and you’d admit yours back and you’d finally be together and holding hands walking in and calling each other pet names. And Jack almost did admit his feelings to you. But then you guys had gotten home and went about your routine and you were so shaken and clingy that he wasn’t able to bring himself to tell you and risk losing you, especially when you needed him so much in the aftermath. So it didn’t happen. 

The calling each other a pet name, however, did. But not in the way anyone expected. To you and Jack the word just became a nickname. One that intensified the confusion about what you and Jack were. 

You’re standing at the hub charting when you overhear Jack finishing discharge instructions with a mom and her five or six year old daughter as he walks them towards the door. You’re finally an R4 about two weeks away from starting the attending position you were offered and accepted. Jack is of course still an attending. Your schedules are almost always identical. It was easy to pull off when most people didn’t want to work nights and the two of you volunteered to. You both knew it would be staying that way once you became an attending.

“Thank you so much, babe!” You watch the mom tell Jack as she hugs him. You bite your lip to stifle your laugh, continuing to watch as Jack remains completely still. “And like we talked about if you ever need anything or get bored, here’s my number,” she giggles as she presses a post-it note to his chest. You’d be more jealous if you thought for a single second Jack might actually be interested, but he is so clearly not you almost feel embarrassed for the woman. The whole thing is so funny you have to quickly log out and walk away to keep from laughing. 

The second the mom is out the door Jack tosses the post-it note with a shake of his head. Jack has always gotten hit on at work. He’s always gotten flirted with everywhere really. He very, very rarely flirts back. But though he may not have put it together, everyone else, yourself included, has noticed that now that he’s truly gone salt and pepper he gets flirted with far more. 

Later that night around 1:30 a.m. the two of you are at the hub charting together. “Can you take the eight year old with a possible broken arm from a bunk bed fall with the new med student, Cooper? I said I would but I don’t think I can handle another mom right now and I would really love to try and get like four bites of literally anything.”

“I suppose for you I can,” you tease him, bumping your hip against his. “I brought us leftovers from last night too. They’re in the fridge.”

“I knew I kept you around for a reason.” You scoff in mock offense as Jack logs off his computer. He looks over at you and waits until you look up at him which doesn’t take long. “Thank you.” He gives you a flash of a smile and then starts to walk toward the breakroom. 

The opportunity is too good to pass up. After he gets a step or two away you call out to him. “Sure thing, babe!” 

Jack stops walking and tilts his head letting out a single huffed laugh as he shakes his head and rolls his eyes before he resumes walking. He can’t keep the small smile off his face though. 

A while later Jack finds you again at the hub, just the two of you. You guys chat for a bit until you get called away. “Oh,” you turn back to Jack, “can you remind me to check if my mascara is dried out when we get home. I’m going to need some for Shen’s wedding.”

Jack smirks at you and you already know what he’s about to say. “Sure thing, babe!” 

The nickname stuck and it pretty much became your and Jack’s exclusive way of referring to each other. You both ached for it to be a real pet name. People assumed that calling each other ‘babe’ constantly would lead to a conversation and so you’d get together within a month or so. Especially because then you’d be an attending. You wouldn’t technically be Jack’s student anymore, you’d be equals. But you still didn’t get together.

And once you became an attending and had been one for six months or so and nothing happened, people stopped placing bets. Because surely if it was going to happen it would have already. 

A year after you became an attending you started to notice it more than you had before. It felt like most of your patients were children with their parents or newlyweds or recently engaged or celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary or pregnant. Marriage and kids were frequently on your mind. But you still couldn’t bring yourself to put yourself out there and try to find someone. 

You talk about it casually with a couple of people at work, that you think you’d like marriage and kids one day, and the interest in you and Jack is renewed and bets start getting placed again. 

And one day, six years after you met, it finally happens.

You and Jack walk into his place after your shift. You unsurprisingly had to stay late so it’s 9 a.m. or so, your guys’ evening. It wasn’t a bad shift in the scope of things, but it wasn’t the easiest shift you’ve ever had either. 

Jack keeps semi blackout curtains in his living room and pulls them closed while you grab a drink for yourself and a beer for Jack from his fridge without even asking if he wants one. You don’t turn any lights on. The curtains dim the room, but you can still easily see each other.

He sits on the opposite end of the couch from you, leaning into the corner of it and putting the thigh of one leg on it as he tilts his body towards you so that you guys can see each other. Manspreading like always. If only he knew how insane it drove you. You hand him his beer and then settle back into the same position, and if only you knew how insane your legs being relatively spread open drove him. 

“I guess at least nobody died,” you mutter before taking a drink. 

Jack nods slowly as he finishes swallowing. “We’ll take the wins where we can.” He tilts his head at you. “Didn’t see much of you tonight.” 

“It was busy. I think we kept hitting our free moments at different times. It’s not like I was ignoring you.” You give him a knowing look, confused about why he’s even commenting on it. It’s something that just happens sometimes. 

He’s commenting because he missed you, quite a lot today for some reason, and especially because he saw you on your phone a decent amount at the beginning of your shift, more than you usually are, and you seemed happy. Of course he wants you to be happy, but he wants to know why. Why you weren’t using that time to come see him and let him make you happy. He’s hoping the explanation isn’t another man. 

“You seemed to be in an awfully good mood at the beginning of your shift.” He tries to keep it light, like it’s just something he noticed and not him trying to probe for information.

“Eh. My college ex boyfriend texted me.” You roll your eyes. “It was random more than anything.”

He swallows hard. Fuck. It was another man. “Oh,” Jack draws the word out, “is that who was making you smile down at your phone until about midnight tonight?” He smirks at you like he isn’t internally seething with jealousy.

You roll your eyes again but this time at Jack. “He sent me the most ridiculous opening line and it was funny, so it made me smile, yes.” 

Jack’s jaw sets and he takes a drink of his beer so that he doesn’t grind his teeth loud enough for you to hear. “You sharing or?”

There’s the faintest hint of snippiness in his tone that makes you narrow your eyes at him slightly. Jack knows all about your college ex, how he decided he didn’t want to move with you for medical school and then again for residency potentially. It broke your heart at the time but things still ended amicably all things considered. You figure the snippiness is related to Jack disliking him.

“He asked if I went into cardiology because, and I quote ‘you are the very beating and pulse of my heart.’” You start laughing as you finish saying it. Jack hardly even laughs, he just rolls his eyes and shakes his head, shifts to sit straighter on the couch so he’s looking at the black TV in front of him and not over at you. “Oh come on,” you nudge his thigh with your foot. “It was funny.”

Jack takes another swig of his beer and pulls his lips down, shrugs slightly. “Worked on you enough that you memorized it.” 

You choke on the sip of your drink you just took, coughing a little. Jack glances over at you for a second just to make sure you’re okay. 

“Worked on me? It didn’t fucking work on me. He sent it to break the ice, babe.” You furrow your brows and shake your head at him, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. 

“Well you liked it enough to remember it and keep talking to him.” He already knows you’re going to go see this guy and probably get into a relationship and that’ll pretty much be the end of your best friends relationship as you know it now. 

You scoff at him. “I found it funny enough to remember. There’s a difference.” 

“Okay,” he sings, clearly not believing you and you just shake your head at him. You both take sips of your drinks. Even with Jack’s kind of strange behavior the silence is still comfortable. “So why’d he text you after all this time? It’s been like what? Ten years?”

You shift on the couch and pull your legs up to your chest. “He moved to Pittsburgh. Asked if I’d be interested in seeing him.”

Jack’s head snaps over to you. “You are, aren’t you? You’re going to see him?” 

His gaze is so intense it feels like it’s pinning you in place. “Yeah.” You shrug. You don’t get why this is such a big deal all of the sudden. You need this. You need to move on from Jack. You need to try and have the rest of the life you want, even if it’s not quite how you pictured it. You and Jack would still be best friends and some things might change, but it’s not like everything would change or suddenly you’d just stop hanging out because you got married and had kids.

Jack scoffs at you now. “Why?” There’s a bite behind his tone. He’s not sure if you have a real reason or if it’s just to reconnect. You squirm under his gaze for a second before you have to look away as you give him another shrug. That’s the confirmation he needs. “Bull-fucking-shit, you absolutely have a reason.” You let out a breath and occupy your mouth with another sip of your drink. “Fine. Then look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have a reason.” 

You sigh and look back at him. You swear he almost seems mad with how serious he looks, lips pressed in a line, still staring at you with that same intensity, eyes slightly narrowed. You know you’re going to have to tell him because you can’t lie to him. As in you couldn’t bring yourself to do it and also he would know the second it came out of your mouth. 

“It’s stupid,” you admit, “it’s stupid and I know it and a big part of me doesn’t care. But you’ll think it’s stupid too. Think I’m stupid for even considering it.” 

“Hey.” Jack shifts on the couch so he’s turned towards you again, features softened. “You’re not stupid. I know you far too well to know that if there is one thing in this world that you are definitively not, it’s stupid. If it’s a stupid idea, yeah I will tell you that. ” 

You look down at your hands. You know you’re going to have to tell him eventually. If you end up doing it then it’s going to come out. “When we broke up we made this stupid pact together that we both thought was just a funny joke at the time. We said if we reached the age we are now and weren’t married or in a serious relationship we’d get married and have kids together.” You pause for a second and swallow. “Neither of us are married or in a serious relationship. So you know…”

Jack’s jaw falls open a little as his head lolls forward. Adrenaline floods his body so fast he grows cold in seconds, stomach churning. He can’t lose you. Not like this. If you dated the guy and fell back in love with him that would be one thing. But this? No. And actually, no in general. He can’t lose you. He can’t watch you marry someone else and have someone else’s kids. He knows you really want marriage and kids and he wants that for you, just selfishly only with him. It gets harder to breathe as some actual panic starts to seep into him. 

He lets out an incredulous laugh. “You’re actually fucking considering this?” 

Tears sting at the back of your eyes. You know he’s not laughing at you and you know he’s not truly judging you but his reaction still hurts in a way you didn’t expect it to. All you can do is nod at him. 

Jack laughs again, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. “Fucking why?”

“Because Jack!” He shrinks back slightly, eyebrows raising at your response and the emotion he thinks he hears in your voice. “Because I want to share my life with someone romantically! Because I want to get married and have a house and have kids! I want that life. And I’m not getting any fucking younger.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Jack scoffs. He’s nearly at a loss for words. “How can you say that? You haven’t even been looking for someone! You don’t date and I know you’ve been asked out plenty of times. And don’t give the excuse of being too busy because we both know that’s not true anymore.” He shakes his head at you and looks pissed. “Do you even fucking love him?” 

You shrug. You have absolutely no justification for why you don’t date other than because you’re in love with Jack. So you don’t even really try to justify anything. “I haven’t been, no, but I’ve still always wanted that stuff and this kind of fell in my lap and so maybe it’s a sign. And as for loving him… yeah. No. Kind of? I don’t know anymore. Would he be my first pick? No. But he’s nice, he treated me well and he’ll be a good dad I think. And maybe now that we’re both grown up there will be more of a spark there.” You knew Jack would think it was a stupid and bad idea but you didn’t know he’d react quite this strongly. In part you’re not sure why he cares so much. He’s your best friend. He should want to see you happy and living the life you want. And this is a way for you to at least be living the life you want and to be happy enough.

“So what, you’re going to fucking settle? Settle for the guy who broke your heart? The guy who couldn’t be fucking asked to move maybe twice for you so that you could do what you dreamed of? The guy who allegedly loved you but not quite enough to make any sacrifices for you?” Jack tilts his head at you. “Babe you deserve so much better. So much fucking better. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t even consider it further. Please” 

“I think maybe I would be enough for him now. He reached out. Remembered. That has to count for something, right? And I want it Jack.” You shrug at him. You’re a little upset. Not with Jack, just with everything else. With what you don’t have. With the way you struggle about whether you really want marriage and kids without Jack now that you’re really thinking about it. “I want that life and I feel like I’m running out of time and yeah, I haven’t been looking so that’s on me, but still. You can want something and still be okay with not having it. But if the opportunity arose, if it just kind of fell in your lap… you know?”

“I know,” Jack whispers before speaking at a normal level. “I just want you to be with someone who you are enough for. Because you are enough. You are so much fucking more than enough.” Jack nods at you, hoping it will help drive his words home. “He doesn’t deserve you. Any fucking part of you. He doesn’t deserve another second of your time. I know you won’t be happy with him. Not truly. You would be settling and you know it. But you don’t have to settle. You don’t. You still have time. You can still have the life you want, just with someone who really makes you happy. Who you really want to live that life with. You still have time to find that person. Your person. So don’t do this to yourself. Please.”

Your heart aches. You know and love Jack so deeply, he’s the one you trust with every secret and part of you. You wish that you could tell him you already found your person. You already found the man who makes you really, truly happy. You already found the man you want to live your life with. That you’re staring at him.

“Jack, we have to be realistic. When am I going to go find that person? With what time? And where? It’ll take me forever to find someone.” You let out a short breath. “And then after I do find them it’s at minimum a year of dating, an engagement, then a wedding, then wanting time as just a couple before kids. I don’t have that kind of time. I have a couple of years at best.” 

“You’re giving yourself an artificial timeline.” He shakes his head. He’s not getting through to you. “You could still go find them. Or at least do this all, marriage and kids, with someone better.” 

“Who, Jack?” You laugh exasperatedly. “Who the fuck is that? I’d still have to find them. At least I know him. That’s better than jumping into this with a stranger. Who the fuck else do I know that I would do this with?” 

There’s a silence as you and Jack stare at each other. 

And then Jack raises his eyebrows and tilts his head at you quickly, just a one second or two flash. 

It hits you. 

“Jack?” you whisper. You need him to say it. Because there’s no fucking way.

He swallows hard. “Please just don’t do it with him.” 

“Jack.” 

“Me.” He rushes the word out, taking a few heavy breaths. “You could do it with me.” 

You stop breathing for a second as you look at him, expression unreadable in a way that makes him incredibly self-conscious, blush creeping up his neck to his ears and cheeks. You’re stunned. Beyond stunned. While your body is still and you’re silent your mind is running a million miles an hour screaming seventy things at once. There’s no way he means this as a romantic thing. He just has to be volunteering himself because he thinks he’s at least better than your college ex. 

The breath you take in thirty seconds later is still shocked. You lick your lips quickly and open your mouth to say something, but then close it when you can’t think of anything. This happens a couple of times before Jack speaks again. He’s quite sure he knows what your reaction means. That you’re trying to find a way to turn him down nicely. 

“I know I’m not him and I’m sure I have much less to offer than him.” You stare at Jack as he speaks, bring a hand up to cover your mouth. “And I know that I come with baggage and that I’m older and that I’m missing a piece of me, literally, but I just think, no I know I could make you happier than he could.” 

You’re silent for a minute. You process what he says but your brain doesn’t formulate a reply to it because you need to know exactly what Jack means. You move your hand from your mouth and rest it to the side of you. 

Your voice is surprisingly even, just like your body is still. You haven’t given into the trembling you can feel coming yet. “Is that… Would you want that? Or would it just be a pact kind of thing to you?” You’re still not convinced he’s thinking about this the same way you are. You’re convinced he’s just offering to take the place of your ex in the pact, not that he’s in love with you like you are with him.

The way you gloss over what he said hurts. He tries to hold onto some modicum of hope that all of this will get figured out and he won’t lose you but it’s getting hard. 

Jack lets out the saddest laugh you’ve ever heard by anyone ever. “Oh no, I want that. I’ve wanted that for a long time. Wanted you. I’ve been in love with you since that first day. The first day I met you. And I’m sorry if knowing it would be really real for me ruins it and makes me not an option. But even if it’s not me you should still find someone better than him.” He shrugs and looks away from you. 

“Are you being for fucking real?” He nods, still looking down. “No, Jack.” You move down the couch so that you’re sitting right next to each other, you with your legs crossed facing Jack who’s still turned into the couch so that he could see you. “Look at me.” He forces himself to look up at you. “Are you serious right now? Do you mean it? You want me? You’re in love with me? Like more than platonically?” 

Jack’s heart breaks because it’s not the declaration of love he’d hoped you give him in return. 

“Yes.” He nods at you, gives you the eye contact you sought, as intense as always even with his glassy and somewhat defeated looking eyes. “I want you. I’m in love with you. I’m in love with you like I want to marry you, I want you to be my wife and me to be your husband, I want to give you my last name, I want to confuse the fuck out of everyone on night shift with two Dr. Abbots, I want you to be the mother of my kids, I want to get you pregnant, more than once maybe, I want to grow old holding your hand and kissing your lips and making you laugh. I want you. I’m in love with you. I love you. I have always loved you.”

You swallow hard, the trembling finally hitting your entire body. “Why did you never say anything or make a move?” 

Your lack of real response to everything he just admitted confirms it for Jack. You don’t feel the same way. You don’t love him like he does you. There’s not going to be any saving this. 

“Because I knew you’d never reciprocate and if I said anything or made a move it would make things awkward and if it didn’t totally end our friendship it would have at least changed it significantly. And having you in my life like this, as my best friend, like you have been for the past six years was so much better than not having you in my life at all and being tortured seeing you at work.” Jack sniffles a little. “But then you started talking about marriage and kids with this guy and I know you want that life and that if you were even considering this pact you were either going to do it or probably start seriously dating and looking for someone. And so I sat here and realized I’d lose you either way. If I admitted my unrequited love I’d lose you. If you do it with him or go find someone to have that life with we obviously wouldn’t be able to continue how we are and so you’d slowly slip away and I’d lose you. So I figured I might as well throw it out there so that if nothing else you know that you are enough for someone. So much more than enough. And you shouldn’t settle for anyone who thinks differently.” 

You look at Jack for a few seconds and then you laugh. Hard. Because you cannot think of how else to react in the moment and Jack fucking Abbot is in love with you and you’re in love with him and you both have been forever and you’re both fucking idiots. 

The sound is a knife through Jack’s heart. 

You quiet your laughter and smile at Jack. He can’t quite believe it because it would be so out of character for you but Jack assumes you’re about to make fun of him. What else could you do?

“Knew I’d never reciprocate? Unrequited love?” You let out a few giggles this time. “Jack Abbot I have loved you every day for the past six years. I fell in love with you the day we met too. I am in love with you. Romantically. I love you.” You laugh again, a few tears slipping down your face, not from the laughter but the other emotions the laughter is just audibly louder than. “You’re sitting here talking about me going and finding my person and I’m trying not to fucking lose it because I’m sitting here fucking staring at my person so sure you would never reciprocate. You’re the one who makes me happy. The fucking happiest. The happiest I’ve ever been.” You take a breath and look at Jack, laughter leaving you and watery smile pulling up on your face, eyes the brightest Jack has ever seen them even in the relatively low light. “You are the one I want that life with. Marriage and kids. I said he wasn’t my first choice. You know who fucking is? You, Jack. You. It’s always been you. I’ve always loved you, too.” 

“Me?” There’s no fucking way.

“Yeah, Jack. You!” You’re beaming at him.

“You’re being for fucking real now?” He loosely mimics what you asked him earlier. A tentative smile pulls onto his face. He’s still struggling to believe that you love him. “You’re in love with me?”

“Yes. Like, like, I don’t even fucking know,” you pause trying to search for a word but it’s hard with how fucking giddy you are, “I’m soul-consumingly in love with you. Head over heels. All the clichés. I’m in love with you. I love you. I love you too.” 

His smile widens and he rests a hand on your thigh. He has to be sure you understand the reality of him though. Or what he thinks the reality of him is. “But I’m-”

“Oh, don’t even start with the I’m older and missing a piece of myself and have baggage. I’ve got some baggage myself. And I know you fucking know that.” You give him a pointed look though your smile remains. “I don’t care how old you are. And it’s hot quite frankly. I mean you are in general but you being older. The salt and pepper drives me fucking insane. Hardest day of my life was when you got enough gray for me to really notice. I had to go back to my place alone after shift and damn near burned out a vibrator over it, I mean jesus fucking christ, I set a personal record, Jack. Your age is hot. You’re hot. And handsome. Unfairly so.” You grow a little more serious to address the last point Jack had brought up earlier, rest one of your hands over his on your thigh and your other hand on his knee. “And yes. You’re missing a piece of yourself. But that doesn’t matter to me Jack. And I know what you think but it’s not unattractive, it doesn’t make you less desirable. And it certainly doesn’t somehow make you less of a man, Jack.”

His head is spinning. At all of. The whole situation. Him professing his love. You professing yours. The fact that you’re in love with each other. That you both want to get married and have kids. His brain glitched out for a second at almost burned out a vibrator and set a personal record all because you were thinking of him. And the way you read him like a book when all he said was he was he’s missing a piece of himself and reassured him perfectly, textbook example of a reason why he loves you. 

Jack’s eyes search yours as he beams with you now. He laughs, and he understands why you laughed. A few tears slide down his face, just as happy and emotional as you. “We’re fucking idiots.”

You laugh with him and nod. “Total fucking idiots.”

“We could have had all those years together. Why did you never say anything?” Jack asks, his free hand covering your hand on his knee. You’re both still so in shock and processing that kissing each other or continuing this conversation with you straddling him or somehow being closer than you are now hasn’t come to the forefront of either of your minds. 

“Same reason you didn’t. Having you somehow was better than not at all. And I mean, Jack,” you let out a flustered laugh, “you have to know like everyone wants you. You could have anybody you wanted and so I never thought you’d want me.”

“Hey. Listen to me.” Jack grows more serious though a soft smile remains. He shifts so that he can hold your face in his hands. He’s held your face like this before, many times, but not like this. This is different. You know you love each other. And while Jack is still your best friend and will always be your best friend, he’s your partner now. Your lover. Your future husband. Your future children’s father. And the same is true for Jack. You are and will always be his best friend, but you’re his partner now. His lover. His future wife. His future children’s mother. And so Jack’s holding your face like that. Like you’re his, in every sense of the word. “There is not a single human being on this entire fucking planet who I want more than you. Not a single fucking one. And there isn’t one that’s better for me. You’re the only woman I see anymore. You’ve been the only woman I see for a long time. You are the only one I want and the only one for me, Babe.”

You grin at the nickname and how it really is a pet name now, how it suddenly holds even more meaning. And you nod at Jack’s words, relish in how they warm your heart and make you feel so needed and wanted and loved. You know he means them. With his entire being. You bring your hands up and wrap them around Jack’s wrists as he holds your face, thumbs rubbing soft circles on the inside of his wrists. 

“You are the only one I want and the only for me, Babe,” you repeat to him. You bite your lip and giggle again and it goes straight to Jack’s cock. Now that you can say it you can’t help yourself. “And I can’t wait to marry you one day.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirks, confidence back in full force, seductive without even really trying. “You want it to be soon?” Jack tilts his head and leans his head in a little closer. You both know you’re fucking finally about to kiss. 

“Could be tomorrow as far as I’m concerned.” You wink at him. It’s kind of a joke but also not really. You’d marry him tomorrow. “But I do want to wait on kids. I know we’ve been dating in a sense for effectively six years, but I want time for us to really be a couple together. Just the two of us. We have a lot of time to make up for.” You look down at Jack’s lips and tilt your head opposite his, lean in even closer expecting him to close the gap. 

But instead he pulls away, making your face furrow. “Seriously?” Jack asks. 

“To which part?” Your confusion at his question and at his pulling back is clear in your tone.

Jack lets go of your face and you let go of his wrists. He stands, confusing you further until he pulls at the fabric of his scrub pants on one leg and sinks onto one knee. “Jack.” Your breathing picks up and tears hit your eyes. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have a ring right now. But I will buy you whatever you want-”

“I want whatever you pick out, Jack,” you interrupt him. 

He huffs a laugh. He loves you so much. You would interrupt his proposal for that. “Okay. I’m sorry I don’t have a ring right now. But I will pick you out one and we’ll get wedding bands on our way. I want to do life by your side forever. I love you.” Jack takes in a breath. “Will you marry me? Tomorrow?”

You nod as you start laughing. “Yeah. Yes! Of course I’ll marry you, Jack. Tomorrow.” 

You and Jack are beaming at each other again as he starts to laugh with you, standing back up and holding his hands out for you. You take them and uncross your legs, let Jack help pull you up. He pulls you close, so that you’re flush against him. And after six years, you both finally get what you want as you tilt your heads and lean in and kiss each other. 

The first kiss is soft, a lingering expression of love that has the two of you breathless as you focus on feeling each other’s lips and the electricity it seems to send through you. The second kiss is a little more, turns sucking on each other’s bottom lips are taken. The third kiss is where things really escalate and before you know it you and Jack are standing in front of his couch properly making out, tongues in each other’s mouths, Jack’s arms sliding around you to keep you close, one forearm running parallel up your spine and holding the nape of your neck, your hands finding Jack’s hair and running through it, scratching at his scalp and occasionally tugging. 

“We’re going to have to go to a different state though,” you laugh against his lips when you finally break apart for air. 

“Wait, what?” His question is a little breathless from kissing and he pulls away a bit so that you can look at each other properly. 

You nod. “Pennsylvania has a three day waiting period after you apply for a marriage license. It almost fucked up Shen’s wedding.” 

“Fuck,” Jack mutters. He looks off to the side in thought for a moment. You take the moment to admire him, this beautiful beautiful man who’s now yours. Who loves you. You keep running your hands through his hair. It’s not the first time you’ve done it but it’s the first time as his lover, his fiancée. “This is the start of our string of offs, right?”

“Mhm,” you hum, “sure is, Babe.”

Jack looks back at you, right in the eyes as usual. “Tomorrow we fly to Vegas. Elope.” 

You raise your eyebrows and pause, waiting to see if he says more or changes his mind or anything. When he doesn’t you bite your lip and nod. He’s probably not even aware of how loved it makes you feel to know he’s ready to marry you tomorrow. Just like that. But then you being ready to marry him tomorrow makes him feel the same. “Sounds like a plan, Dr. Abbot.” Jack’s pupils dilate even more, his hands sliding down your sides and back to grab your ass. “Get your laptop or my iPad, we can book the plane tickets now.”

Jack doesn’t move. “You know you’re going to be Dr. Abbot in less than 48 hours.” The realization has you taking a shallow breath in and subconsciously pressing yourself against Jack even harder. “And we can book later, in a couple of hours.”

You raise your eyebrows slightly. “Oh? Why the delay?”

He uses his hands that are still gripping your ass to grind your hips and pelvis against him as he does the same with his against you. You let out a soft moan when you feel just how hard he is, swear you can feel him throb against as you grow even wetter for him. “Because I’ve been waiting six years to fuck you and now I can. And I need to. You have no idea how badly I need you. So if it’s okay with you I’m going to take my fiancée to bed now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope it was okay! I love hearing your guys' thoughts and comments, and I appreciate your likes, reblogs and replies so so much!

Although I'm struggling with how I'm feeling about the above, if there was any level of interest I could probably be persuaded to do a smutty part two because I do love some first time together smut and already have some ideas. So let me know if that's something you might like to see!

Thank you again for reading and all your support! ♥️

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[smiteswrites]

YOUR NEEDS, MY NEEDS [1]

MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH x F!READER

masterlist || next >>

Chapter Tags: explicit sexual content, swearing, propositions, robby being generally exasperated, first time, p in v, light praise, resident!reader, age gap, it’s just stress relief, right? (wrong)

wc: 4k

“That is a terrible idea.”

Not an untrue statement. It is a very, very bad idea. You know this. And yet…

You swivel on your bar stool, twisting your torso so that it moves back and forth, back and forth—sort of like the festering thought that’s been ping-ponging in your head for the last few days.

“I mean, yeah. It’d probably be absolutely disastrous,” you agree, “but I figure it’s worth a try.”

That pulls an incredulous laugh from Robby’s throat, scrubbing a hand down his face before holding it out to convey his confusion.

“Then why—”

“Because I’m lonely and horny, and I’m pretty sure you are too,” you cut him off before you can think better of it.

That disbelieving smile fades from his face, replaced by something… not so great. Irritation, maybe? You can never truly tell with him.

“And just what the fuck gave you that idea?” he asks.

There’s no use in lying. You’ve already dug your grave. What’s another few shovels of dirt?

“You watch Heather the same way I watch Frank.” A bitter taste is left on the back of your tongue just from saying his name.

Robby stares at you for a moment, shakes his head for the hundredth time tonight. “As long as I don’t get that look on my face when I see her,” he motions toward you with a finger, adds, “I think I’ll be just fine.”

It takes you by surprise—the bite in his voice—but now that it’s been pointed out you can feel the downward pull of your mouth, eyes wide, hollow, puffy from fatigue. You probably look like a dog that’s just been kicked.

Pitiful as you may be, it doesn’t mean Robby can just—

“Ya’ know what? You’re right.” You slide off the stool in a quick motion, muttering to yourself, “fucking stupid of me to think you’d want…”

You closed your tab about ten minutes ago, so once your backpack is safely over your shoulder, there’s nothing stopping you from leaving the bar.

Aside from the strong hand that suddenly wraps around your forearm.

“Wait, stop, just fucking…” You pause, but you don’t turn to look at him, not when his ridicule sits so heavily in your stomach. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I know I need to get over Heather, and I’m sure I look pretty fuckin’ pathetic staring at her all shift.”

You glance over your shoulder to glare at him. “Pathetic. Nice,” because you know he’s not just talking about himself.

“Didn’t say you were,” Robby insists, and you’re surprised to feel a slight tug on your wrist, like he’s pulling you closer. “Most days you just look tired. And really fucking sad sometimes.”

“I am tired and sad!” You pivot to face him again, stare him dead in the eye as the control you had over yourself just moments ago slips away, replaced by something a little more desperate. “You think I’d be asking about this if I wasn’t? I am at my wit’s end here. I just need something—”

To your absolute horror, your voice breaks, eyes burning.

“God dammit.” This is so not how you wanted this to go.

But it had been a shit shift (as always) and you are so incredibly exhausted, have been for too long.

You yank your arm from Robby’s grip, hissing his usual mantra of, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” while turning to get away from him (again).

He stops you (again), only this time he’s standing, somehow having managed to take a few steps toward you, and his hand is on you, big and warm where it molds around the curve of your hipbone.

“Look at me.” A command, but it comes out softer than when he tells you to do something in the ER.

“Absolutely not,” you answer quickly, and it might be the first time you’ve disobeyed him.

Robby chuckles, and it almost makes you twist around just so that you can yell at him again.

“You can proposition me for sex, but you can’t look at me?”

Humiliation washes over you, made worse by the way your cheeks flare with heat.

“Just… forget it ever happened, okay?”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that any time soon.”

Robby’s pulling you again, backwards so that you have to fight not to stumble. He only stops when he’s leaning against his stool and you’re standing between his legs. Back to his chest, you’re not exactly snug against him, but you can still feel his body heat, and your face is scorching for an entirely different reason.

This is… Huh.

It’s possible you didn’t really think this through, finding yourself unprepared for what it might be like to be close to him in a non-trauma setting.

“I’m sorry for being a dick. Just caught me off guard, I guess.”

You nod, trying not to react to the feeling of his breath on the back of your neck. “Can’t really blame you. I caught myself off guard when I first thought about it.”

Except not really. It didn’t come as a surprise when your mind had wandered to Robby while considering possible options. You used to think about him fairly often. Before Frank.

Robby doesn’t need to know that, though. It’s not even relevant; that ship had sailed a long time ago.

“There are other guys,” he reminds you like you don’t already know.

“I am not fucking Mateo or Donahue. Whitaker would probably run for the hills if he knew some of the shit I’m—anyway, I don’t have time to go out and meet someone, and even if I did, most dudes are fucking creeps.”

He’s silent for a few beats, like he’s working it over in his brain. Then, the more obvious issue: “I’m your boss.”

Now you do turn to face him, shuffling awkwardly so that his hand falls away from your waist.

“Oh my god, I didn’t even think of that!” All sarcasm.

It’s a miracle that you don’t spout off more, somehow stopping yourself before arguing that his position didn’t seem to matter when he and Heather were together.

“I’ve been going over the pros and cons for a while now, alright? This wasn’t just a spur of the moment idea,” you assure him. “But, if you really don’t want to or don’t think you could with me, just say so, and I’ll never bring it up again.”

“Oh, I definitely could with you,” he clarifies, gaze dropping to his lap as he releases another quiet laugh, “believe me, I could.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, pretty sure that Robby is telling you that he finds you attractive on some level but upset with yourself at how fucking gratifying that is.

“I used to think—” he starts only to cut himself off, opting to just run a hand through his hair.

Unfortunately for him, your curiosity has been piqued.

“You’ve thought what?”

Robby lets his head loll backward. For the first time in a long time, you fall into an old habit and let yourself admire him. The column of his throat. The bob of his Adam’s apple. The gray in his beard.

There’s a reason you came to him, and it’s because he’s hot.

Also, you trust him to not murder you.

He looks forward again, wearing a familiar expression of annoyance, but you think it’s directed at himself this time.

“I’ve thought about it before.”

You fail to hide your smugness at his admission (not that you’re trying very hard).

“A while ago,” he insists then completely derails his own justification by adding, “and then again more… recently.”

Robby rubs the back of his neck like he does whenever he’s uncomfortable. You’ve always found the act oddly endearing.

“Well, I’m not gonna try to convince you, but you know where I stand now, so…” You flash a smile for the first time in hours, watch as Robby’s resolve cracks just a little. “Ball’s in your court, boss.”

This time when you walk away, he doesn’t stop you, but there’s no mistaking the frustrated, “fuck,” that echoes behind you.

He catches up to you just as you’re stepping out of the bar, his heavy hand landing on the back of your neck as he drops his head to fucking growl in your ear, “You are an HR nightmare,” somehow managing to sound both angry and amused.

“Yeah, well at least I’m good at my job. It’ll make it harder for my boss to fire me.”

•••

It wasn’t like it had been a huge crush. Nothing earth-shattering or world-ending. Just something a little cliché when you had started at PTMC as a first year resident.

Honestly, you could hardly even call it a crush. It was more of a respect thing, which is totally understandable considering how respectable Dr. Robinavitch was and still is.

Maybe you vied for his attention a little more than others. Maybe hearing the words “good job” and “nice work” from him sent a thrill through you that others didn’t seem to get. Maybe you enjoyed the feeling of him brushing up against you in chaotic triage rooms a little too much.

None of it distracted you, though. Mostly. There may have been one instance that had left you fidgety around the older man for a good few days.

A teen shoved out of a van, you straddling him while holding pressure over his chest where he’d been shot.

The EMTs managed to get a body board beneath both you and the kid, hoisting you up and depositing you on a gurney in the nearest open trauma room.

Doctors swarmed around you, Garcia calling out instructions before locking eyes with you, voice even as she explained that she was going to replace your hands with hers.

It was a graceful switch that allowed you to take the deep, shaky breath that you’d been holding, so relieved that you didn’t even notice Robby (still Dr. Robinavitch to you at the time) until his arm was already wrapped around your waist.

“Time to get down, sweetheart.”

The way your stomach had flipped at the sound of his gruff voice, when you realized exactly who was lifting you from your place with ease.

To this day, you remember the embarrassing squeak that forced its way from your throat, the only noise you could make in your flustered state.

“I got ya’, I got ya’,” he promised as you leaned into him, airborne for a split second before he planted you firmly on the ground. Eyes moving back to the scene in front of him, Robby had nodded in something akin to approval, then muttered a distracted, “good girl,” that made you go all wobbly and weak in the knees.

If that hadn’t been bad enough, Santos chose that moment to sprint into the room, would have careened straight into Robby had he not been quick enough. You found yourself pressed into the gurney, caged in by his arms to keep both you and himself out of the way.

And, that was it. A short interaction that wasn’t even a blip on his radar judging by how unfazed he was by all of it.

You, on the other hand… not so much.

It replayed in your mind for weeks, a looped scene that you couldn’t turn off. You went to work feeling light and giddy, always hoping you’d be able to do something that would earn his praise.

Nothing came of it, of course, and eventually you were able to let it go, any blooming feelings snuffed out by his lack of reaction.

The thing with Frank began shortly after that, messy from the very start and getting progressively messier the longer it went on.

But it’s all over, and now you’re here, standing in your apartment, staring at Robby who’s staring at you, and what the fuck—what is actually going on? How did you end up like this? You’ve somehow come full circle in a twisted sort of way.

You don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to start. Robby has his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, rocking on his heels as he surveys your home.

“Well, this is fun,” he says in typical Robby fashion, dry and sarcastic and a little annoying.

“What, you just wanna dive right in?” you shoot back. “I know I could use a rinse, and the dried blood on your neck tells me you could go for one too.”

He can’t argue with that, so you take turns in the shower, quick but effective and alone because bathing together is out of the question.

You know he’s on the couch in your small living room—waiting, probably going over all the reasons he shouldn’t be here.

Meanwhile, you’re staring into your bathroom mirror, wet hair tied up, face bare as usual. You feel rather plain, definitely self-conscious, but you’re wearing cute panties that show off the curve of your ass, and you’ve gotta admit that your tits look good tonight.

You consider grabbing a shirt or a robe, but there’s really no point, and besides, you figure the less clothing you’re wearing, the less likely Robby is to change his mind. There’s probably a direct correlation between the two.

You wonder what it’ll feel like to have him touch you, if his beard against your skin will make you shiver, if his beard between your legs would—

Fuck. Fuck.

This is Robby—your boss who’s twenty years older than you, and that shouldn’t get you as hot as it does, but God, you know he knows what he’s doing.

This is a mistake, you think to yourself. A bad idea, just like he said.

But the more you think about it, the more you want it, and by the time you step out of the bathroom, your whole body is tense with anticipation.

He’s sitting on the couch just as you suspected, slouched over with his head in his hands (typical). Obviously, he’s still debating the morality of the situation.

“You look like you’re about to face a fucking firing squad,” you deadpan as you move toward him.

You hope you sound casual, hope you come off as unaffected. Confident.

Then Robby turns to look at you, and you stop dead in your tracks.

You don’t—you don’t have a shirt on. You barely have anything on, and he’s there, and you can see the freckles on his sunkissed shoulders and some of his chest hair, and those brown eyes are burning into you as he takes in every bit of skin that he can see.

Staring shamelessly until his control snaps all at once.

“Over here. Now.” It’s all gravel, sounds almost threatening, and you don’t think you’ve ever gotten so wet so fast.

Moving without hesitation, you only stop once you’re in front of his spread legs, barely catch a glimpse of his cock, but can’t fully admire it before Robby tugs you into his lap.

Your thighs spread wide over his, jaw dropping when he immediately shoves an arm between your bodies to rub your covered pussy.

“Not… wasting any time,” you breathe while bracing yourself for a thick finger to be shoved inside of you.

He doesn’t go any further, though, focusing on your neck instead, and you shudder at the sensation of his teeth grazing your skin.

“Didn’t think you’d walk out topless,” he gruffs.

You laugh airily, pleased with his reaction—his eager hands.

“Guess I made the right decision, then.”

There’s no more talking after that, only nipping and biting and digging your nails into Robby’s shoulders. The scratch of his beard is just as satisfying as you thought it would be, causes you to crane your neck as if to give him better access.

You buck into the hand between your legs and moan softly when he uses the other to squeeze one of your tits, encouraging you to arch your back and push your chest closer to his mouth.

He seems to like the way you sound, answers with his own groan, and the noise, the rumble, goes straight to your core.

Catching your hardened nipple between his incisors, Robby teases with just enough pressure to make you whine, quickly soothes the sensitive flesh with his tongue, flicking and sucking and driving you insane.

Your hips are still rocking, grinding against his palm, and you can feel the way your panties are plastered to your pussy, already soaked with your arousal.

Releasing your nipple, Robby tilts his head back, and fuck, oh fuck, he’s looking at you. He’s watching you. Spit-slicked lips and dilated pupils, mouth lifting on one side in an uncharacteristic smirk.

“You’re leaking all over my hand,” he says which, on its own, is enough to make you whimper, but then he adds a condescending, “desperate little thing,” and your fucking eyes roll into the back of your head.

“Fuck—please—”

You can feel his cock twitch against your ass, and surely he must be ready to sink into you, yet he still teases, “you really weren’t lying when you said you needed this.”

“For the love of god, Robinavitch, if you don’t fuck me right now…”

He chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling like he’s truly happy with this turn of events.

“Patience, sweetheart. Gotta get you ready first.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” you start to babble, “I’m wet enough, I can take it, I wanna feel it, Robby, wanna feel you stretch me out.”

Robby hisses a harsh, “fucking Christ,” while pulling your panties to the side. He easily slides one long finger inside of you, coating it in your juices to spread all over your clit and vulva. You keen, louder and louder as he repeats the action a couple times to make sure you’re slick enough to take him.

“Lift up,” he commands, and you do, reaching for his cock to line it up with your entrance. It’s fat and heavy in your hand. You know you should let him stretch you like he wanted to, but you can’t wait that long. You need to feel him inside of you.

His cockhead alone spreads you thin, your hole fluttering around it as you try to accommodate the size.

“Fuck, oh fuck, you’re…”

“Told you I needed to get you ready,” he drawls, and he sounds smug about it. The hand not holding your panties is curled around your hip, guiding you down on his length just a little more. “Easy does it, take it slow.”

He sounds so collected, so controlled…

Until your feet slip on the couch cushions, and you take the rest of him all at once.

You squeal, Robby shouts, and you can feel both of his hands tremble where they hold you.

“Holy shit,” he rasps, jaw hanging open.

Your wide eyes meet his, warm brown eclipsed by black blown out pupils. You distantly wonder if he needs a neuro exam, know you definitely need one since it feels like your brain is oozing out of your god damn ears.

He’s so thick, God, he’s so fucking—you always assumed that Robby was hiding something impressive under those cargo pants, but this is… this is kind of ridiculous. Girthier than any of your toys, long enough to press against your cervix.

You’re never gonna recover from this. There will be a fucking imprint of Michael Robinavitch’s dick in your pussy for the rest of your life.

“Here, slide back off for a minute—that must have hurt.”

He’s not wrong. It absolutely did hurt, still hurts.

But it’s the most satisfying stretch you’ve ever felt.

Glassy eyed and tear streaked, you shake your head and croak, “feels too good.”

His face is blurry, a shame given how handsome he is. You don’t even register the hand that he lifts, his thumb brushing over your cheek to wipe away some of your tears.

A tender gesture that juxtaposes the way he thrusts upward to bounce you in his lap. He starts out shallow, almost experimental, but when all you do is beg for more, Robby finally, finally lets go.

Your panties are torn, hanging uselessly around one thigh, and with two free hands Robby moves you up and down on him. Fuck, you forget how strong he is, but the way he’s manhandling you right now is a stark reminder. You may as well be a doll.

Your tits bounce with every thrust, no doubt an enjoyable sight that you let him indulge in until their weight starts to get uncomfortable and you cup them yourself. It’s not like they look any less pretty, especially when Robby dips his head to leave a collage of bites and bruises all over them.

He grunts into your skin then leans back, head following and exposing his throat. You attack, latching onto the side of his neck and sucking, sucking, sucking.

“You feel—so fucking good,” he groans. The rumble of his voice vibrates against your teeth, makes you bite down until he hisses.

Hand fisted in your hair, Robby pulls you away, and the sensation, the burn and harshness and overall idea of him getting a little rough with you…

“I’m gonna fucking cum,” you gasp, the realization hitting you like a freight train. You’ve never been able to get off without playing with your clit, and you are clueless as to why this is any different—maybe it’s the neverending pressure against your g-spot, maybe it’s his size in general, or maybe it’s just because it’s him.

You look at him like you’re scared, heat and pleasure building inside of you. Your toes curl and your back bows and you know you’re absolutely fucked when he wets his thumb and presses it to your poor, swollen clit.

Your orgasm guts you, tears through you with an intensity that has your vision whiting out.

And, it feels like it goes on for so long. Robby keeps fucking into you, keeps his thumb against your clit, praises you as your pussy sucks his cock like a greedy mouth.

“Fuck, you’re pretty when you cum for me like that. Keep taking it, just like that…”

He sounds as ruined as you feel, his cock twitching inside you, the tendons in his neck straining against flushed skin, and somehow, in a display of incredible self-control, Robby lifts you off of him just in time for cum to shoot from his tip. The first warm string lands on your jaw while the rest paints your tits and stomach.

By the time he’s done, Robby looks like he might die.

“I’ve never…” he huffs, grunting when you collapse against his chest, then bringing a hand up to trace down your spine. “I don’t think I’ve ever cum that fucking hard.”

Your responding laugh is breathy and tired. “Ditto.”

Dropping his forehead to your shoulder, the two of you just breathe for a while, slowly regaining a few of your mental faculties.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna look you in the eye next time we work together.”

“Mm, my tits are more fun to look at anyway.”

Robby hums, quiet for too long like he’s debating what to say next.

He gives in, that post-orgasm high loosening his tongue— “always kinda liked your eyes.”

You stiffen, just for a second, unsettled by the sentiment. “Don’t get all gooey on me now,” you warn. Then you think about your current state and smile against Robby’s neck— “I’m already gooey enough as it is.”

He lifts his head, revealing an expression of open displeasure that makes you break into a fit of giggles. You have a feeling he’s gonna get tired of you sooner rather than later.

When it’s over and your breathing has returned to normal, you let yourself relax against Robby’s chest again. Your entire body feels like molasses, syrupy and satiated and just stupid enough to admit, “for the record, I always kinda liked your eyes too.”

[smiteswrites]

another prompt before bed

jack + spit

He fucks you like he’s mad at you, hands underneath you, fingers pressing hard where they grip your ass. With your hips angled toward his, Jack pistons in and out of your cunt, keeps telling you how sloppy it is, how desperate you are for his cock, how you should be embarrassed because, “what kinda girl begs a man twice her age to fuck her, huh? You hear how sloppy this pussy is now? Can’t believe you let me do this…”

He’s being so mean, and you’re eating it up, keening and crying and, just as he said, begging for him.

Every single thrust has him rubbing against the swollen bundle inside of you, juice leaking, sometimes even spraying out of you when he pulls back and uses four fingers to slap your clit just hard enough to milk more fluid from your you. When Jack coaxes an almost painful orgasm out of you, you fucking gush for him.

Trembling beneath him, you see him panting, and the movement of his hips slows to a gentle rock as he leans forward, bracing himself on his forearms.

“You must be dehydrated after all that,” he comments, voice raspy and breathless.

The noise you make is pitiful as the head of his thick cock nestles up against your cervix.

“Let me help with that, baby, open up for me.”

Drunk off endorphins, you follow the command, then another when Jack adds, “tongue out.”

He nods in approval when you obey, strokes your chin with his thumb, and you watch the way his stubbled jaw works, his lips twisting and pushing outward. Then, without any other warning, he spits right on the back of your tongue—quick and harsh and so fucking hot, it makes your pussy clench.

“Such a sweet girl,” he grins, showing off perfect pretty teeth and picking up his previous rhythm—“don’t swallow that ‘til I tell you to.”

[smiteswrites]

fics recs

Positions by @a-soft-aside

summary: Your recent work trip is the longest time you and Robby have been apart since you two started dating. He’s thought of you non-stop and all the things he’s been wanting to do to you. He gives you a welcome home to remember

Work Crush by @xximperioxx

social worker reader

Impatient intentions by stellamarielu

summary: robby’s innocent obsession with his neighbor takes a turn after a dinner invite that leads him straight into your kitchen and renders him a slave to your touch

Stitched together by @hauntedhowlett-writes

summary: after accidentally cutting your hand, you seek out your neighbor for help. a favor becomes a friendship and a friendship becomes something more.

An itch you can't scratch by @theonewiththefanfics

summary: After taking a bad fall, Y/N gets rushed to the ED of Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital only to come face to face with a man she had a one-night stand with, and who ghosted her that same morning without a word - Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch. As if her bad day couldn't get any worse than it was...

Sisyphus no longer by @theonewiththefanfics

summary: Robby knows chaos intimately. He knows how to navigate it, and guide others through. But sometimes life throws a curveball so big, not even he can get out of the range of impact.

Whatever You Say, Fruitcake by @abbotjack

summary: Myrna’s being Myrna. Somewhere between the chaos, you and Robby manage to come up for air.

Flushed & flustered by @docrobinavitch

summary: no one in the ER knows you've been seeing robby except dana, but when an EMT keeps relentlessly flirting with you, it has robby losing his mind.

A girls guide to shopping by @mercvry-glow

bratty reader

𝐓𝐋𝐂 by @a-soft-aside

Message Received by @abbotjack

sending risqué photos to Robby

Nsfw alphabet by @abbotjack

First time with Robby by @robbyology

First bj with Robby by @passionwillow

“Checkup” with Robby by @ebodebo

Robby with a partner who has a hard time orgasming by @siriuslywicked

SERIES

Your needs, my needs by @robbyology

summary: In an attempt to get over your ex-partners, you and Robby decide that hooking up with each other could potentially alleviate some of the heartache that’s been plaguing both of you. To no one’s surprise, things don’t go as planned.

[smiteswrites]

SPINNING OUT [part two]

Here it is! Part two!

Read part one here.

Dr. Jack Abbot x ex!freader

Summary: You left Jack three months ago, convinced he'd given up on your marriage. When you're hit by a drunk driver, you're taken to PTMC, and what was supposed to be an ending gives way to a new beginning.

Word count: ~8k

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+, MDNI

Warnings: Angst, fluff, car accident, time jumps and flashbacks, therapist reader, widower Jack, dead wife mentioned!, SMUT, nipple worship (lol), death of a child mentioned, vaginal pain mentioned, p in v sex, oral sex, eventual happy ending. Slight age gap (reader is 38, Jack is 49 in present day). If I missed anything, let me know!

taglist (I only tagged you if you have your age in your bio!!! Sorry but I'm a stickler about it, especially when my work contains smut. If you wanna be tagged, add that age in your bio!).

@espressheauxs, @imherefordeanandbones, @ emma8895eb, 

@bitters-n-sweets @absinthe-over-tea, @wowitsafemale, @sophreakingfunny, @abbotjack, @thatcorporategirlie, @grimpowrrs, @telepathay

PART 2 

BEFORE

When you arrive to Jack’s place three evenings after your first date, your entire body is buzzing. 

You’ve texted each other every day. Jack’s called you after all of his shifts, as the sun is cresting over the city skyline and you’re just waking up, loose-limbed and heavy-eyed. It’s been 72 hours since you kissed under the moonlight in front of your home and you itch to be back in his presence. You feel delirious and wild, and you cannot stop thinking about the feeling of his lips on yours, the heat of his body pressed against you. 

You remind yourself there’s no expectation for tonight. You want to sleep with Jack, obviously, but you don’t want to rush him. You don’t even know if he wants that. You feel close to him but the reality is it’s only been three days, so you need to calm the fuck down. 

Now you find yourself standing in Jack’s home, a glass of wine in your hand, taking in this man’s space while he fusses with dinner in the kitchen with a dish towel over his right shoulder. You glance at him as he throws garlic into the pan, lowering the heat as it sizzles in the oil. You thought you’d be nervous when he opened the door, but his crooked grin, his dimples, his entire energy calmed your fluttering heart. 

His condo is simple and clean. There’s not much in the way of personality, but you figure that’s because he practically lives at the hospital. You wander over to the bookshelf in the living room and grin at his collection of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.  You also see a few photos. Jack with his sisters and nieces and nephews; this makes you grin. There’s one in particular that you like; it’s Jack with a young (maybe nine or ten), curly-haired girl on his shoulders at what appears to be some sort of backyard birthday. It’s precious. There’s one of Jack from when he was in the army with a few military buddies, leaning against a combat vehicle in the desert. He looks skinny and haunted, and you have a hard time looking at it. Jack and Robby, from a fishing trip you remember vaguely hearing about a few years ago, though it’s funny now to think that the “buddy” Robby was heading to the cabin with was, in fact, this Jack Abbot. 

And then there is a framed photo of Jack and his wife on their wedding day. They can’t be more than 25-years-old in the picture. Jack’s hair is auburn, and his freckles stand out even more with his youthful, round, clean-shaven face. They’re smiling at one another and they look so sweet it makes your heart clench. You’re shocked to find your eyes prickle as you gaze at this photo, but you cannot help it. It is so unfair that she isn’t here anymore and that Jack had to go through that. 

You’re so grateful that this man has invited you into his space, that he hasn’t hid any parts of himself from you. 

You turn to said man now and find him watching you from the kitchen. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed (ridiculously sexy in his plain, blue t-shirt), and he has this little grin on his scruffy face. You feel yourself warm under his gaze and make your way to him, sipping your wine as you do so. 

“You caught me snooping,” you say lightly, and his eyes light up. 

“I explicitly told you to snoop while I finish this,” he says, uncrossing his arms and taking the dish towel from his shoulder. “Find anything interesting?”

You stop just a few feet from him in his kitchen and smile. “I like your pictures and book collection.”

He studies you and you feel like he’s trying to decipher whether or not you’re teasing him. 

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Also, it is hilarious to me that you and Robby go on fishing trips. Very sweet…and geriatric of you both.”

Jack’s eyes light up at the teasing, scoffing in mock-offense. “Hey now. Fishing trips are cool.”

You laugh. “I didn’t say they weren’t!” A beat. “Just a coupla peepaws catching trout. It’s cute.” 

He grins, dimples showing through, and turns to the stove. “Maybe I won’t feed you after all.”

“Now that’s just rude. I’m famished.”

He shrugs, shoots you a mischievous glance over his shoulder, and it’s so fun and sweet that you can only smile like an idiot in return. 

Jack does, in fact, feed you. And Jack Abbot, MD., is an amazing cook. It’s some sort of risotto with creamy mushrooms and lemon chicken and a ton of herbs and you’re so impressed you have to try and school your features into a poker-face lest you come off as desperate as you feel. Dinner is a relaxed affair, at his little table, and as you both eat you chat about your days, and work. By the time both of your plates are clean, your body is buzzing. 

You sip your half-full glass of wine and Jack sips his and you both kinda just stare at each other for a moment. It’s loaded and you wonder how crazy it would be to crawl into his lap right now, to bracket his hips with both of your thighs, grind yourself on him—

Jesus, you need to get a hold of yourself. A string of bad dates and you’re ready to jump the bones of the first man you meet who’s competent, and handsome, and has a great job, and is in therapy, and can cook—

Jack clears his throat. “Wanna watch a movie or something?” he asks, rubbing a hand along his scruff and breaking through your mile-a-minute thoughts. 

You nod. Jack nods back, and your heart pounds.

You pick something mindless — an old 90s thriller, because those comfort you, and you sit on Jack’s couch which is shockingly cozy and comfortable (you make a mental note to ask him where he got it when your mind isn’t on a loop of Jack Jack Jack). 

Jack sits next to you but not right against you, though you can feel his body heat. You both crack jokes about the movie, and about 30 minutes in you feel his arm go across the back of the couch behind you. Your heart thuds and you move a little closer to him, and then a few minutes later you feel his fingers graze your shoulder and you are now, finally, pressed against his side. You can smell his soap and his detergent and it smells clean and divine and Jesus, are you about to sniff him?

You really, really try to keep your breathing even but when his thumb grazes back and forth on your shoulder, you can’t help it. You both haven’t said anything in a while, and you can hear Jack’s breathing, can feel the heat of him. Your breath picks up just a little bit because you might explode from how badly you just want to touch him. 

Your hand finds his thigh. 

Jack’s sharp intake of breath spurs you on and you look up at him through your lashes and he’s already looking down at you, his jaw clenched and tight like he’s—like he’s holding himself back. 

You bite your lip and Jack actually fucking groans and your hand moves just the slightest bit higher on his leg and Jack swallows. 

“Hi,” you breathe. 

“Hi,” he croaks, voice broken and sacred between you. 

“Movie’s not over,” you whisper. 

Jack’s eyes rove over your face. When he looks at you, it’s like he’s taking in every single feature and rather than make you feel exposed, it makes you feel fucking beautiful. 

“I couldn’t care less about the movie,” Jack tells you and that’s all you need. Your chest rises and expands and Jack’s eyes flicker for a moment down to your chest and then quickly back to lock on your gaze. 

His eyes make you feel bold. 

You sit up, throw a leg over his lap and then you’re straddling him, your hands on his shoulders and Jack’s hands find your waist and you’re so close to him and it feels so fucking good. 

“Kiss me,” you tell him. Jack bites his lip and you think I am going to fuck this man tonight. 

“Yes ma’am,” he breathes before a hand finds the back of your head and he dips you down as he surges up and your lips meet. 

It takes approximately two seconds before you’re licking into each other’s mouths, and it’s messy and so much hotter than the peck you shared when you arrived at his place. You can’t help your hips—they grind down into his lap and you can feel how hard he is, you think he must’ve been hard for the last few minutes at least and the thought drives you insane. 

You’re a little shocked there’s no awkwardness here. It’s all so easy and it makes you feel grateful you met this man at this exact point in your life, when you feel fully formed and clear about what you are looking for, what you want. 

One of his hands dips to get a palmful of your ass and you gasp into the kiss because it feels so good, everything about him feels so perfect. 

He pulls back slightly, breathing heavy, lips spit-slick and red. 

“This okay?” he husks, voice serrated and low. He goes to move his hand off your ass but you grab his wrist and keep it there. You lean forward and bite his bottom lip, tugging it gently between your teeth and Jack groans, the sound rumbling out of his chest. He looks wonderfully devastated. 

“Yes,” you breathe, and suddenly both of Jack’s hands are gripping your ass through your jeans and your lips find his again. You break apart for air and he sucks the pulse point below your jaw. Your right hand finds his curls, your left grips his shoulder, and you grind against his hard, clothed cock and you think you might actually come from dry-humping Jack on his couch. You cannot remember the last time you dry-humped anyone, let anyone have been brought to orgasm from such a thing. You feel like a teenager, hormones raging and lighting you up from within. 

“Jack,” you moan, your hips grinding faster. “I—I might—I think I’m gonna—fuck—”

Jack pulls away from where he’s sucking your neck and looks up at you, his eyes bright and dark at the same time, a look of wonder on his face. 

“Shit, really?” He looks down between you, where you’re moving and he lets out a strangled groan. “You think you can come like this? Yeah?” 

“Yes, yes,” you chant, moving faster, the rough fabric of his jeans against your own creating delicious friction. “It’s so good, Jack, you feel so good—”

Your hand grips his curls a little tighter, the couch begins to smack against the wall from the movement, and Jack moans, his eyes locking onto yours. He looks amazed and it makes you feel powerful. 

“Jesus.” His voice practically breaks on the word. “You can’t be real. You were fuckin’ made from my dreams.”

You’re babbling now because the seam of your jeans against your clit and the feel of his hard cock have you so close. 

“I’m there, I’m there, oh my fucking god—Jack—” You know you’re being loud but you can’t help it because all you can do is focus on coming on this man’s lap. “I’m coming—I’m coming—”

“Fuck, just like that, you look so pretty comin’ on me, take what you fuckin’ need.” Jack’s voice spurs you own and then you’re coming so hard you actually fucking squeal. 

Jack leans his head against the back of the couch and watches you break apart and you can actually feel his cock twitch from under you. You come down from the high of your orgasm, practically melting into his lap, your arms looping around his neck. You lean your forehead against his and you’re both panting into each other’s mouths. 

“Christ,” Jack croaks. He looks absolutely debauched. 

You’re so warm, all over, but an insecurity rushes up inside of you as your breathing begins to slowly even out. You move your forehead away from his, look him in the eyes. 

“Is it insane I want you to fuck me and this is only the second time we’ve hung out?”

Jack’s eyes flash for a moment, his jaw clenching, and then he places a tender hand around your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. 

“I’m followin’ your lead here. I don’t need anything, I—” He swallows. “I’m just really glad you’re here.” 

You smile because you can’t help it. “I’m really glad I’m here, too.” You lick your lips. “And I really, really need you to be inside me.” 

“Fuck.” The word is torn from Jack’s lips, followed by a disbelieving laugh. “Hold on to me.”

Your arms around his neck tighten, and his hands move to hold you just under your ass and he—he picks you up from the couch, stands with you—and you cannot believe he is carrying you right now. 

“M’too heavy,” you say shyly, burying your face in his neck. Jack barks out a laugh as he walks you down the hall and shoulders his way through what you assume is his bedroom door. You wish you had the brain power to look around but you can’t because this sexy motherfucker just carried you into his bedroom. 

“No fuckin’ way,” he tells you lowly, and when he reaches his bed he gently sets you onto it. You fall back, breathing heavy as he leans over you, hands planted on either side of your head. Your hands skate up the thick, corded muscles of his arms and you look into his hazel eyes. You smile at him because you simply cannot help it. 

Jack stares at you, seemingly cataloguing everything he sees. 

“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you these last few days,” he rasps, a hand coming up to cradle our jaw. You bite your lip and his eyes grow dark as he watches the movement. 

“Me too,” you whisper, and it’s tender between you. He leans down, presses his lips to yours and the kiss goes from sweet to fucking hot in seconds. You bite his bottom lip, pulling on it and Jack moans into your mouth. He pulls back, staring down at you.

“Need you to take your fuckin’ clothes off,” he croaks and you whimper. You nod, sitting up and he kneels on the bed and you both quickly—frantically—undress. Jack reaches behind his head with one hand, pulling off his t-shirt in a swift movement that you internally catalogue as very fucking sexy. You pull your own top over your head, toss it to god-knows-where, and quickly unclasp your bra. Before you can undo your jeans, Jack stills your hand, moving it away from the button. He crowds slowly into you, his eyes flicking up to yours before his lips find the nipple of your left breast. He massages your right one with a large hand and it has you leaning back on your elbows and arching your back so your tit is in his palm and you’re keening. 

“You’re so sexy,” he groans out of the side of his mouth that is still around your nipple and your toes curl, your hands going into his gray curls and holding him to you, fucking latching him onto you—

You might come like this, and the realization has you huffing, “I need us to be naked. Now.”

Jeans are clumsily, messily shed, and then you are in your simple cotton panties and Jack is in his briefs and you look down—

The leg Jack has bent on the edge of the bed is prosthetic. You look up at Jack, who’s watching you closely.

“Uh, another thing I never know how to bring up,” he says and you’re taken aback when you notice he’s blushing. “Lost it overseas during my second tour.”

You feel insane because you are topless and in your underwear and this feels like an important moment. You sit up, cradle his face in your hands. 

“You wanna take it off?” You ask, your thumbs brushing the apples of his cheeks. “Do whatever makes you more comfortable. I want you.”

Jack’s eyes go a little glassy before he kisses you roughly, pushing you back down onto your back. He pulls back enough to mutter, “After,” before he descends on you again. 

The mattress and bedding is cool beneath you as Jack kisses and licks his way down your sternum. He pauses at your breasts, suckling at your nipples for a moment before licking his way down your stomach. He situates himself between your legs.  His hands find the waistband of your underwear and he glances up at you, a question in his eyes. 

“Please,” you answer, and Jack grins crookedly as he peels your underwear down your thighs. He gently drops them over the side of the bed and then Jack is pushing on your knees to open you up to him and your heart is beating so fast you’re pretty sure you can see it beneath your skin. His large hands grip your thighs as he maneuvers your legs over his freckled, broad shoulders and then he breathes you in, his entire face a breath away from your dripping cunt. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he croaks. “Jesus.” His eyes flick up to you. “Can I taste you?”

“Yes, yes—” your words break off when his tongue licks into you and oh, fuck. Fuck. When was the last time you even felt this good? You bizarrely think of the last time you slept with someone — some idiotic man a few months ago, who didn’t even go down on you — and you think this is so good, it’s so good—

“Jack,” you cry, your hands finding his hair and pulling him even closer into your pussy. He moans and you can feel the sound, can feel it down into your very core and you think you want him eating your pussy every single day for the rest of your life. 

He pulls back and licks his lips, looking up at you. “Tell me what you need, I wanna get you there.”

You put a hand to your forehead and your thighs squeeze against his ears, caging him in. 

“This—this, Jack, it’s so good—”

Suddenly Jack’s hands are under your ass and he’s pulling you even closer into his awaiting mouth and you can’t help it — you cry out so loudly you’re worried about Jack’s neighbors, but he doesn’t seem to care because he’s grinding into the mattress as he eats you. His head bobs up and down with how fervently he’s licking your pussy and you feel it but it’s — it’s not enough —

You lean up on your elbows. “Can—can you put a finger in me?”

Jack’s eyes flutter and he pulls back and you almost die when you see how wet his stubble is. He’s drenched in you. 

“Yeah,” he says softly, almost reverently. “I can do that, baby.”

He takes the middle finger of his right hand and gently slides it into you, bites his lip as he watches it go in with little resistance. 

You collapse onto your back again and the glide of his finger in and out of your pussy feels heavenly. Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head. 

“Yes, yes,” you babble. 

Jack kisses the inside of your thigh as he moves his finger in and out. He looks at you, eyes dark. 

“Need another?”

You nod, your hands gripping into the top cover of Jack’s bed because it’s so good when Jack gently slides in his ring finger. It’s tighter than just one but you feel yourself relaxing into the feeling, feel yourself grow even wetter with a mix of Jack’s spit from his mouth and your juices. 

“I’ve—fuck, yes like that—I’ve had some issues with pain in the past—so you—you need to get me—-fuck, Jack—get me ready—-to take you—”

You know you’re babbling but you need Jack to know this; you’ve had too many awful partners in the past who didn’t take their time, who just rammed their dick into you. That kind of pain doesn’t leave your body easily, and you’ve learned how to enjoy sex but you need to communicate this. 

His fingers keep working you but he pats your knee with his free hand. 

“Hey, look at me.”

Jack’s rasp catches your attention and you open your eyes and you look down at him. Your thighs frame his head, his gray curls are a wreck, he’s got two fingers buried deep in your pussy and you try and take a mental snapshot of the image because it’s…it’s lovely. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he says, and the hand that’s not between your legs holds onto your thigh, his thumb caressing the skin. “All I wanna do is make you feel good, okay? Don’t care if that means we take our time, or what. Yeah?”

You nod, feel your eyes prickle despite yourself. Jack kisses your knee. 

“I’m here with you and you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous. You taste so good and if this is all we do, I’ll be a very fuckin’ happy man. You got that?”

You nod, your entire body trembling. Jack crooks his fingers and you gasp.

“Jack,” you whisper. Jack’s eyes crinkle at the edges, softening, and then his thumb starts strumming your clit in a way that sets you on literal fire and you cry out.

“Want you to come all over my fingers,” Jack grouses, and his tongue licks into you again, as his two fingers hook into you and his thumb hits just right. 

“Oh my god,” you moan. You’re sweating properly now, feel it gather on the back of your neck and your hairline and you start to grind into Jack’s face, riding his hand and his tongue at the same damn time. Your tits jiggle with the movement and you feel worshipped in a way you’ve never felt with another man. 

You break when Jack sucks onto your clit, your second orgasm of the night cresting over you with wave after wave of pleasure. You let out a sound that is downright animalistic, and you feel Jack’s own moan all the way to your toes. 

You’re trembling, a sheen of sweat glistens on your skin, and Jack continues to lick and kiss you through it until you put a gentle hand in his curls and pull him off. He looks pussy drunk between your legs, panting and sweating himself. You stare at him. 

“Holy fucking shit,” you articulate like the linguistic genius that you are. Jack’s eyes brighten, a crooked smile dimpling his cheeks as he keeps eye contact with you as he presses a few more kisses into your thighs. 

“Yeah?” he croaks, lips hot on your skin.

You huff a laugh, light and breathy. You’re tingling. 

“Yeah,” you reply, tugging on Jack’s hair. He makes his way up your body, lying next to you. You face each other, and you hook a leg around his waist, cupping his jaw with your hand. 

“How do you make me feel so good?” You ask him because you’re genuinely curious. “Jesus, Jack.”

Jack’s hand finds your naked waist and he gently drags his fingers up and down the curve of your side. “I wanna make you feel good all the time,” he tells you and you believe him. 

You push on his shoulder, getting him flat on his back and you sit up on your knees. He’s still in his briefs and that absolutely needs to change. Your hands find the waistband and you look at Jack, who’s watching you with his chest rising and falling. 

“Can I?” you ask. He lets out a breath. 

“Fuck yes.”

You peel his briefs off of his—his very muscular thighs—and his cock springs free, red and standing proud, already weeping from the tip. Without thinking you wrap a hand around the base of him, your tongue sliding up the side of his cock to lick the precrum that’s dribbled out.

“Fuck!” Jack punches the word out, harsh and from his chest. You hum around him, wanting to keep going, but he gently puts a hand on the back of your neck, gently urging you off. 

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ last if you do that,” he says, voice cracked and ruined. You lift off with a final lick over his tip. You really want to suck this man dry, but Jack’s breath is so shallow you think you need to go a little easy on him. 

“Next time?” you ask, hopeful, and Jack barks out a surprised laugh, more of a huff of a breath, and nods. 

“Yeah, next time. Right now I need to be inside you.”

You quickly sit up, hovering over him. You put your hands on his chest but hesitate. 

“You don’t have any lube, do you?” 

You know you’re wet but still, penetrative sex for you without lube is not that fun. You curse yourself for not bringing your mini bottle in your purse, but you didn’t want to be presumptuous —

“Of course,” Jack says and nods toward his nightstand. “In there. It’s water-based, if that’s okay.”

You stare down at Jack Abbot and you think where the fuck did you come from?

“I really shouldn’t find the sentence, ‘it’s water based, if that’s okay,’ as sexy as I do, but Jesus, who are you?” You ask, leaning over to his nightstand and taking out the bottle. Jack’s hands land on your waist, tightening and he laughs, his ears reddening. 

“I’m 45-years-old,” he tells you, watching as you squirt some into your hand. He gasps when you spread it onto his cock, groans when you give him a squeeze. “And a doctor. I—I know to have lube—fuck, honey, you gotta stop doing that if you don’t want me to embarrass myself.”

You smirk, ceasing your stroking as you line him up at your entrance. “There’s no way you could embarrass yourself after the way you ate me out.”

Jack actually blushes, which is hilarious seeing as you’re both naked and your bare cunt is against his stomach and your hand is wrapped around his length. 

Jack’s hands squeeze your waist once. “You feel good? Ready for me?”

“Yes,” you tell him, before you begin to sink down on his cock. You both gasp, your breaths coming quickly as you take him inch by inch. The stretch hurts a tiny bit at first but you go slowly.

Jack’s head flies back against his pillow and his jaw clenches. His hands make their way to palm your ass as he bottom out inside you. 

“Jesus, god,” he groans, and you place your hands on his chest, adjusting to the feel of him. “You’re so fuckin’ tight—fuck.”

“Gonna start slow,” you gasp, beginning to grind your hips and Jack’s eyes flick down to where you’re taking him.

“Do whatever you want, you feel so fuckin’ good—”

Your voice is breathy when you ask, “Yeah?”

Jack’s hands dimple the flesh of your ass, and he bites his lip, his eyes seemingly glued to the sight of his dick sliding in and out of your pussy. Your hips begin to move in earnest now.

“Yeah,” he croaks. 

You begin to fuck each other like you mean it. 

And you do. You mean it so much because you know this thing with Jack is special. You grind on his cock and he anchors his hands to your hips and his bedroom is a cacophony of the bed squeaking, and breathy moans, and grunts and yes, yes like that and oh fuck, fuck you feel like heaven. 

Just as your legs start to cramp up, Jack tells you for the second time this evening to hold on, and he flips you so you’re underneath him. You let out a breath as he holds himself above you. 

“Still good?” he asks. 

“Yes, so good,” you moan. Jack grabs your right leg, hitches it around his waist and begins to fuck you like it’s what he was put on this earth to do. The angle hits so good, the headboard starts to slam against the wall, your tits bounce and you claw at his shoulders and his back. 

“Fuck!” you cry when his thrusts begin to hit that sacred spot inside of you.

Jack’s lips find your shoulder, sucking on the flesh there before moving onto your neck. He turns his head where it rests against your collarbone, breathes breath onto your skin as his hips pound into you. 

“You take me so well, baby,” he groans and your hand goes to the back of his head, fisting his gray curls. “You feel unreal—come on—fuck, look at you—”

“Give it to me, Jack,” you reply, and you wrap your other leg around his waist. Your arms grip his shoulders and one of Jack’s hands slams against the headboard, allowing himself to hover above you as he pounds into you. 

“Fucking give it to me,” you moan, delirious with pleasure as his cock—slick with your wetness and the lube—hits deep inside of you over and over. 

You snake a hand between you to play with your clit and Jack groans, watches your finger, mesmerized. 

“God, that’s so hot,” he says, his voice breaking on the last word. “You’re so sexy.” 

You strum your clit and feel yourself grow close. “M’gonna come,” you babble and Jack grits his teeth. 

“Yeah? Jesus, me too baby, I’m so close.” His voice is broken. When he begins to falter in his rhythm, he rasps, “Tell me where you want it.”  

You lock eyes with him as he fucks you to the near brink of delirium. “Inside.”

“Fuck, fuck—fuck.” The mantra falls from his lips as you strum your clit at the exact right moment and you come with a scream. Jack follows a second later with a moan of his own, his head buried in your neck as you feel him coat the inside of your pussy with his come. You keep your legs wrapped around him, both of you gasping for air. Your skin is sticky and wet and you feel on fire. 

Jack gently raises himself up on his arms, looking down at you, and you both burst into laughter. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, and his face is bright red. 

“Wow,” you say back. 

You breathe into each other’s mouths for a moment, letting the comedown wash over you both.

Your eyes grow a little wide at a realization. 

“I’m on birth control. I—I’m sorry, I guess telling you to come inside of me in the heat of the moment wasn't the most responsible. No STIs either.”

Jack leans down, kisses you tenderly before slipping out of you. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to. I’m—I also recently got tested. Before our date, so—”

You sit up, still short on breath. You grin at him and he stares back at you like he cannot believe you’re here. 

You wipe some sweat off of your brow. “Gonna pee.” Before you slip out of bed, Jack snakes a hand into your hair and pulls you to his mouth. He kisses you soft, and slow, and it feels like honey. 

“You’re amazing,” Jack mutters against your mouth and you melt into him. 

You are thoroughly fucked, both metaphorically and physcially. 

And you truly believe you have never been happier. 

*** 

Jack moves into your place six months later.

After your first night together, you both decide to be exclusive quickly. You become Jack’s girlfriend, and you fit and mold into each other’s lives in a surprisingly seamless way. Robby is thrilled, of course, and despite Jack’s horrific schedule, you make it work. Sometimes (the rare and blissful times), he will get a few days off in a row, so you make the most of that time together; farmer’s market strolls, going to see a movie, trying out a new recipe together, or simply existing next one another on the couch; you, deep in your latest novel, Jack reading an old medical journal from the ‘90s (“because there’s still good stuff in here!”).

You can’t help but feel taken aback at the easiness of it all, but you refuse to let it scare you. You have spent your entire life waiting for the other shoe to drop, and you do not allow yourself to think that way now. 

So when Jack’s lease is up on his condo, you both mutually come to the decision that it makes sense to meld your lives in this way. He’s practically living at your place anyway — much more than a toothbrush on your counter and a single drawer. He is everywhere in your home; his favorite mug sits on your kitchen shelf, his books have made their way onto your bookcase, and his toiletries are permanently in the shower. You even had a bench installed in there, so he could shower without his prosthetic and be comfortable.

It just makes sense. 

That first night that Jack moves in, you find him in the kitchen, unpacking a few of his beloved stainless steel pots and pans. He looks up at you, hair disheveled, in basketball shorts and a t-shirt, and your heart literally stutters in your chest. He grins, cheeks dimpling, and you walk over to him. 

“We’re not rushing this, right?” You ask it before you can think about it too much; it’s an insecurity of yours that you’re trying to bat away. Six months and living together doesn’t feel rushed for you, but you know it’s different for Jack. 

Jack, who had a marriage before you. Who had his person.

And he didn’t just lose that person. She was brutally ripped away from him in this life and it will never, ever be fair. And you just…you want to make sure that you aren’t overstepping. You would never fucking try to replace her and you love hearing about every single part of his life when he offers it to you, but you just…

You know there is baggage there. No matter how great Jack’s therapist is (and he’s fucking fantastic, you looked him up because duh), no matter how well his SSRI’s work, no matter how much healing he’s done, no matter how easy his smiles come to him, you can see it. Not just because you yourself are a therapist, but any human being with eyes can see it; when his nightmares wake you up at 3am; when he comes back from a harrowing shift and his eyes are dulled and he’s quiet. 

He’s still haunted. Maybe he always will be.

You know Jack (like everyone) has got his shit. 

But you just want to be…sure.

That Jack is choosing this.

This life. With you.

Jack sets the pan on the stove and turns to you, his expression calm and warm. 

“I don’t think so,” he says softly. He cocks his head slightly, beckoning you over to him. You go easily into his arms, yours snaking around his waist. He kisses your forehead, pushes some of your hair back from your face. 

“Do you?” 

You shake your head. “No. I just wanted to…check.”

Jack grins his crooked grin. “I’m grown. And I know what I want.”

You huff a laugh, feeling some of the doubt and worry slip away. “Yeah? What’dya want, Abbot?”

Jack slides his hands to cradle your jaw, brings his lips to just hover above yours. A hot coil springs loose, low in your belly.

An ember catching fire. 

You look up at him just before he says, “You.”

***

The reservation time has come and gone. 

You walk back home in the quiet evening, the sun hanging low in the sky and you’re not mad. You’re just…sad.

You miss Jack and you know it’s not his fault. And you told him you didn’t need a big deal made out of a one year anniversary, that just being home with him would’ve been enough after two straight weeks of him working every single night. 

You miss your boyfriend.

But Jack insisted on a nice dinner and he made the reservation. He switched shifts with Robby so he’d be out by 7pm (ha). He’d told you to be at the place by 7:30, that he couldn’t wait to see you, etc. etc. 

The plan was to meet at the restaurant; he’d shower and change at PTMC and you’d walk home together. 

You knew the night wasn’t going to go according to plan when a text came in at 6:55, but you were still hopeful. 

Jack Abbot: May be 5 late. 

You: no rush. ☺️

Jack Abbot: Love you. 

You: Love you. 

You didn’t expect to hear from Jack again, and at 7:15 you walked the short walk to the restaurant. They sat you down quickly and you decided to order a wine while you waited, looking over the menu. At 7:35, another text came in. 

Jack Abbot: I’m so sorry, held up. Fucking brutal here. 20 mins, tops. 

You valiantly kept your heart from sinking (seriously, you deserved an award), and took a hefty sip of your wine. You took a breath. Not his fault, you reminded yourself. 

You: Want me to order you a drink to be ready when you get here?

You (foolishly) expected him to text you back immediately, but when the 20 minutes came and went without any text from Jack, you started to feel antsy. You could feel the waiter eying you from the corner but you ignored the stare, determined to just Be Chill. 

You finished your wine at 8. You looked at your phone. 

At 8:15, you asked the waiter for the check. 

At 8:30, you left. 

Not his fault, not his fault plays like a mantra over and over in your head. You chose Jack, and his horrible schedule, and his good fucking heart. You are in love with this man because of who he is at his core, which is a man who doesn’t half-ass things. Who sees things through. Who doesn’t let someone bleed out on his watch because he has something as trivial as a dinner date to get to.

It’s just that—

It hurts, sometimes. 

To feel like the thing that he might not follow through with is you. 

Your phone buzzes as you let yourself in the front door. 

Jack Abbot: Leaving in 15. You order yet?

You scoff, toeing off your heels and hanging up your purse on the hook by the door. It is now 8:40pm. You stare at his text for a moment as you walk over to the kitchen, taking out your favorite wine glass and deciding you’re going to have your second drink in your PJs and on the couch. 

You: I’m home now, so don’t rush or anything. 

You see the three dots appear and then disappear quickly. You watch this happen a few times and you feel a ping of guilt; you’re not angry with Jack. You can’t be. You just wish he could be a little more realistic sometimes; if he hadn’t insisted on this dinner in the first place, you wouldn’t find yourself disappointed. 

Jack Abbot: Baby, I’m so fucking sorry. 

You steady your breath.

You: It’s okay! I completely understand. I’ll see you at home. 

The three dots do their disappearing act again but he doesn’t respond. You sigh, have another drink, and settle in.

Jack does not, in fact, leave PTMC 15 minutes after he sent that text. 

In fact, he doesn’t arrive home until after midnight, when you are curled up in bed, in that liminal space between conscious and unconscious. You feel the bed dip beside you, feel a hand graze your forehead. You smell the sharp scent of antiseptic and sweat and your eyes flutter open. 

Jack…

Jack looks awful. 

You blink sleepily at him and notice the dark circles under his eyes. Notice his pale, waxy complexion. The fatigue is deep in his bones and you hate it so much it feels like a physical ache. 

“Hey,” he croaks. 

“Hi,” you say as you sit up. Jack scoots over but he doesn’t break eye contact with you. This man will be at the absolute end of his rope but one thing about him? He’ll always look you square on and he won’t back down. He dips his head until he knows he’s got your gaze locked onto his.

“I’m so sorry.” It spills out of his mouth in the dark and lies on the bed between you. You shake your head, rub a hand down his back. You feel a little of the tension leave his shoulders but he’s still holding himself so tightly. 

“It’s okay.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s fuckin’ not. I ruined your night, I ruined our anniversary. It ain’t okay.”

You don’t say anything. The silence stretches between you and Jack looks down at his hands, finally breaking some eye contact and taking a shaky breath.

You keep rubbing his back. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

Jack clenches his jaw and after a moment, he speaks. “Ten-year-old girl. Hit on her bike. Dad was too drunk to realize what happened. A neighbor brought her in. She—” his voice breaks and he rubs his eyes. “She um, she had this wild, curly hair. Like my niece.”

Your heart shatters and you scoot closer to Jack. You lie your head on his back, curling around him. He doesn't have to say that she didn’t make it. You see it and feel it in everything about him now. 

You don’t say I’m sorry. 

You say, “It’s so goddamn unfair. Hope that dad rots in fuckin’ hell.” 

Jack looks up at you, his eyes glassy. You lift your head, run a hand through his curls. “Me too.”

You sit there in shared anger about a stranger. The night hums around you, quietly and softly and it’s a sacred, tender moment. 

You’re no longer tired, so you stand up and offer your hand to Jack. He takes it like he’ll follow you anywhere. You lead him to the bathroom and turn the knobs for the shower.  As steam curls around you, you quietly undress Jack and he quietly undresses you. You help him take off the prosthetic, allow him to lean on you as you both get into the shower. 

He sits down with a groan on the bench under the spray and you don’t say anything for awhile. You simply wash each other in this small, warm place where the two of you are the only two people to exist. When you’ve both rinsed the bubbles from your hair, you go to turn off the water but Jack catches your hand. He pulls you over to where he sits on the bench, and he wraps his arms around your middle. 

Your heart aches and you run your hands through his wet curls. Jack presses his lips to your stomach, makes his way gently to your breasts. Your breath hitches when he wraps his lips around your right nipple, sucking the pebbled flesh there. You feel your core throb and you let out a gasp as he sucks on your tit, like it’s soothing him.

He lets the nipple go with a scrape of his teeth and your fingers tighten in his hair. He moves to your other breast, kissing the flesh before sucking on that one too. You feel his hand gently trail to your core. When his fingers slip through your folds, you tug on his head. 

“Jack,” you say, because you just want to make sure he’s okay. 

His mouth is still sucking on your nipple when he croaks the word, “please” like it’s ripped from his very soul. 

You bite your lip and nod and Jack keeps sucking, keeps fucking self-soothing around your nipple (and it’s so hot, he’s so perfect like this) as he slides a finger into your pussy. You cry out, the sound drowned out from the spray of the shower and Jack gently slides a second finger in and fucks you there under the spray of the water. 

You lose your breath as his thumb strums your clit and he groans against your nipple and when you break, the orgasm rising slow and steady until you’re trembling, Jack finally lifts his mouth from your breast. 

You stare down at him and reach for his aching cock but he shakes his head. 

You understand.

Your pleasure is his penance. You allow him this for tonight. 

When you’re both clean and cozy, back under the sheets, Jack draws you into his arms. You face each other and he cups your cheek, thumb stroking back and forth in a way that makes your eyes flutter. You’re drifting off, finally calm and relaxed and sated. 

“Marry me.”

Your eyes fly open and Jack is staring at you, clear as if it’s a new day. You frown, your mouth falling open.

“What?”

Jack’s eyes flit back and forth between both of yours and at one in the morning after standing you up (albeit, not his fault!), he says it again.

“Marry me.”

You freeze and you’re not sure if you’re dreaming. “Jack, you’ve—it’s been a long night—”

Jack turns over, opens the nightstand, and when he comes back to you he’s holding a simple gold ring with a sparkling solitaire diamond. You gape and bolt up.

“What!”

Jack slowly sits up, still holding the ring between you. “Was gonna do it at dinner. Had a whole—a whole fuckin’ speech planned.”

Your hands go to your face and your heart won’t stop beating as fast as a damn hummingbird, and you cannot believe this is happening right now, right in this moment. 

You look up at him and he’s staring at you. You feel your eyes prick. 

“You sure?” You ask him. 

Jack nods, lets out a breath. “Never been more sure about anything.”

You swallow. “It’s not—you don’t think?--we’re not—”

Jack shakes his head. His voice is raspy when he says, “It’s not too fast. I love you. Want you to be my wife.” 

You slowly take your hands away from your cheeks, which are now wet, because you are crying. “Jack.”

Jack lets out a disbelieving little laugh. “Can’t believe I met you. Never…never thought I’d have this again. Can’t believe you’re…mine.” He pauses. “If—if you’ll have me. Forever.”

“Yes.”

Jack lets out a breath that sounds more like a groan. His eyes shine. “Yeah?”

You nod, smiling and crying and it’s one in the morning and Jack is asking you to marry him. 

“Yeah, Abbot. I’ll have you. Forever.”

The smile Jack gives you puts the fuckin’ moon to shame. 

***

NOW

You aren’t awake and they cut your engagement ring and wedding band off of your finger when you went in for surgery. 

Both sit broken in a little plastic bag on a table beside your unconscious form. 

Jack sits in a chair beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at you with bloodshot eyes and praying to a God he long stopped believing in. 

He is trying to process the fact that you still wear your wedding rings, that you had them on when you were hit by that fucking drunk driver who he hopes didn’t make it and is flatlining somewhere in PTMC. He never takes his own wedding band off but he was sure you kept yours in a drawer somewhere and he doesn’t fucking know what to do if you don’t wake up.

You don’t look like yourself and he can’t equate the vibrant woman you are with this body in the bed before him. 

Robby came in earlier, tried to get Jack to leave and take a shower, eat something, drink water instead of coffee. But Jack refused. 

“I’ll watch over her, brother. You need a break.”

Jack had stared at Robby hard. “This is all my fuckin’ fault, man. I—”

Robby had stepped right up to Jack at that moment, putting a large hand on his friend’s shoulder and looking into his eyes, big brown meeting hazel. “You can’t fuckin’ think that way, Jack. It’s not true and it’s not your fault—”

“I let her go, man,” Jack croaks, eyes wet. “I pushed her away because I don’t deserve her, never did, and this—she shouldn’t—I should’ve been with her or, fuck, I don’t know—-”

Jack’s words had broken off and he’d buried his face in his hands. 

“We’re not gonna let her go this time,” Robby said, his voice cracked with pain. “She’s like my fuckin’ sister and I’m not — we’re not letting her go. We protect the hive, remember?”

When Jack didn’t answer, Robby remained silent but there, a hand on his shoulder. A steady, constant weight in this fucking nightmare Jack found himself in.

Jack now sits alone. Robby had needed to close out his cases, promising he’d be up again as soon as he was done. 

Jack doesn’t know what time it is. Can’t even remember the day of the week.

Jack aches and hurts and he deserves this pain and he just wants you to wake up. 

“Please,” he croaks into the quiet room. “Please come back to me, baby. Please.”

The steady beeping in your cold hospital room is the only answer he gets. 

It’s the only one he deserves. 

[smiteswrites]

SPINNING OUT [part one]

Dr. Jack Abbot x ex!freader

Summary: You left Jack three months ago, convinced he'd given up on your marriage. When you're hit by a drunk driver, you're taken to PTMC, and what was supposed to be an ending gives way to a new beginning.

Word count: ~4.7k

Note: This was supposed to be a one-shot but it just works better in 3 parts! This is part one - the other two parts are outlined! First time really writing a multi-chapter fic, eeeep.

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+, MDNI

Warnings: Angst, fluff, car accident, therapist reader, widower Jack, dead wife mentioned!, no smut in this part but eventual smut. Eventual happy ending. Slight age gap (reader is 38, Jack is 49). If I missed anything, let me know!

NOW

It starts again because of an accident. 

You’re driving home from work and you’re the kind of bone-deep tired that settles inside of you like lead. Your chest feels heavy and your shoulders ache. You grip the steering wheel, blinking bleary eyes to try and stay focused on the road. 

You dream of home. Stepping out of your heels. A glass of pinot noir in your favorite long-stemmed glass. You dream of putting the day behind you; of closing the tab on all the clients you saw today. All the words you offered them, and the space you held between your body and theirs; your mind is tired. It is fulfilled, yes - as it always is. You know being a therapist is your calling, and you’ve never been more grateful for work than you are at this particular time in your life. 

But you’re…exhausted. 

You can’t remember the last time you slept through the night. Likely in the before. Before your home was cold and lonely. Before everything felt so fucking hard. Before you slept alone in your bed and only brewed one cup of coffee and only made enough food for you.

You just want to rest. 

More than that? You’d like to hide. Your brain is all static and fuzz. It’s flipping its channels at a rapid pace and you’ve lost the remote. You think about the Xanax you have at home and think maybe tonight is the night you take one. 

You just crave peace. 

Everything changes in the span of a breath.

There is the screeching of metal-on-metal, your driver’s side door crunching in on itself. Your neck feels like it snaps. Your airbag deploys and then all you can feel is pain.

It hurts. Everything hurts. 

You feel like you can no longer breathe. You try breathing, you try opening your eyes but everything feels blurred, like you’ve taken your fingers and smeared the paint that makes up your vision. 

You cannot see. You cannot feel anything other than a burning pain that goes from the top of your head to the bottom of your toes. 

You think you might be dead. You think of him, for just a moment. 

You do not know how much time passes.

In the ambulance, through the fog and haze of it all, as you lie on the gurney with your head, neck and limbs secure, you beg them to take you to a different hospital, anywhere but the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center because if you go there you’ll see him and you just fucking can’t. 

They ignore your pleas and they tell you to hang on. They tell you a drunk driver slammed into you and t-boned your car. You can barely process anything they are telling you and you feel yourself drift in and out of consciousness. 

A nap. A nap would be so good right now.

They ask you to keep your eyes open but you screw them up tight. It’s too bright in the ambulance and you don’t recognize these voices. 

You can’t see him. Not like this. Not after everything. 

You’re fading, feeling yourself pulled under the current of a dark blankness and then the gurney is being taken out of the back of the ambulance. You keep thinking not like this, not like this, like it’s a broken record in your head and you’re desperate to get to the next track.

You understand that your gurney is moving quickly and you know, despite really being aware, that they’ve taken you to PTMC. The doors slide open and there’s so much noise but your ears are buzzing and ringing. 

Everything feels far away. 

You catch snippets of dialogue in the trauma bay. “Unidentified 38-year-old female. MVA. Somewhat responsive. Severe blood loss. Possible lung puncture, difficulty breathing.” 

Then Robby’s face is above you and his brown eyes grow wide, rounding at the ages as he sees it’s you. 

“Fuck,” he bites out, harshly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” and then he barks an order at someone else and you manage to grab his sleeve. He turns back to you. 

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and raspy as he wheels you quickly into the trauma bay. “Just fucking hang on, okay?”

“Don’t tell him,” you rasp. “Robby, please, don’t—” you gasp, trying to catch your breath but it feels like you’re drowning. Blood splatters out of your lips. “Don’t tell Jack—”

A heartbroken look flickers across Robby’s face but then you gasp and you can’t finish your sentence because everything goes black. 

* * * 

Jack rolls his shoulders, shutting his locker and heading into the ED. Fuck, what he’d give for a quiet night and the ability to get through this shift without feeling like he’s white-knuckling life. It’s bad enough he had a fucking panic attack on the way in here. He’s been having those more and more often, despite being on his daily dose of an SSRI. His therapist tells him he needs to take a break, to finally cash in on all his accrued time off but he just grinds his jaw and says no. 

Work is good. When he works, he can focus on anything but the absolute trainwreck that is his life. 

When he works, he can stop thinking about you. 

It’s a lie, of course, but Jack’s always been good at lying to himself. 

He sees you in everything he does. Misses you with an ache that feels like a stone on his chest. On the really rough nights, where he feels like he’s barely treading water, he gets closer to the edge of the roof than he ever has. 

Jack shakes his head, wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, holding on to the ends of it like it’s a tether that can keep him sane.

One moment at a time, his therapist told him. One shift at a time. One second, every single day, at a time. 

Jack takes a deep, steadying breath. Losing himself in his work is enough, if only for tonight. 

Jack knows something is wrong the minute he steps into the ED.

Robby is rushing in through the trauma bay, rolling a gurney and barking orders at Shen and Ellis. He looks up and locks eyes with Jack. 

“Get him out of here,” Robby yells to Dana, who has just thrown on her jean jacket to head home. Dana’s eyes go wide and as the gurney rolls past her, she looks at whoever is on it and pales. She beelines for Jack. 

Jack’s heart thuds painfully against his sternum. He picks up his pace, gently brushing past Dana and making his way to Robby.

“It’s my shift, dunno why I’d need to get out of here,” he says calmly to Robby, trying to remain in control but he already knows who’s on that gurney. He already knows because the universe fucking hates him. 

It isn’t enough that you left him three months ago and the last three months have been a living hell every single day. It isn’t enough that it was his fault you left, that he’d pushed you to the end of your rope by pulling away, by shutting down, by letting those voices in the dark consume him. It isn’t enough that he continually put his work before you because work is the only thing to make him feel worthy of anything, and he regrets it, will regret letting you slip through his fingers every single day for the rest of his fucking life. 

It isn’t enough that you’re the love of his life and he’s such a stupid fucking old man, forever convinced he never deserved you in the first place. Self-sabotage has been his best friend a long time, lurking over his shoulder and shadowing every move he’s ever made.

It isn’t enough he’s been through this once before. He’s not even officially fucking fifty-years-old and he’s already lost a wife and he’s about to lose another. Jack Abbot doesn’t get second chances.

Jack Abbot reaps the fucking karma that he sows. 

“Dana, get him out of here!” Robby yells again, rolling you into T-1. 

“C’mon, honey,” Dana tries. “You don’t wanna see this.”

But it’s too late. Jack’s quick on his feet, even with the prosthetic, and he sees you lying there, unconscious, blood-matted hair and it’s dripping from your mouth and he can’t believe that this is happening, that this is real, that it is happening to him again.

Robby steps to him at the door of the room. “You can’t be in here.”

There’s a sharp ringing in Jacks’ ears, high-pitched and drowning everything out. His voice is gravely and broken. A desperate plea rather with no real bite. “Like fuck I can’t, man. Get out of the way—”

“Jack, I mean it, brother.” Robby blocks him again, his nostrils flaring. “Get out.”

“That’s my fucking wife!” The words silence the ED, cutting through the chaos sharply. Ellis and Shen look up, shock over their faces. They’ve never heard their attending lose his cool like this. Jack is the calm one. While Robby is the attending who is more inclined to raise his voice, Jack never falters. Residents and students and the nursing staff follow him blindly because they know he never loses his cool.

Well, he’s losing it now.

Dana puts a hand on her chest like it hurts. 

Robby’s cold facade slips for a second and for a moment he’s just Jack’s friend, his brother, and the pain is written in his face, a pain mirroring Jack’s own. 

Jack’s breathing heavily, his voice cracking on the last word because it’s true, you’re still his wife.

He can’t lose you. Not when everything is so wrong. 

* * * 

BEFORE

It’s Robby who sets the two of you up in the first place.

Robby went to high school with your older brother. While back then, you were the baby sister always trying to play with the big boys (literally, you were two and Robby and your brother were 17), the two of you reconnected when you became a licensed therapist and moved into the city. Despite being fifteen years your senior, Robby became a good friend. 

The two of you tried dating – briefly – but after a few dates, you realized you were much better off as friends. It always felt forced, too platonic, and you were honestly relieved when you both confessed that the romance wasn’t there. 

“I just can’t kiss someone who I knew when they were a toddler,” Robby told you bashfully, face beet red, after you’d both pulled away from a rather lackluster kiss. You hadn’t even been offended; you’d just laughed and called him an old pervert.

He’s been a best friend ever since.

You’re grabbing a coffee with Robby before his shift and your first client of the day when you finish complaining about your latest string of bad dates. 

“He venmo requested me when I got home.”

Robby chokes on his sip of coffee. “No.” 

You laugh, nodding and playing with the plastic lid of your cup. “Yes! You know what? It’s on me for agreeing to go out with a guy who still lives in his mom’s basement. I am grown enough to admit that that’s on me.” 

“Jesus,” Robby mutters. “What a dick.” 

“I think I’m done. I’m too old.” You know you’re being dramatic, but it’s so easy to bitch to Robby. “You’d think being a therapist I’d be able to spot emotionally intelligent men, but I can’t. Can’t even find someone who’s in therapy himself.” 

Robby snorts into his coffee and rubs his jaw. “Yeah, you’re a fuckin’ old maid.” He pauses, lifts an eyebrow. “I know a guy in therapy.”

You purse your lips, studying Robby as you sit at the little cafe table in the coffee shop. “Oh yeah? He an ER doctor too?”

Robby smirks. “Yeah, he is.”

You roll your eyes. “You know I can’t do that again.”

Robby laughs, holds a hand to his heart like you’ve wounded him. “Ouch. Was it that bad?” 

You grin, bumping his coffee cup with your own. “Yes, it was that bad. Even if we–yanno, had actually been into each other in a real way, your schedule is atrocious. ER doctors are walking zombies. I can’t date another one!”

Robby studies you in that quiet way of his that makes you feel like he’s seeing through whatever bullshit you’re spouting. 

“His name’s Jack Abbot. He’s an attending on the night shift. He’s in his 40s, was a medic in the army.” Robby pauses. “He’s a good man.”

You take a moment and absorb the information. “Is he even looking to date?”

Robby grins, draining the last of his coffee. “When he meets you, yeah, I think he will be.”

* * * 

Falling in love with Jack Abbot starts out slow and then happens all at once. 

You meet for the first time at a little bar around the corner from your apartment. You’re nervous. If you were being honest, you didn’t think Robby’s colleague would be interested in a blind date. But you’d gotten a text from an unknown number that read, “Hey, this is Jack Abbot, Robby’s better half. Would it be okay if I called you? Not a great texter.” 

He’d called a minute after you said that was fine and the deep gravel of his voice had warmed you down to your toes. Robby had shown you a picture of him, the two of them at some hospital fundraiser gala a year or two back, and yeah, he was fucking handsome. Thick, gray curls. Broad shoulders. Crooked smile. 

Apparently, he hadn’t been opposed to whatever picture Robby had shown him of you, because you found yourself talking on the phone with Dr. Jack Abbot for over two hours that first phone call. The conversation flowed easily, winding between work and family and it began to sketch the shape of you to each other. 

It’d been natural. Scarily so, if you were honest with yourself. 

You’re still nervous to meet him in person. That phone call was a few nights ago, and your hands tremble a little as you open the door to the bar. You run your hands down the fabric of your little dress – a casual, first date number that makes you feel sexy and like yourself all at once – as you walk into the bar. Your eyes scan for a moment. 

Your heart is thumping. 

This feels weighted in a way that other first dates haven’t. This person is in Robby’s orbit, which automatically makes you trust him. 

Your eyes meet across the room and it feels like a little lock sliding into place. You’re taken aback by the feeling.

He’s standing at the corner of the bar, casually leaning against it, hands in his pockets and Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous. The salt-and-pepper curls look even better than in the picture you saw, and your fingers itch to run through them. He’s in nice jeans, a black sweater, expensive as fuck looking Nikes, and he’s…well, he’s staring at you in a way that nearly makes you stumble mid-step. 

“Hi,” you breathe when you’re in front of him. Jack’s smile is a little crooked and it’s so charming you feel flustered.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice sounds just like it did on the phone: warm and raspy. “It’s really nice to meet you—uh, in person.” Oh my god, he’s so cute. He seems nervous and oddly, it sets you at ease.

You smile at him and fiddle with the strap of your purse. “It’s also nice to meet you in person.” Jesus, you sound like a robot. 

But Jack grins again and it makes him look boyish. 

“I’ll be honest,” Jack tells you, and he steps a little closer. His scent wafts over to you - like clean, fresh soap - and it’s very nice. “I uh…I haven’t been set up in awhile. I’m a little rusty.” 

You laugh. “Rusty’s okay with me.” You pause. “You don’t live in your mom’s basement, do you?”

Jack narrows his eyes. “Tell me you’re joking. The bar’s that low?”

You purse your lips. “In the ground.”

Jack lets out a disbelieving breath and shakes his head. He rubs the back of his neck. “I promise I don’t live in my ma’s basement.” 

You grin and he grins back crookedly and it’s so nice. He asks you what you’re drinking and after you both have your choice in hand - a pinot noir for you, a whisky on the rocks for him - you find a little table. The bar is one of your favorites, a charming little place with low lighting and a relaxed crowd. 

You’re once again surprised by how natural it all feels. You pick up right where you left off on the phone, and you’re grateful that Jack seems to enjoy talking. You’ve been on plenty of dates with men who can’t carry a conversation or seem physically incapable of asking you a single question about yourself, so this? 

This is just…lovely. 

The candlelight dances across Jack’s face, highlighting his cheekbones and the gray stubble. You…simply cannot stop looking at him. And he cannot seem to stop looking at you; you may not know him well yet, but an hour in his presence and you realize this man loves eye contact. He’s unafraid to hold it, and it keeps you grounded and in your body in a way that is calming to your anxiety. 

You find out Jack grew up just outside of Pittsburgh, that he’s a born and raised Steelers fan. You learn more about his time as a combat medic (you’d touched on it on the phone). You learn that he prefers the night shift, that it calms and quiets his mind. You learn that he’s been seeing his current therapist for two years after his previous one retired. You learn that he’s the oldest of four kids and has three younger sisters. A bunch of nieces and nephews that he — adorably — shows you on his phone. 

He learns that you’re prone to anxiety attacks. That you’ve wanted to be a therapist since high school. You tell him about your friendship with Robby and he laughs when you tell him about your ill-fated attempt at dating. He learns that you want to travel more, dream of going back to Sorrento, Italy and sipping limoncello while the briny sea breeze of the marina plays across your face. He learns about your family, and how much you love them. 

A lull in the conversation as you sip your wine and he studies you. You blush, looking into your glass.

“What?” you ask out of the side of your mouth. When you look back up at him, you notice he has a dimple in his cheeks when he grins. 

“I just didn’t think it’d be like this,” is what he says. Your heart thrums once, twice, a thudding in your chest.

“Like what?”

He doesn’t blink when he stares at you. “Easy.”

You smile at him and he lets out a breath like that smile is what he’s been waiting for. 

“I uh, I should tell you,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’ve been married before. My wife passed ten years ago.” His jaw clenches once, twice. “I never know how to uh, bring it up.” He clears his throat. 

Your heart clenches in your chest. “Thank you for telling me,” you say softly, genuinely. And you mean it. 

He looks at you then like he’s a little surprised. “You didn’t say, ‘sorry for your loss.’”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh. Do you want me to?”

His cheeks dimple when he gives you a small, gentle smile. “Fuck no. I’m just…everyone says ‘sorry for your loss.’” 

“It is an unthinkable thing to lose a partner, a thing that forever changes your entire chemistry as a human being,” you tell him. “And I hate that it happened to you. And I’m very thankful that you told me.” 

Jack taps his thumb against his whisky glass, and seems to study the melting ice within it. “She’s—she was the best person I ever met. She made me better. I think about her all the time.” He adds roughly, “I hope she’s proud’a me.” 

You resist the urge to take this man’s hand in your own. Your fingers itch for it, but you don’t want to assume he’s okay with that, especially during such a vulnerable moment. You sit in his words for a moment, letting them rest between you. 

“I’m so glad you had her. That you still have her, in a lot of ways, I’m sure.”

He nods and doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he lets out a breath and when he looks up at you, his eyes glisten a bit. 

“This what it’s like dating a therapist? You always say the right thing?”

You bark out a laugh because you can’t help it. “God, if I always said the right thing, I’d be a shitty therapist. I tend to believe you learn by failing and fucking up.” Your cheeks warm as he continues to look at you. “And this isn’t dating. This is our first date.”

He raises a teasing eyebrow. “Oh? First and last?”

You bite your lip and his eyes track the motion. He swallows. “That what you want? First and last?”

“Hell no,” he says immediately, voice so sure that it warms your entire body. The glisten in his eyes has given way to a brightness and you think, I like this.

I like you.

“Good,” you tell him, draining the last of your wine. “Me either.”

* * * 

You get tacos from the taco truck around the corner, and in between bites of carne asada and tinga de pollo, Jack tells you about work at PTMC.

“I like the teaching aspect of it,” he tells you after taking a sip of his water. You sit at a little folding table in the parking lot where the truck is set up. “I didn’t think I’d like that part, but as cheesy as it sounds, I think it’s part of what I’m meant to do.”

You’re smiling as you say, “I see why you and Robby are friends.” 

Jack barks out a short laugh. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

You swallow the last bite of your taco, lick the salsa from your fingertips. Jack’s eyes linger on the movement and you feel a buzz in your blood. 

“You both can’t help but lead. It’s in your DNA.” You pause. “It’s how I know you’re a good doctor and I just met you.”

“Hey now,” Jack says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “You keep talkin’ like that and my ego’s gonna get too big to fit through the trauma bay.”

You grin and he grins back and you feel silly and light and…happy. 

“I wanna see you again,” Jack tells you. It’s so straightforward that it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

“You’re seeing me right now,” you say to deflect from the nerves you’re feeling. 

Jack shrugs. 

“Not enough,” he says and you think you might actually swoon. “I like schedules. You wanna see me again?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. I’m off in three days and I wanna make you dinner at my place. Would that be okay?”

You try to contain your excitement, to play it cool. You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“I thought you were rusty at the whole dating thing,” you tell him. His eyes flash with something you want to name as mischief. 

Jack rubs his scruffy jaw. He puts his elbows on the table and leans forward. “You make me wanna be good at it.”

You think your smile may be so bright that it outshines the streetlight above. 

“Dinner at your place in three days sounds perfect.” 

* * * 

There’s an energy between you that wasn’t there earlier in the night as Jack walks you home. You can feel it. It’s heavy and pulsing and it makes you feel untethered in a way that is intoxicating. 

Your hands brush as you walk down the quiet, dark street. Shoulders swaying into each other. You can feel the heat of Jack’s body, how close he’s walking. You clock that he’s walking on the outside of the sidewalk, that his eyes scan your surroundings, like he’s making sure he’s aware of everything going on.

The two of you don’t speak much as you walk, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s…anticipatory. It feels like you’re on the precipice of something and whatever happens in the next few minutes will determine something very important. 

You reach your duplex, a sweet little place with night-blooming jasmine bushes that have been there since you moved in several years ago. You stop at the gate and turn to him. He stops walking, hands in his pockets as his eyes hold yours. 

You both don’t say anything for a moment. You just look at each other and it’s comforting to know that you can exist with this man, just as you are. 

“This is me,” you say after a moment and it makes laughter bubble out of both of you. He grins boyishly, the apples of his cheeks pushing upward. A chorus of cute cute cute chants in your brain.

“Yeah, I figured,” he teases. “Unless you’re in the habit of just stopping in front of random people’s houses.”

“You don’t know me,” you tease back. 

Jack steps closer to you and you look up at him. He’s not really tall but he’s taller than you and his entire presence is so broad and commanding that you feel swept into it. 

“Hopin’ to change that, though.” His voice has a husk to it. “If you’ll let me.”

You take in a breath as he studies you like he’s trying to memorize your face. 

“Yeah, Abbot,” you say, your own voice soft. “I’ll let you.”

He huffs out a breath, hazel eyes clear. “Yeah?” 

His right hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek for a tender moment. You nod as he leans down. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, right before his lips meet yours. 

It’s the best first kiss you’ve ever had. 

Light at first, both of you learning one another’s mouths. Jack’s other hand comes to your face and he’s cradling your head like it’s something precious, like it’s something to be cherished. You step closer to him, your own hands fisting the front of his sweater and pulling him closer. 

When your tongue traces his bottom lip, Jack groans and it lights you up from your scalp to your toes. 

He opens his mouth immediately, his tongue licking into you and you’re on fire. 

You’re in your thirties and you’re making out with this man with a mop of silver curls and it’s so heady that you feel like you’re floating. You feel like you’re a teenager again, sneaking kisses before the porch light comes on and you’re found out. 

You don’t know how much time passes, just that when you both break apart you’re equally short of breath. You’re seconds from inviting him up to your place which is not your typical first date move but that’s simply because nobody’s been worth it before. He grins down at you, lips kiss-bitten, face flushed, and plays with a loose strand of hair framing your face. He rubs it between his fingers, then tucks it behind your ear. 

“Three days. My place. Dinner,” he says, voice husky and wrecked and you smile up at him, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes. 

“Can’t wait.”

Later that night, when you’re in bed about to drift off, you get a text from Robby, asking how the date had gone. You respond with a simple thumbs up, knowing it’ll piss him off. He returns your text with ????????? and you snort. You put him out of your misery with your response: It was wonderful. He is wonderful. Seeing him in a few days. Robby sends back a thumbs up in retaliation, which in return makes you annoyed and then you engage in a battle of emojis (middle finger, gun, skull, etc.) until your phone buzzes with an incoming text.

Jack Abbot: Had an amazing time tonight and can’t wait to see you again. Sweet dreams.

Your heart hammers in your chest and you think maybe—just maybe—this is the start of a real good thing.

There’s no way you can know that in four years you’ll be separated from Jack and fighting for your life in a cold, dark hospital room.

[smiteswrites]

[smiteswrites]

i love javadi because she’s very intelligent but still very much a YOUNG woman . she’s 20. she can handle herself perfectly fine but she has a crush on a coworker and she giggles when he knows her name. she employs incredible ingenuity in the face of extreme stress but she’s still naive and awkward. i love that.