#Medical Coding Tool | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

Text

When the Sun Hits

summary: What begins as a hospital-wide power outage leaves you trapped in a supply closet with your emotionally unavailable attending. But when the lights come back on, what lingers between you can’t be shut off so easily. genre/notes: forced proximity, slow burn, panic attack + trauma comfort, domestic fluff, my fave kind of intimacy, mutual pining, humor/crack, soft!Jack that can't flirt for shit, idiots in love but neither of them will admit it, you discover you have a praise kink in the most inconvenient of ways, jack abbot on his knees—literally warnings: references to trauma, depiction of a panic attack, mentions of grief and burnout, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~ 7.2k a/n: down bad for whipped Jack Abbot. p.s., thank you to everyone who reblogs/replies/takes the time to read my brain vomit, i appreciate you more than you know ㅠㅠ <3

You had just turned to ask Jack if he could grab another tray of 32 French chest tubes when the lights cut out.

One second, the supply closet was bathed in its usual flickering overhead light—and the next, everything dropped into darkness. Sharp. Sudden.

You froze, one hand on the bin. Jack swore behind you.

"Shit," he muttered, somewhere just inside the door. The backup emergency lights flickered red from the hallway, but barely touched the cramped space around you.

Then the intercom crackled overhead: Code Yellow. Facility-wide outage. All staff remain on current floors. Secure all medications and patients.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Automatic lock.

You turned just as Jack tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

He sighed. "Well. That’s one way to guarantee a five-minute break."

You looked at him sharply, but he was already scanning the room, looking for anything useful, keeping his voice light.

"Guess we’re stuck for a bit," he added.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The air felt too tight in your lungs, too warm all of a sudden.

Because now, the supply closet didn’t just feel small.

It felt like it was closing in.

It had been a normal day.

Or as normal as anything ever was around here—high-pressure shifts balanced by the strange rhythm you and Jack had settled into over the past few years. You worked together well—efficient, quick to anticipate each other's needs, almost telepathic during traumas. Partners in crime, someone had once joked. Probably Robby.

You’d learned how to read his silences—the kind that weren’t dismissive but deliberate, like he was giving you space without needing to say it aloud. He’d learned how to decode your muttered curses and side glances, how to step in behind you without crowding, how to let his shoulder bump yours during charting when words failed you both.

There was a kind of ease between you, a rhythm that didn’t require explanation. He’d hand you tools before you asked for them. You’d finish his sentences when he gave consults. Even in chaos, your partnership felt oddly... quiet. Intimate, in a way that crept in slowly, like warmth from a mug clasped between two hands after a long shift.

When you were paired on trauma, nurses and med students stopped asking who was lead. They knew you moved as one.

People had started to notice—how the two of you always seemed to stay overtime on the same days, how Jack would make dry, cutting jokes around others but soften them just enough when talking to you. Robby, in particular, teased him about it relentlessly.

"Jack, blink twice if this is you flirting," he’d once called across the ER after Jack mumbled, "Great work Dr. L/N," while watching you tie off a flawless stitch or nailing a differential.

Jack huffed. "It’s efficient. She's efficient."

"God, you’re hopeless," Robby laughed.

"She’s my best resident," Jack shot back, like it explained everything. Like it wasn’t a deflection.

You snorted into your coffee. "You say that like it’s not the fifth time this week."

Jack, without missing a beat: "That’s because it’s true. I value consistency."

He was awful at flirting—stiff and dry and chronically understated—but you’d grown to read the fondness buried in the flat delivery.

Like the morning he handed you your favorite protein bar without a word and then said, as you blinked at him, "Don’t faint. You’ll ruin my numbers."

Or the time he stood outside your call room after a brutal night shift, coffee in hand, and muttered, "You deserve a nap, but I guess you’ll have to settle for caffeine and my sparkling company."

He always made sure to loop you in on the interesting cases—"Figure it’s good for your development," he’d say. But then linger just a little too long after rounds, just to hear your thoughts.

And when you were quiet too long, when something in you withdrew, he never asked outright. Just gave you space—and a clipboard he’d pre-filled, or a shift swap you hadn’t requested, or the gentlest, "You good?" when you passed each other by the scrub sinks.

And now, here you were. Trapped in a closet with the man who rarely made jokes—and never blushed—except when you were around.

Now, you were stuck. Together.

The air felt thin but simultaneously stuffed to the brim.

Jack turned on his penlight, sweeping the beam across the room. "We’re fine," he said, calm and certain. "Generator will kick in soon."

You nodded. Tried to match his steadiness. Failed.

The closet was small. Smaller than it had ever felt before.

The walls crept in.

You didn’t notice the way your hands started to shake until he said your name.

Your vision tunneled. The room blurred at the edges, corners shrinking in like someone was folding the walls inward. The air felt heavy, every breath catching at the top of your throat before it could sink deep enough to matter. It felt like someone had filled your veins with liquid lead, your entire body suddenly weighing too much to hold upright. You staggered back a step, hand scrambling blindly for something to anchor you—shelf, handle, Jack. Your heart was pounding—loud, ragged, out of sync with time itself.

You tried to swallow. Couldn’t.

Sweat prickled your scalp. Your fingers tingled, every nerve on fire. Your knees gave out beneath you, and you crumbled to the floor—head buried between your knees, hands clasped behind your neck, trying to fold yourself into a singularity. Anything to disappear. Anything to slip away from this moment and the way it pressed in on all sides. There was no exit. No sound but your own spiraling thoughts and the slow, careful way Jack said your name again.

You blinked. Your eyes wouldn’t focus.

"Hey," Jack coaxed, his voice cutting through the static—low and steady, somehow still distant. His full attention was on you now, gaze locked in, unmoving. "Breathe."

You couldn’t.

It hit like a wave—sharp and silent, rising in your chest like pressure, no space, no air, no exit.

Jack’s hands found your shoulders. "I’ve got you. You’re okay. Stay with me, yeah?"

He crouched in front of you, grounding you with steady pressure and careful, deliberate calm. His hands—firm, callused, the kind that had seen years of split-second decisions and endless sutures—gripped your upper arms with a touch that was impossibly gentle. Like he could mold you back into yourself with his palms alone. His thumbs brushed lightly, not demanding, just present. Just there.

"Can you breathe with me?" he asked. "In for four. Okay? One, two, three…"

You tried. You really did.

Your chest still felt locked, ribs tight around panic like a vice, but his voice—low and even—threaded through the chaos.

"Out for four," he murmured, exhaling slowly, deliberately, like the sound alone could show your body how to follow. "Good. Just like that."

The faint light dimmed between you, casting his face in half-shadow. He was close now—close enough for you to catch the scent of antiseptic and something warm underneath, something that reminded you of winter nights and clean laundry.

"You’re here," he said again, softer this time. "You’re safe. Nothing’s coming. You’ve got space."

You reached out blindly, fingers finding the edge of his sleeve and clutching it like a lifeline.

"Good girl," Jack said softly, instinctively, like it slipped out without permission.

Your brain short-circuited. Of all things, in all moments—that was what hooked your attention. You let out a strangled little laugh, shaky and almost hysterical. "Fucking hell," you murmured, pressing your face into your arm. "Why is that what got me breathing again?"

Jack blinked, startled for a second—then let out the smallest huff of relief, like he was holding back a smirk. "Hey, if it works, I’ll say it again," he said, a thread of warmth sneaking into his voice.

You groaned, half-burying your face in your elbow. "Please don’t."

He was still crouched in front of you, his tone gentler now, teasing on purpose, like he was giving you something else to hold onto. "Admit it—you just wanted to hear me say something nice for once."

"Jack," you warned, half-laughing, half-crying.

"You’re doing great," he said quietly, real again. "You’re okay. I’ve got you."

And eventually—one shaky inhale at a time—your lungs obeyed.

When the power came back on, you stood side-by-side in the wash of fluorescent light, blinking against it.

You were still trembling faintly, your breaths shallow but more even now. Jack didn’t step away. Not right away.

"Feeling better?" he asked, voice low, steady.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Jack stood slowly, offering a hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. His grip lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Then he tried, awkwardly, to lighten the mood. "If calling you a good girl was really all it took, then I’ve been severely underutilizing my motivational toolkit."

You let out a startled laugh, breath catching mid-sound. "Jesus, don’t start."

He gave you a crooked smile—relieved, even if the corners of it were still tight with concern. "Whatever works, right? Next time I’ll try it with more enthusiasm."

"Next time?" Your eyes widened like saucers—absolutely flabbergasted, half-tempted to dissolve into laughter or hit him with the nearest supply tray.

He shrugged, another smug grin threatening to cross his lips. "Just saying. If you’re going to unravel in a closet, might as well do it with someone who knows where to find the defibrillator."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go of his hand until the light flickered again.

Only then did you both step apart.

You didn’t say much.

He didn’t ask you to.

You’d made it as far as the locker room before the adrenaline crash hit. You rinsed your face, changed into sweats, and shoved your scrubs into your bag with trembling fingers. Jack had walked you out of the department without a word, just a hand hovering near your lower back.

"Thanks," you said quietly, as you scanned out. "For earlier."

Jack shook his head, like it was nothing. "You don’t need to thank me."

"Still," you said. "Just… please don’t mention it to anyone?"

He looked over at you, mouth twitching at the corner. "Mention what?"

That made you laugh—brief, breathless. "Right."

You parted ways near the waiting room, sharing your usual post-shift goodbyes.

Or so you thought.

Jack had been about to leave when he saw you—doubling back through the double doors, slipping through the staff-only entrance and back into the ER.

His brow furrowed.

He hesitated, then turned to follow.

The corridor was quiet. Most of the day shift hadn’t arrived yet, and the call room hallway echoed faintly under his footsteps. He paused outside the on-call room and knocked once, gently. When there was no response, he eased the door open.

The room was cramped and windowless, just enough space for a narrow bunk bed and a scuffed metal chair in the corner. The mattress dipped in the middle, the kind of sag that never quite let you forget your own weight. The attached bathroom offered a stall that barely passed for a shower—low pressure, eternally lukewarm, and loud enough to make you question whether it was working or crying for help. It felt more like a last resort than a place to rest.

Your bag was on the bed. Half-unpacked. Toothbrush laid out. Socks tucked into the corner. Like you were staying in a hotel. Like you’d been staying here.

He was still standing there when the bathroom door cracked open and you stepped out—hair damp, towel knotted tightly around your torso.

You both froze.

Your eyes widened. Jack’s went comically wide before he spun around on instinct, shielding his eyes like it was second nature. "Shit—sorry, I didn’t—"

"What are you doing here?" you asked at the exact same time he blurted, "What are you doing here?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jack cleared his throat, ears bright red. "I… saw you come back in. Just wanted to check."

You were still standing in place like a deer in headlights, towel clutched in a death grip.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, eyes very pointedly still on the wall, as if the peeling paint had suddenly become the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

Fingers clenched around the edge of the towel, embarrassment prickled across your chest like static. "One second," you murmured, disappearing back into the bathroom before either of you could say anything more.

A minute later, the door creaked open and you stepped out again—now wrapped in an oversized hoodie and soft, baggy sweatpants that made you look small, almost swallowed whole by comfort. Jack’s brain did something deeply inconvenient at the sight.

You lingered in the doorway, sleeves tugged down over your hands, damp hair framing your face. "You can look now," you said, voice softer this time.

Jack didn’t move at first. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat in a way that sounded more like a stall tactic than anything physiological. Only after a beat did he finally turn, cautiously, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He caught himself staring. Made a mental note not to think about it later. Failed almost immediately.

A breath left your lungs, quieter than the room deserved. You crossed to the bunk and sat down on the edge, fingers fidgeting with the seam of your sweatpants. "You can sit, if you want," you said, barely above a whisper.

The mattress shifted a second later as Jack lowered himself beside you, careful, slow—like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. His knee brushed yours. He didn’t move it. You didn't pull away.

Your eyes fluttered shut, a long exhale dragging out of you like it had been caught behind your ribs all night. "I’ve been staying here," you said finally. "Not every night. Just... enough of them."

You looked over at him, then down at your hands. "It’s not about work. I just... I didn’t want to go back to an empty place and hear it echo. Didn’t want to hear myself think. Breathe. This place—at least there’s always noise. Even if it’s bad, it’s something."

That made him pause.

"I don’t want to be alone..." you added, quieter.

Jack was quiet for a moment, then nodded once, slow. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, voice quieter than before. "You know I’m always here for you."

You looked down at your lap. "I didn’t want to be a burden."

Your fingers twitched, and before you realized it, you’d started picking at a loose thread along your cuff. Jack’s hands came up gently, catching yours before you could do more than graze your skin. He held them between his palms—warm, steady. Soothing.

His thumbs brushed over your knuckles. "You never have to earn being cared about," he said softly. "Not with me."

A few moments passed in silence. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Then, quietly, Jack reached into his pocket.

And handed you a key.

"I have a spare room," he said, voice low. "No expectations. No questions. Just… if you need it."

You stared at the key. Then at him.

He still didn’t look away, even as his voice gentled. "Don’t sleep here. Not if it hurts."

You took the key.

Not right away—but you did. Slipped it into the front pocket of your hoodie like it might vanish otherwise, like the metal might burn a hole through the fabric if you held it too long.

Jack didn’t press. Didn’t ask for promises.

He stood to leave and paused in the doorway.

"I’ll leave the light on," he said. "Just in case."

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, barely, and stared at the key in your lap long after the door shut behind him.

The call room was quiet after he left.

Too quiet.

You stared at the key until your fingers itched, then tucked it beneath your pillow like it needed protecting—from you, from the space, from the hollow echo of loneliness that filled the room once Jack was gone.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

And two days later—after another long shift, after you’d showered in the same miserable excuse for plumbing, after you’d sat cross-legged on the cot trying to convince yourself to just go home—you took the key out of your pocket.

You didn’t text him.

You just went.

The last time you'd been to his place was different. Less quiet. More raw.

It was the night after a shift that left the entire ER shell-shocked. You'd both ended up at Jack’s apartment with takeout containers and too much to drink. You’d lost a kid—ten years old, blunt trauma, thirty-eight minutes of resuscitation, and it still wasn’t enough. Jack had lost a veteran. OD. The kind of case that stuck to his ribs.

He’d handed you a beer without a word. The two of you had sat on opposite ends of his couch, silence stretching between you like a third presence until you broke it with a hoarse, "I keep hearing his mother scream."

Jack didn’t look away. "I keep thinking I should’ve caught it sooner."

The conversation didn’t get lighter. But it got easier.

At some point, you’d both ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, knees bent and shoulders almost brushing.

He told you about Iraq. About the first time he held pressure on someone’s chest and knew it wouldn’t matter.

You told him about your first code as an intern and the way it rewired something you’ve never quite gotten back.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to. Just passed you another drink and said, "I’m glad you were there today."

And for a while, it was enough—being there, even if neither of you knew how to say why.

You’d gotten absolutely wasted that night. The kind of drunk that swung from giggles to tears and back again. Somewhere between your third drink and fourth emotional whiplash, you started dancing around his living room barefoot, music crackling from his ancient Bluetooth speaker. Tears for Fears was playing—Everybody Wants to Rule the World—and you twirled with your arms raised like the only way to survive grief was to outpace it.

Jack watched from the floor, amused. Smiling to himself. Maybe a little enamored.

You beckoned him up with exaggerated jazz hands. "C’mon, dance with me."

He shook his head, raising both palms. "No one needs to see that."

You marched over, grabbed his hands, and tugged hard enough to get him upright. He stumbled, laughing under his breath, and let you spin him like a carousel horse. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even really dancing. But it was you—vivid and loud and alive—and something in him ached with the sight of it.

He didn’t say anything that night.

But the way he looked at you said enough.

You were still holding his hands from the dance, your breathing slowing, your laughter softening into something tender. The overhead light had gone dim, the playlist shifting into quieter melodies, but you didn’t let go. Your fingers stayed laced behind his neck, your forehead nearly resting against his chest.

Jack’s palms found your waist—not possessive, just steady. Grounding. His thumbs pressed gently against your sides, and for a moment, you swayed in place like the world wasn’t full of ghosts. You were sobering up, but not rushing. Not running.

You hadn’t meant for the dance to turn into this. But he didn’t step away.

Didn’t look away either.

Just held you, as if the act itself might keep you both tethered to something real.

You woke the next morning to the sound of soft clinking—metal against ceramic, a pan being set down gently on the stovetop.

The smell of coffee drifted in first. Then eggs. Something buttery. Your head pounded—dull, insistent—but your body felt warm under the blanket someone had pulled up around your shoulders during the night.

Padding quietly down the hall, you peeked into the kitchen.

Jack stood at the stove, hair ever so slightly tousled from sleep, wearing the same faded t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that made your chest ache with something you couldn’t name. He hadn’t seen you yet—was humming under his breath, absently stirring a pan with practiced rhythm.

You leaned against the doorframe.

"Are you seriously making breakfast?"

He turned, eyes crinkling. "You say that like it’s not a medically necessary intervention."

You snorted, stepping in. "You’re using a cast iron. I didn’t even know you owned one."

"Don’t tell Robby. He thinks I survive on rage and vending machine coffee."

You slid onto one of the stools, blinking blearily against the light. Jack set a mug in front of you without being asked—just the way you liked it. Just like always.

"You were a menace last night," he said lightly, pouring eggs into the pan.

You groaned, cupping your hands around the mug. "Oh god. Please don’t recap."

He grinned. "No promises. But the dance moves were impressive. You almost took me out during that one twirl."

"That’s because you wouldn’t dance with me!"

"I was trying to protect my knees."

You laughed, head tipping back slightly. Jack just watched you, eyes soft, like the sound of it made something settle inside him.

And for a moment, the silence that settled between you wasn’t hollow at all.

It was full.

If only tonight's circumstances were different.

Jack opened the door in sweatpants and a black v-neck that looked older than his medical degree. He blinked when he saw you—then smiled, just a little. Not wide. Not obvious. But real. The kind of expression that said he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were there.

He said nothing.

After a slow smile: "Didn’t expect to see you again so soon," he said lightly, trying to break the ice. "Unless you’re here to critique my towel-folding technique."

Lifting your hand slowly, the key warm against your skin, you tilted your head with a deadpan expression. "Wouldn’t dream of it," you said, tone dry—almost too dry—but not quite hiding the twitch of a smile. Jack’s mouth quirked at the corner.

Then you held the key out fully, and he stepped aside without a word.

"Spare room’s on the left," he said. “Bathroom’s across from it. The towels are clean. I think."

You smiled, a little helplessly. "Thanks."

Jack’s voice was soft behind you. "That was a joke, by the way. The towel thing."

You turned slightly. "What?"

He shrugged, almost sheepish. "Trying to lighten the mood," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at you. "Make it... easier. Or, y'know. Less weird. That was the goal."

The admission caught you off guard. Jack Abbot had a tendency to ramble when he was nervous, and this was definitely that.

You didn’t say anything right away, but your smile—this time—was a little steadier. A little sweeter.

"Careful, Jack," you murmured, feigning seriousness. "If you keep being charming, I might start expecting it."

He looked like he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, then closed again as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether to double down or play it cool.

"Guess I’ll go work on my stand-up material," he mumbled, half under his breath.

You bit back a laugh.

He ran a hand through his hair again—classic stall tactic—then finally nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

The room he offered you was small, clearly unused, but tidy in a way that suggested recent care. A folded towel sat at the foot of the bed. A new toothbrush—still in its packaging—rested on the nightstand. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air, mixing with the soft clean trace of his detergent. The air had that faint freshness of a recently opened window, and the corners were free of dust. Someone had aired it out. Someone had taken the time to make space—room that hadn’t existed before, cleared just enough to let another person in.

You set your bag down and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the blanket. Everything felt soft. Considered. You stared at the corner of the room like it might give you answers.

It didn’t.

But it didn’t feel like a hospital either.

You took your time in the shower, letting the heat soak into your skin until the mirror fogged over and your thoughts slowed just enough to feel manageable. Jack's body wash smelled different on you—deeper, warmer somehow—and the scent clung faintly to your skin as you pulled on the softest clothes you had packed: shorts and an oversized shirt you barely remembered grabbing.

When you stepped out of the guest room, damp hair still clinging to your neck, the smell of garlic and something gently sizzling greeted you first. Jack was in the kitchen, stirring a pot with practiced ease, the kind of domestic ease that tugged at something inside you.

He turned when he heard your footsteps—and froze for a beat too long.

His eyes swept over you and caught on your hair, your shirt, the visible curve of your collarbone, the quietness about you that hadn't been there earlier. He blinked, clearly trying to recover, and failed miserably.

"Hey," you said gently, brushing some damp strands behind your ear. "Need help with anything?"

Jack cleared his throat—once, then again—and turned back to the stove, ears visibly reddening. "I think I’m good," he said. "Unless you want to make sure I don’t burn the rice."

You crossed the room and leaned against the counter next to him, still slightly bashful yourself. The scent of his soap clung to your sleeves, and Jack caught a trace of it on the air. He said nothing—but stirred a little slower. A little more carefully.

"Your apartment’s just as nice as I remembered," you said, soft and genuine, fingers brushing the edge of the countertop.

Jack glanced over at you, a flicker of something warm behind his eyes. "You mean the sterile surfaces and suspiciously outdated spice rack?"

You gave him a knowing smile. "I mean the parts that feel like you."

That stopped him for a second. His stirring slowed to a halt. He looked back down at the pot, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

"Careful," he murmured, voice low. "If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you actually like me."

You nudged his elbow gently. "I might. Don’t let it go to your head."

He smiled to himself, the kind of expression that didn't need to be seen to be felt. And in the soft space between those words, something settled. Easier. Closer.

Dinner was simple—pan-seared salmon, rice, roasted vegetables. Nothing fancy, but everything assembled with care. Jack Abbot, it turned out, could cook.

You said so after the first bite—and let out a soft, involuntary moan. Jack froze mid-chew, raised a brow, and gave you a look.

"Wow," he said dryly, lips twitching. "Should I be offended or flattered?"

You felt heat rise across your cheeks, laughing as you covered your mouth with your napkin. "Don't tell me you're jealous of a piece of salmon?"

He grinned. "I’m a man of many talents," he said dryly, passing you the pepper mill. "Just don’t ask me to bake."

You smiled over your glass of water, a little more relaxed now. "No offense, but I didn’t exactly have ‘culinary savant’ on my Jack Abbot bingo card."

He shot you a look. "What was on the card?"

You hummed, pretending to think. "Chronic insomniac. Secret softie. Closet hoarder of protein bars. Dad joke connoisseur."

Jack snorted, setting down his fork. "You’re lucky the salmon’s good or I’d be deeply offended."

You grinned. "So you admit it."

And he did—not in words, but in the way his gaze lingered a moment too long across the table. In the way he refilled your glass as soon as it dipped below halfway. In the quiet, sheepish curve of his smile when you caught him looking. In the way his laugh lost its usual edge and softened, like maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.

After dinner, you moved to the sink before Jack could protest. He tried, weakly, something about guests and hospitality, but you waved him off and started rinsing plates.

Jack came up behind you, handing over dishes one by one as you scrubbed and loaded them into the dishwasher to dry. His presence was warm at your back, the occasional graze of his hand or arm sending tiny shivers up your spine. The silence between you was companionable, laced with unspoken things neither of you quite knew how to name.

"You’re seriously not gonna let me help?" he asked, bumping your hip with his.

"This is letting you help," you shot back. "You’re the designated passer."

"Such a glamorous title," he murmured, his voice low near your ear. "Do I get a badge?"

You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smile tugging at your lips. "Only if you survive the suds.

Jack leaned in just as you turned back to the sink, and for a moment, your arms brushed, your shoulders aligned. His gaze lingered on you again—your profile, your damp hair starting to curl at the edges, the stretch of your shirt down your back.

You glanced back at him, close enough now to kiss, breath caught halfway between surprise and anticipation when—

Jack dipped his finger into the soap bubbles and tapped the tip of your nose.

You blinked, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack held your wide-eyed gaze a beat longer, then said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Nice look, Bubbles."

And the dam broke. You laughed, bright and unguarded, flicking water in his direction.

He dodged each droplet as best he could with a grin, triumphant. "I stand by my methods."

You scooped a pile of bubbles into your hand with deliberate menace.

Jack immediately backed away, holding both palms up like he was under arrest. "No. No no no—"

You grinned, nodding slowly with mock gravity. The chase ensued. He darted around the counter, nearly tripping on the rug as you chased after him, suds in hand and laughter trailing like a siren’s call. He was fast—but you were relentless.

"Truce!" he yelped, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands held high in mock surrender.

You smirked, one brow raised. "Hmm. I don’t know… this feels like a trap."

Jack looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes. "Mercy. Have mercy. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t soap me."

You hummed, pretending to consider it. "Anything?"

"Within reason. And dignity. Maybe." He started lowering his hands.

You tilted your head, letting the moment draw out. Jack watched you carefully, breath held, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I mean…" he started. "If praise is your thing, you’re doing a fantastic job intimidating me right now."

Your mouth parted, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack smirked, sensing an opening. "You excel at it. Really. Top tier menace."

You laughed, nearly doubling over. "Oh my god. You’re the worst." The bubbles had dissipated by now, leaving you with only damp hands.

"And yet, here you are," he said, still kneeling, still grinning.

You shook your head, stray droplets slipping from your hand, your laughter easing into something softer. "Get up, you idiot."

But Jack didn’t—not right away. Still on his knees, he inched closer, crawling forward with slow, deliberate grace. His hands found your thighs, resting there gently, like a prayer. Thumbs stroked the place where skin met fabric, featherlight and reverent.

"I mean it," he said, voice quieter now, almost solemn. "You terrify me."

Your breath caught.

"In the best way," he added, gaze lifting. "You walk into a trauma bay like you own it. You fight like hell for your patients. You get under my skin without even trying."

His hands slid up slowly, still gentle, still hesitant, like waiting for permission. "Sometimes I think the only thing I believe in anymore is you."

Your heart thudded. Your hands, still damp, twitched against your sides.

"You deserve to be worshipped," he murmured, and that was when your knees nearly buckled.

The joke was long forgotten. The laughter faded. All that was left was the way Jack looked at you now—like he wasn’t afraid of the quiet anymore.

His hands had made a slow, reverent climb to your bare skin, thumbs sweeping small, anchoring circles into your skin. You felt the heat of him everywhere, your body taut with anticipation, nerves stretched thin. He didn’t rush. Just looked up at you, drinking in every unsteady breath, every flicker of hesitation in your gaze.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice low. If you weren't so dazed, you could've sworn you heard a shadow of amusement. "You want to stop?"

You shook your head—barely—and he nodded like he understood something sacred.

"I want you to feel good," he said softly, leaning in to press the lightest kiss to your thigh, just below the hem of your shirt. "I want to take my time with you. If you’ll let me?"

The question lodged in your chest like a plea. You couldn’t speak, only nodded, and his hands flexed slightly in response.

Jack stood first, rising fluidly, eyes never leaving yours. As he straightened, your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the base of his neck. That was all it took—the smallest pull, the softest touch—and the space between you collapsed.

Not in chaos, not in desperation, but in something careful. Like reverence wrapped in desire. Like he’d been waiting for this, quietly, for longer than he dared admit.

And when his lips met yours, it was a live wire.

Deep. Soft. Unapologetically tender.

But it didn’t stay chaste. Jack’s hands found your hips, drawing you closer, fitting your bodies together like a secret only the two of you knew how to keep. His tongue brushed yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, and you gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt.

The kiss turned hungry, molten—slow-burning restraint giving way to a need you both had held too tightly for too long. Jack’s hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing the curve of your spine, and you arched into him, a quiet gasp slipping free.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured between kisses, voice thick, reverent.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, "Don’t you dare."

That was all he needed.

And when he kissed you again, it was like promise and prayer and everything you hadn’t let yourself want until now.

His hands moved with aching care—one sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, the other splaying wide at your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you was slow and encompassing, more smolder than spark, until it wasn’t—until it ignited all at once.

Jack walked you backward until your hips bumped the counter, and he pressed into the space you gave him, forehead resting against yours. "You undo me," he whispered, breath trembling against your lips. "Every single time."

You were already breathless, clinging to his shirt, heart pounding in your throat.

His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, hands exploring—confident now, reverent, like he was learning every part of you for the first time and never wanted to forget. You moaned softly into the kiss, and Jack cursed under his breath, low and ragged, like the sound had torn through his composure.

And then there was no more space. No more distance. Just heat, and hunger, and the slow unraveling of restraint as Jack lifted you gently onto the counter, your knees parting for him, his name spilling from your lips like a secret.

You kissed like the world was ending. Like this was your only chance to get it right. He needed to feel you pressed against him to believe it wasn’t just a dream.

The kiss deepened, urgent and breathless, until Jack was devouring every sound you made, like he could live off the way you whimpered into his mouth. He groaned low in his throat when your nails scraped lightly down his back, your body arching into his hands like instinct.

He touched you like a man memorizing, devout and thorough—hands mapping the curve of your waist, mouth dragging heat across your throat. He tasted sweat and shampoo and you, and that alone nearly undid him. You felt the tension coil in his spine, the restraint he was holding like a dam, every movement deliberate.

"God," he rasped, lips at your ear, "you have no idea what you do to me."

And when you gasped again, hips shifting, he exhaled a shaky breath like he was trying not to fall apart just from the sound.

"You smell like my soap," he murmured with a rough chuckle, nosing along your jaw. "But you still taste like you."

You whimpered, and he kissed you again—harder now, letting the hunger break through, swallowing your reaction like a man starved.

He praised you in murmured fragments, over and over, voice low and wrecked.

Beautiful.

Brave.

So fucking good.

Mine.

Each word making your skin feel like it was glowing beneath his hands.

And when he finally took you to bed, it wasn’t rushed or careless—it was everything he hadn’t said before now, every ounce of feeling poured into his mouth on your skin, every whispered breath of worship like he was praying into the hollow of your throat.

Jack kissed you like he needed to memorize the taste of every sound you made, like your skin was the answer to every question he’d never asked out loud. His hands roamed slowly, confidently, with that same quiet focus he wore in trauma bays—except now it was all for you. Every inch of you. His mouth lingered at your collarbone, your ribs, the soft curve of your stomach—pressing his devotion into the places you tried to hide.

You felt undone by how gently he worshipped you, how much he wanted—not just your body, but your breath, your closeness, your everything. He murmured praise against your skin like it was sacred, like you were something holy in his arms.

And when he finally moved over you, hands braced on either side of your head, eyes searching yours like he was asking permission one more time—you nodded.

He exhaled like it hurt to hold back. Then gave you everything.

Every kiss was a promise, every touch a confession. He moved with aching tenderness, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath him, like this wasn’t just sex but something divine. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, breath catching in your throat with every thrust. It wasn’t fast or frantic—it was slow, overwhelming, unbearably close.

He whispered your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, and when you finally came apart beneath him, he followed soon after—undone by the way you sang his name like it was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Later, tangled in blankets and the afterglow, Jack pulled you closer without a word. One hand splayed wide against your back, the other curled around your fingers like he wasn’t ready to let you go—not now, maybe not ever. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the warmth of him, the scent of skin and comfort and safety.

"I’m gonna need you to stop making that noise when you taste food," he murmured eventually, voice sleep-thick and amused.

You huffed a laugh into his shoulder. "Or what?"

"I’ll marry you on the spot. No warning. Just a salmon fillet and a ring pop."

Your laughter shook the bed.

Jack smirked, the ghost of a tease already forming. "If I’d known praise got you going, I’d have started ages ago."

You swatted at his chest, heat blooming across your cheeks. "Don’t you dare weaponize this."

He grinned into your hair, voice low and wrecked and entirely too fond. "Too late. I’m gonna ruin you with kindness."

You huffed, hiding your face in his shoulder.

Jack chuckled and pulled you closer.

You were never going to live this down. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to.

Because Jack Abbot being a secret softie had officially made its triumphant return to your bingo card—and if you were being honest, it had probably been the center square since day one.

"You know," you murmured against his chest, lips curving into a grin, "for someone who acts so stoic at work, you sure have a lot of secrets."

Jack stirred slightly, arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah? Like what?"

You propped yourself up on one elbow, counting off on your fingers. "Total softie. Great cook. An absolute sex god."

Jack groaned into your shoulder, bashful. "Jesus."

"I'm just saying," you teased. "If there’s a hidden talent for needlepoint or poetry, now would be the time to confess."

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with sleep and amusement. "I used to write really bad song lyrics in middle school. That count?"

You laughed, light and easy, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. "God, I bet they were terrible."

Jack smirked. "You’ll never know."

"I’ll find them," you said with mock determination. "I’ll unearth them. Just wait."

He kissed your forehead, chuckling softly. "I’m terrified."

And he was—just not of you. Only of how much he wanted this to last.

Jack smiled into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're incredible, you know that?"

You shook your head, bashful, eyes cast toward the sheets—but Jack didn’t let it slide. His hand curled tighter around yours, his voice still soft but firm. "Hey. I meant that. You are."

When you didn’t answer right away, he leaned in a little closer, his thumb brushing along your wrist. "I need you to hear it. And believe it. You’re—extraordinary."

The earnestness in his voice left you no room to hide. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his.

Jack held your gaze like a promise. "Say okay."

"Okay," you whispered, cheeks burning.

He smiled again, slower this time, and kissed your temple once more. "Good girl."

You didn’t answer—just smiled you were on cloud nine and squeezed his hand a little tighter.

Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, you drifted in and out of sleep wrapped in warm limbs and steadier breath, heart finally quiet for the first time in days. Jack’s hand never left yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles over your knuckles like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

Your limbs were tangled with his beneath the softened hush of early morning, the sheets kicked messily down to the foot of the bed. Skin to skin, steady breathing, fingers still loosely clasped where they had found each other in the dark. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, murmured something you didn’t quite catch—but it didn’t matter. The weight of the night had passed. What remained was warmth. Stillness. Something whole.

You fell asleep like that, curled into each other without pretense. Closer than you'd ever planned, safer than you thought possible. And for the first time in what felt like ages, the quiet wasn’t heavy.

It was home.

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #jack abbot #the pitt spoilers #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbott #jack abbott #dr. abbott #jack abbot smut #dr abbot smut

2K notes · View notes

twohearts-hs · 2 months ago

Text

Dove & Captain: 3 - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Series

Words in Total: 9.2k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, etc.

A/N: This is a complete series of ~60k. I will post a few snapshots of their relationship over the six+ years they've been together.

Hope you enjoy :)

Series Masterlist

1000

Y/N was standing at the board reading it when she sensed someone next to her. There was a deep glare, but she knew it was out of love.

“You love to stare at me, Dr. Robinavitch,” Y/N said casually. “Are you secretly in love with me or something?” she hummed with a smile as she glanced over.

Robby let out a light chuckle. “You know where I stand on my feelings,” he replied with a smirk.

She nodded slowly. “What did I do now that is making you glare at me like I spiked your coffee…which I didn’t, by the way.”

He chuckled. “You gave our rookie a TED Talk on emotional resilience,” Robby said, straight-faced. “And convinced him that writing letters to corpses is normal coping.”

Y/N raised a brow, staring at him. “It is very normal to use writing as a therapeutic tool to express, work through and understand your feelings, emotions and trauma,” she replied. “I can quote research.”

Robby shook his head. “You want to quote psychological research to me before 10 a.m. You’re dangerous. Is this foreplay?” he hummed.

Y/N chuckled. “Oh, Cowboy, if you want foreplay, I can whip in some astrophysics information in there too.”

He shook his head. “Sometimes your brain scares, and then I question why you’re a nurse and not some world leader,” he replied. “Why is Jack with you again?”

Y/N went back to look at the board. “Because I’m great at head,” she replied coldly.

Robby choked on his sip of coffee, spluttering. “Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

She didn’t even flinch, still studying the patient board as if she’d just commented on the weather. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, laughing under his breath. “You cannot say that in here.”

She turned to him with a perfectly straight face. “Why not? We’re health professionals. It’s all anatomy. If you can deal with rats in the ER, I bet you can deal with my sexual comments.”

Robby stared at her. “You are unhinged.”

“Possibly,” she said sweetly. “But you do absolutely love me. I ran your trauma code flawlessly this morning, stabilised several patients before I had my second cup of coffee and gave your rookie a breakdown and a life lesson in under fifteen minutes. It’s a great day and I’m on fire.”

He nodded. “You got to him, though. I was worried the kid had no game. Dana and I were making bets.”

“Making bets on the poor children? That’s traumatic for them. Unstable childhood can lead to a lot of mental disorders in the long term,” Y/N replied. “Don’t destroy the future of medicine.”

He chuckled. “He wants to write a letter to the patient’s family. Said you taught him that.”

Y/N raised her brow. “Jack taught me that. So, I relayed the information. He wants to give it to the family?” she asked, chuckling while shaking her head.

“Yup.”

“I said write it. Not send it. Jesus,” she muttered. “I need to be more specific to the kids.”

Robby chuckled. “This is what happens when you monologue at them.”

Y/N shrugged. “Wasn’t monologuing, rather using my psych degree I spent sixty thousand dollars on,” she replied. “Might as well use it for practical use.”

“This isn’t a first-year psych elective,” Robby replied.

“May not be a lecture hall, but psych is very relevant in medical practice. In fact, I have taught several psych classes while an undergrad,” Y/N said with a smile.

Robby chuckled. “Why aren’t you a psych nurse then? Could use both your degrees for practical use.”

Y/N looked over to him. “I prefer the company of gunshots, motor vehicle accidents and stabbings to stabilising someone who is hallucinating,” she replied coldly. “Wait, we do that too,” she whispered the last part. “I use my psych degree here all the time.” Then she smiled at him, wickedly and smugly.

“Well, Dr. Freud–“

“Boy, do not call me that,” Y/N replied. “Do you know a single Freud theory? Because yeah, the main ones are rational, but they get more and more fucked. I would say I am rational and not fucked,” Y/N said. “Now, stop flirting with me and let’s get back to work.” She turned to him and crossed her arms. “You’re very welcome for using therapeutic rapport with your rookie. He will always remember me as the one who listened and responded perfectly.”

He looked at her, leaning in. “Rumour has it we are sleeping together,” Robby whispered as she stared at him. “Kids are talking. They are putting two and two together after you dropped the whole ‘I’m with an attending’ fact.”

“Oh, I bet you love it. Always wanted me to see me naked. Let me tell you, it’s great. Never had complaints,” Y/N hummed, winking as she walked away.

“Jesus, Y/N,” Robby mumbled, shaking his head.

Y/N was in the hallway. She leaned against it as she took a breath. She had too many deaths already this morning. The kid with the OD, the older man with his kids who was on his last legs, Mr. Milton, and she had heard of so many more. Normally, she was not affected by this. Normally, she would shrug it off. Normally, she would just deal with it and lets it be another day.

But right now, her head hit the wall as she stood in the stairway, letting the tears come to her eyes. Pulling her phone out of her pocket for the first time this morning, she turned it on and saw some messages.

One, Jack. There were a few.

First one, “Home now. Granny got meds. Let all the dogs out again. Going to bed. Will text when up.”

Second, an image of the dogs on the bed before he crashed. All four of them on the King size bed. Granny taking most of the bed as she laid on Y/N’s side of the bed. Her snowy face that had seen so much fast asleep. She was deaf in one ear, stubborn, hates fireworks, rides shotgun like she won the car and her bond with Jack…well, that was sacred.

Next to her was Ranger at the end of the bed. A mutt who they believe was a lab, shepherd or even a cattle dog. He was six. They adopted him, a foster fail. He was from the streets locally. Loyal, obedient, always on patrol. But a sweetheart.

Delta was on top of Jack, teeth on display, but in a way of happiness. Just over one, but a little shit yet loved. Found starving near a trailhead on her own. Y/N’s college friend, who was in vet med, told her about her, and Jack came home after a shift to see the German Shepherd, husky mix in their house. Always in trouble, but the baby, they call her Hellspawn constantly.

Then there was Winston, a gift to herself when she graduated. She always imagined owning a dog, and she used the last of her student loans to buy him off a breeder up North. A long-wire-haired dachshund who just hit eight was sleeping against Granny. Best buds. A diva doesn’t like mud, would not walk in anything but shine. Wears bowties on holidays and is the only one that slept in the bed. Sometimes Alaska (Granny) would sneak in if her joints were aching but Jack had a serious “no dogs in bed” policy until they moved in. Therefore, seeing all the dogs in the bed brought a smile to her face.

Then he followed with another text, “I know you, Dove. Something is up. I know you will tell me soon, but please don’t dwell on this alone. I’m always here. When I wake, thinking of getting those steaks you like. Will grill them tonight, and we can pop a bottle of that fancy wine you bought a while ago. I’m in your corner. Also, I will buy more coffee. The good type and not that shit you like. Saw there was a new documentary released on Netflix. However, I’ll budge and rewatch Bridget Jones’ Diary for like the hundredth time. Or throw on Sex and the City, and I’ll listen to you bitch about how Big isn’t right for Carrie because then you’ll go on about how much he needs to be more like me. I think we are on season three…but you might’ve been watching it without me. Not mad, just disappointed due to your betrayal.”

Y/N stared at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keys. A smile graced her features, biting down on her bottom lip as she stared at the phone. He sent these messages around eight-fifteen. He wouldn’t be up around eleven-ish…max twelve-thirty. He’s a man who could run off of three hours of sleep, max five. Rarely sleeps ever, truly.

God, she loved him.

She wanted to grab him by the cheeks and kiss his lips and scream, “I’m pregnant!” but she had her whole day ahead. Her eyes welled up again, but this time it wasn’t because of the death, the codes, or the overwhelming morning. It was him. That voice in her life – calm, constant, hers. Somehow, even his texts felt like they had arms, wrapping around her, telling her to just breathe.

Six years of them together. Basically, nine years of knowing him because she spent her last practicum at the ER. Though no one counts that. However, she officially had been working there for eight years as a nurse. One year of being professional and one year dodging feelings until Robby and Dana locked them in a room and said, “Talk it out”. Y/N stole his heart through therapeutic rapport and active listening. Also, he couldn’t get over her knowledge, critical thinking and quick moves.

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her under armour for her scrub top. A cheetah print that blended well with the grey the nurses wore. She looked at the photo again, and tears came to her eyes. Their life was so perfect. So fucking perfect.

Granny with her snowy muzzle and claim over the entire bed, Delta looking like a rabid gremlin despite the grin. Ranger on perimeter duty, even in his sleep and Winston in his curled-up dignity like he’d found the house himself.

He’s the only one who isn’t fully potty trained…normal Dachshund behaviour. Drives Jack fucking insane.

Jack always expressed that their dogs were like a personality test. Between the four of them, they’d collected every part of the spectrum. Though Y/N would shut the conversation down by bringing him psychological facts and research would Jack would joke by saying, “Talk dirty to me.” Which would always bring a smile to Y/N’s lips, and she would relate research to him, which he would actively listen to and ask questions.

Soulmates. Truly were.

He’d be asleep still. He was a light sleeper, and anything would wake him up. Ex-military, indeed, but also a man of the house. He wanted to be on guard constantly…like Ranger.

“Captain,” she began to type out. “You’ve made my morning. You don’t know how much I needed this. It’s been a day already. Steak sounds amazing. Please, could you make that mushroom sauce? I’m craving like potatoes as well, you choose. But I need to get some form of vegetables in me…kale? I can send you my warm kale salad with a vinaigrette recipe. Of course, parm and bacon! Ugh, your cooking gives me mind orgasms just thinking about it. Looking forward to it, Captain. Give several kisses to the babies. But…can we talk about another? Serena sent me a link to a Pitbull named Dolly who needs a home. Rescued from a fighting ring, used for breeding. Lovely, friendly and great with kids. She needs a home. Also, kinda down for something new. Can we watch something serious? Kind of feel like either finally watching the new season of Peaky Blinders or finally starting that crime show we keep talking about – can’t remember the name. However, with the way this shift is going, I might have to throw on something funny. Always with love<3. PS. Robby is on my ass. Send help. But he does it with love. He’s annoying.”

Y/N went back to her phone. Opening another message.

“Ugh, why do you have to be so smart? Mom did pills when pregnant with both of us, but you turned out to be a genius and I’m the fool? Fucking tests made me an idiot,” she read from her brother, Beckett.

Y/N was thirty. Beckett was about to turn twenty. He was in university. He was her half-brother, and Jack, who makes way too much money was paying for his tuition and dorm.

Jack and Y/N never talked about salary. Though, they both kind of know through their bank statements. Jack makes way over 400k – closer to 500k, while Y/N makes just over 100k. According to research, the average salary for a couple in America was 146k. The two of them combined just make around 600k. They bought their house a year ago. Though they could’ve done it with cash, they didn’t. Just a small mortgage. It was due to the two of them being smart, responsible and very them. Some renovations, but not many. Four bedrooms, one made an office for Y/N’s art.

It was good. Comfortable. Enough.

Though Y/N stared at the message from her brother, sighing. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just tired and stressed. Uni is hard. SO hard. Don’t overthink, bet you did fabulous. Take a moment to breathe, drink some water, and eat some food. You’ve got this, Beck. Always here, and if you need somewhere to crash, let me know. Jack is making steak tonight. Love you to Mars. Just Mars. Because I do hate how much you don’t clean up after yourself and date terrible woman. Also, I saw a physics equation that hasn’t been calculated on the university forum yesterday, but I doubt you can solve it as you don’t remember my birthday.”

Beckett’s reply came almost instantly, probably because he was already doom-scrolling after the test on the bus. His quantum physics test was behind him. A man of intelligence like her – physics with a speciality in quantum, while doing a minor in math but debating psychology like his sister.

“OMFG, you’re rude. I always remember your birthday. Maybe not Jack’s but he’s old as fuck. Send me the equation, you bitch. Down for steak. I’ll bus to you unless you want to help the poor, broke college kid ;). Still to Mars, I know all the planets now. Love u to the next universe, whatever it’s called. HAHA didn’t do na astrology major so off the case. Can I crash? Maybe Jack will let me shoot cans in the yard tomorrow. Tell the dogs I say hi, especially Ranger. Kidnap him. I will.”

She smirked. “Fine to everything. Text Jack about can shooting. Ranger can’t go home with you. He needs his raw mix, his stimulation ball, his best friends and the acre to run on. Your dorm room won’t suffice. Have you talked to Mom this week?”

She smiled, then sent another text. “Beck, you and I are intelligent. But don’t compare us. You’re brilliant, so incredibly brilliant in your own messy way. I will let Jack know you’re cashing and eating.” She then screenshotted and sent the equation. Ranger would love to sleep with you tonight. He is mainly a floor boy, sometimes a bed boy, but if Beck is in town, he’s a hot water bottle double. Then she sent the photo that Jack sent of the dogs.

Closing her phone, she placed it back in her back pocket. She needed a moment to think once again. Therefore, closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Her feet were heavy, her heart full but sore, and something about those dogs in bed with Jack just grounded her. Moments like this, she needed to hold onto with the world of chaos outside the stairwell.

Finally, she pushed off the wall and pulled her badge out, scanning back into the ER. Back to the trenches. Patients needed her. But her mind flickered back to what held her, the backyard at home, the garden, the little ceramic garden statues she bought from a thrift store that Jack despised, but refused to move and the patio light he swore he’d fix three weeks ago.

And dinner. She was excited for dinner.

However, she had to survive the shift. This whole twelve-hour shift, which she was a few hours in. For Jack. For herself. For Beckett and for that baby inside her.

Once back at her station, she checked her patients and was back administering reports. Her fingers were typing furiously on the keyboard, reading glasses on as always. Her notes were detailed, sharp, but a little chaotic because that was beautiful Y/N her special ways – packed with medical precision and a tiny bit of ranting.

She was writing when someone leaned on the counter in front of her. Nursing a coffee, a female cleared her throat, and Y/N instantly knew who it was. Y/N glanced up to see the woman staring at her.

“That’s the look of someone who wants something,” Y/N muttered.

“No, just curious,” she casually said.

Y/N’s typing paused.

“Curious about?”

Robby arrived next, sliding behind Dana with a knowing smile. “Curious about what, Dana?” he hummed, looking over to the older woman.

“I want to hear what she bet for the ambulance chase. I’m not betting, but I want to hear her logic, calculations and ideas,” Dana told Robby.

Robby hummed, nodding. “I would love to know,” he agreed, smirking and looking over to the younger nurse.

Y/N looked up, raising a brow. “Why?’

The two of them looked at each other before looking at Y/N. “Christ, Ace, I know you, you’ve calculated this. Bet you can count cards,” Robby replied, shrugging.

Y/N looked at him blankly. “How’d you know?”

Robby smirked. “Just a vibe,” he hummed.

Y/N stared at the two of them, raising a brow. “So that’s the rumour,” she muttered before going back to work.

Robby stared at her. “I heard about Atlantic City.”

Y/N’s face fell.

“Subtle remark about Vegas from our favourite ex-military man,” Robby added.

Y/N stared at him but decided to ignore his comment. “Have you bet?” she asked, sending him a small smile.

“I have, but I want hear yours,” he replied.

“Good, don’t want to change your idea,” she muttered, looking back at her computer.

“So can you?” he asked.

“Can I what?” she asked, still focused.

“Count cards?”

“I think you know,” she whispered.

“Would rather hear it from you, Ace.”

Y/N looked up, crossing her arms and raising a brow. “When I was twenty-two, I went to Vegas after my degree before I started here. I spent the three days strategically playing poker and let’s just say, my student loans were paid for afterwards,” she muttered, looking back at her computer.

Robby stared at her. “What about Atlantic City?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“You and Jack went to Atlantic City?” he replied.

“Um, he tagged along. I was there for a concert with some college friends. Loud noises for him are a big no, so it was me and some friends. This was a few years ago,” she replied, focused.

“And gambling?”

She looked up now. “Oh,” she replied, staring for a second before chuckling awkwardly. “We were new in a relationship. Wanted to impress him. So I gambled. Won.”

They both stared at each other. “Won what?” Dana asked.

“Enough,” she replied. “I’m charming,” Y/N added, clicking a few buttons for work. “I wear a sexy outfit, flirt with old, rich men and play the fool. No one suspects the pretty, young, sexy girl at the blackjack table to be counting cards.”

“So, you can count cards?” Robby remarked.

“Did I deny?” she hummed, staring at him and raising a brow.

Dana choked on her coffee. “Jesus.”

“You won?” Robby replied. “Like a lot?”

She shrugged. “I only bet enough to pay what I need to pay, then get out. No greed. No heat. They watch you like a hawk there, so you need to be smart. Me, well, there’s a key to counting cards. Know when to walk, when to halt, when to fold, let go, fool, you know…” she muttered, going back to her screen. “Leave a little dumbfounded, a little disappointed, a little fooled, but overall, chuffed with what you got.”

They just stared at her. “Remind me to go gambling wit her,” Dana replied. “I have to pay for my daughter’s trip to Europe for school.

Y/N looked up. “What are you doing next Friday? We can skip town? Head to our favourite town of gambling and beaches?” Y/n hummed.

Dana stared at her. “I genuinely don’t know if she’s joking or not,” she mumbled.

Robby shook his head. “I don’t know either,” he replied as he stared at her. “So, about this ambulance bet…”

Y/N leaned back in the chair, stretching her arms overhead before she gave them that signature smirk. The one which she outsmarted them.

“Simple,” she shrugged which they rose their brows. “It’s September. This means it initiation month for every frat in North America. This includes our city’s main university. According to my research, this year the invitation isn’t something subtle or simple, rather they want something more daring, idiotic, and more visible…” She looked at them. “Ambulance. Simple. Plus, free drugs, bonus points.”

Dana blinked and Robby just stared at her.

“How do you know this?” Robby asked.

Y/N shrugged. “I dated a frat guy in undergrad. Didn’t last long but had a thing about chaos and beer pong. I learned how the initiation season works. The whole goal is shock value, and for our local university, an ambulance is definitely shock value. So, I bet frat guys and in our zone. Because I secretly want the trauma to come in so I can shame them for ebing an imbecile.”

The two of them stared at her. Shocked. Face wide with curiosity.

“Vegas,” Dana whispered.

“I was twenty-two, broke, pissed off, and fucking brilliant. I had just finished my undergrad in nursing and psych. I needed to pay off it off…Let’s just my mother isn’t one with a healthy 529 Plan.”

“She taught you how to count cards?” Robby asked, intrigued.

Y/N chuckled. “That’s the only thing she taught me. That and how to be a shitty mom. However, it’s just math. It’s called finite mathematics. It’s a bunch of equations about the probability an card can be shown and all,” she hummed, winking. “Thanks, mother for the skill that got me through life.”

Robby just shook his head. “I have so many questions about that trip.”

She shrugged. “Not much to tell. I was alone. I went there to see my mom’s sister to help with something. I was bored, ended up at the casino and played my cards right. All classified. Need-to-know basis”

“Does our military boy know?” Dana asked.

Y/N chuckled. “Yeah. He learnt when we were at Atlantic City for a concert. He watched me. Then he just leaned over and was like, ‘You better split that pot with me, Dove. You’re buying dinner’ and I knew I would be with him forever.”

Robby chuckled, shaking his head. “You two are a goddamn Bonnie and Clyde.”

She rolled her eyes. “Hope not. Rather not be on the run and rather not die. Plus, we didn’t do anything illegal. If a casino finds out you are, you can’t be arrested; rather they ban you from that casino or ask you to leave. So,” she smirked, “I’m not a criminal.” They just stared at her. “We’re soulmates. Jack and I. War wounds, war hero, super hero, etc. And me, just someone with a brain too big to be true.”

They stared at her.

“If I win, let’s make this bet into a triple,” she smirked, winking. Then she got up and went to check on her patients.

1100

Y/N was back to sitting at the nurses’ station after checking in with her patients, administering meds, taking orders and being her normal nurse self. Dana was talking to her about her daughters. Princess asked to put the hijack of the ambulance on TV, which Dana allowed, earning a light chuckle from Y/N.

“Have you thought of names?” Dana asked as she checked her tablet.

Y/N glanced up. “Names?” she repeated.

“For fetus,” Dana nudged, looking over to the younger nurse. Y/N stared at her for a moment trying to register if she heard Dana correctly.

“Dana, I just found out yesterday,” Y/N replied. “I was told I could never get pregnant. No, I don’t have names.” She didn’t mean to be rude, but it seemed like Dana and Robby were more excited about this than Y/N. However, Y/N knew her body and knew not to have her hopes up. However, the way Dana looked over to her, she caved. “I’ve always loved Arlo for a boy or Otis. Charlotte for a girl. I’ve always loved the name Charlotte. So many nicknames like Lottie, Charlie, Harley,” Y/N mumbled.

Dana nodded. “Charlotte is pretty. Royalty name,” she replied. “Why are your names so British-based?” she chuckled, smirking.

Y/N shrugged. “I don’t know. I like regal names, but not something basic. Fuck, my boyfriend’s name is Jack…so unoriginal…so American. I need to be creative. I want something different, something new, but not wild or strange.”

Dana nodded. “Fair.” However, their conversation was soon ended when Santos came up.

“Got a second?” she asked, glancing between the two of them. She was jittery.

Y/N raised a brow. “Sure.”

“It’s never a second, but shoot,” Dana replied, looking at the intern. “Did you two hash it out?” she asked, looking over at Y/N.

Y/N smiled at the intern. “We’re right. All good. Just miscommunication,” she said, looking at Santos, who glanced at her before going back to Dana.

“Uh, yeah,” she muttered. “Anyway, I think there was an issue with a vial of lorazepam used on our last patient, and it should be reported to the drug manufacturer.”

Y/N raised her brow, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back in the chair. “What kind of issue?” she asked, curious.

Santos glanced to Y/N before going back to Dana. “The cap was really hard to take off, almost like it was super-sealed shut. I’m worried it could be a bigger issue.” The way she glanced at Y/N answered her question but refused to make eye contact, rather looking at the charge nurse instead.

“Like?” Dana asked, raising a brow.

“Like maybe the temperature wasn’t properly controlled during transportation and the seal on the vial melted shut, which could mean the medication is compromised.”

Y/N slowly nodded. “I doubt that. When transporting medications there is a lot of regulations…rules to follow to ensure that the medication stays at the proper temperature. Additionally, it’s not summer, so the outside heat won’t affect it,” she said with a shrug and her brows furrowed.

Dana glanced at her partner in crime, nodding in agreement with her. “True,” she said. “Are there any other vials affected?”

“Uh, just this one,” Santos replied, holding up the vial of benzodiazepine.

The way Dana stared at the intern, unimpressed mostly but bothered that she would bring something up like this when the chance of it happening was slim. “Ok,” she replied, tone short. “Check the manufacturer’s website, see if there’s been a recall of the lot number.” Then she glanced back down to her work.

“Um, what if this is the first irregular vial?” Santos added.

“Then hold on to the vial in case there are any other issues,” Dana said, hands on her hips.

Just then, a loud voice was heard. Langdon, who spotted Jake, Robby’s basically step-son walked into the ER. Y/N turned the chair to see the young boy, swaggering in like he owned the place. A smile came to her face.

“Jake the Snake! It’s 11 A.M. aren’t you supposed to be in school?” Dana asked, jumping into parent mode as Jake hugged Langdon before walking to Dana.

“Mom let me ditch for Pittfest,” Jake replied, hugging Dana.

Y/N got up, walking over to the boy.

“How’s your mama?�� Dana asked, engulfing him.

“Oh, she’s restoring some house in Squirrel Hill, so you know, she’s pretty busy.”

Just then, Jake’s eyes landed on Y/N. “Hey, resident genius,” he grinned as she hugged him.

“Hey, troublemaker,” she hummed back, giving him a short but loving hug. “How’s school? Math fucking you still?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Always, but Beck has been great with the tutoring,” Jake replied. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime. I would do it, but you know me, stuck here day and night,” she hummed back, winking.

“Are you looking for Robby?” Langdon asked, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, he’s got our festival passes,” Jake replied.

“Oh, you going together?” Langdon asked.

“We were supposed to, but, you know, I decided to go with a friend,” Jake replied, trying to be casual, but Dana and Y/N noticed the blush on his cheeks and the light smirk.

“Who’s the girl? What’s her name?” Y/N asked, nudging him. “Tell me about her…” she edged on, winking.

Jake, who became flustered, looked between Dana and Y/N. Not embarrassed, but face written with smitten love.

“Leah,” he muttered, voice low, shy but smirking at the same time.

“Ok, ok, ok, ok…don’t hold out on us,” Dana hummed as Langdon started to bug him.

“We need details. Where’d you meet? How long have you been together?” Dana asked, trying to get information.

“We met at junior lifeguards this summer. And we’ve been dating for two months. Yeah, she’s pretty great,” Jake said, smiling like a fool. The three of them stared at the teenager, smirking.

Young love.

“That’s sweet. I’m gonna go find Robby, let him know you’re here,” Dana replied.

“Young love. Remember young love, Dana?” Y/N hummed looking over to the blonde.

“Boy, do I ever,” Dana hummed, chuckling as she walked away to go find Robby.

Y/N smirked, patting Jake on the back before walking off as well.

Y/N heard her name called and she glanced up from charting to see Robby staring at her. He beckoned her over with his hands.

“Got a post-tonsillectomy haemorrhage,” Robby replied as she grabbed gloves.

“Ooo, messy…bloody, my favourite,” she hummed as she came over.

Robby shook his head, and a chuckle came from him. “Nebulised TXA, quick as you can.”

Y/N nodded as Whitaker came over, wearing morgue-coloured scrubs. She glanced over and rose a brow. “Downgraded?” she joked, smirking.

“This was all that was left,” he replied and Y/N chuckled, shaking her head as she grabbed onto the gurney and wheeled into trauma room two. Robby was speaking behind her to Whitaker, asking if he was up to it.

Once in the room, they got to work, transferring the patient from the gurney to a medical bed in the room. Y/N instantly grabbed the device that administers TXA and told the patient to breathe through it.

“Take long, slow, deep breaths on that,” Robby said. “The TXA is gonna help your blood clot.”

“Any medical problems?” Whitaker asked, writing down notes.

“No, just a ton of strep. That’s why I had the surgery,” the patient said.

“You take aspirin? Any other medications?” Whitaker continued to ask.

Y/N was working on getting basic labs and an IV in.

“Lungs are clear bilaterally, no stridor,” Robby said, stethoscope in hand as he pressed it to the patient’s chest.

“Ok, sure. Do you feel like throwing up? Any pain your belly?” Whitaker continued to ask as they all worked.

“No.”

“Labs?” Robby asked, adjusting a light.

“Uh, CBC, BMP, maybe coags?” Whitaker muttered.

“I would add a type and screen, just in case,” Y/N replied, working on the patient.

“Agreed,” Robby said.

“Good stats at 98%. BP is 115 over 80,” Y/N announced, glancing over to the monitor.

“Ok, good,” Robby said. “Four by four on ring forceps. Let’s take a look.” He handed over a pair of forceps to Whitaker.

“Ok,” Whitaker mumbled. “Head back, open wide for me.”

They inserted a device, checking for active bleeding, which was negative, however, there was some white and dark brown residue in his mouth where the tonsils used to be.

“That’s good. That’s a fibrinous clot. That means the TXA is working,” Y/N replied, faster than Robby could respond.

Robby looked over at Y/N, chuckling and shaking his head. They all knew she was a nurse, but had the knowledge like a doctor.

“Parents on their way?” Robby asked.

Y/N handed the patient the device that was administering TXA again. “Keep breathing this in,” she said.

“They’re in Baltimore for a wedding,” the patient said. “I didn’t want to bother them.”

“Trust me, they’re your parents, and you’re in the emergency room. It is never a bother. Write their numbers down, and I will call them.” Robby then looked over to Whitaker. “Call Head and Neck. Stay with him until they get here, ok?

Then he was gone.

Y/N continued working on the patient with Whitaker.

However, once the patient was stabilised, Y/N left. Minutes later, Whitaker was screaming, coming out of the trauma room, asking for help. Instantly, she was on her feet, grabbing gloves again and running over.

“It’s a post-tonsillectomy haemorrhage,” Whitaker said as a team came in. Langdon, the senior resident, jumped in as Y/N went to grab the suction device.

“Uh, Yankauer and sponge stick,” Langdon called out.

“He was stable. Then it just opened,” Whitaker stated, panic in his tone.

“Call the blood bank,” Langdon called out. “Two units, whole blood. Get a second line.”

Instantly, they all got to work. Quick moves, haste motives, they needed to stabilise this patient. Already, too many people have died today.

“Head and neck wouldn’t come down to see him,” Whitaker explained.

“Assholes,” Langdon muttered.

“Tachy to 120. His sats are down to 90%,” Y/N called out.

“Ok, get a high-flow nasal cannula, 100 of ketamine. Set up the GlideScope,” Langdon demanded. “Y/N, hold suction!”

Y/N halted.

“I’m going try for direct pressure,” Langdon explained, holding forceps and gauze, placing them in the patient’s throat. “If Head and Neck still won’t come down, call Garcia.”

“You’re good. You’re good,” Whitaker repeated, looking at the patient in the eyes and muttering the silent reassurance.

Robby came in as they worked. “What happened?”

Langdon looked up to see his attending. “Bleeder opened up. Ketamine on board to intubate.”

Robby rushed to the side.

“Sats holding 97,” Y/N said, looking over to Robby and Langdon.

“Can you get an airway?” Robby asked, leaning into Langdon.

“Come on,” Langdon muttered. “Keep pressure on the scab.”

Y/N continued to work around them, adrenaline kicking in and nothing else mattered that moment. However, the monitor continued to beep rapidly.

“Nothing but blood,” Langdon muttered, looking over to the screen where the camera was set up for intubation. “Can’t see the cords.”

“Sats 94,” Y/N called out.

Just then, Garcia walked in, coming over to the side.

“Not sure we have room for the tub with the sponge stick,” Langdon explained.

“If I pull out, there’s going to be even more blood,” Whitaker explained.

“Doesn’t look like you secured that airway,” Garcia jested.

“He’s working on it,” Robby fired back.

“Open a crike tray and prep the neck,” Garcia said.

Y/N instantly began to gather supplies for a crike.

“Y/N, hold on, I’m going in blind with a bougie,” Langdon called out. “I might be able to feel the tracheal rings.”

Y/N halted, holding the supplies in her hand, looking at the scene.

“And I might have a three-way with Madonna,” Garcia quipped. “Move.”

“Not happening,” Langdon fired back.

“Pressure.”

“Make room for the grown-ups,” Garcia stated, pushing her way in.

They continued to work, and Robby looked up to Y/N, seeing if she had any ideas. He shook his head, and instantly she froze for a moment, thinking hard. Closing her eyes, her brain fired, trying to retrieve information. Things she read, learnt, etc. Usually, she could recite knowledge in seconds, but something hit her now.

“Retrograde intubation,” she whispered, and Robby heard her clear.

Robby nodded. “Yeah, let’s try it.”

“A what?” Garcia asked, confused.

“There’s no obstruction. We just can’t see what we’re doing. So, we take a needle, and we cut it in the cricothyroid. We run a guide wire up and out of the mouth, and we slide the ET tube over the wire,” Robby said, grabbing supplies with Y/N. Both are working like a well-oiled machine.

“Never seen one before.”

“Sats 90,” Y/N called out. “It’s an alternative and considered rare when it comes to modern medicine,” she explained. “But we need to do it.”

“No time to play MacGyver with this kid,” Garcia added. “Time to crike.”

Robby looked over to Garcia. “It’ll be quick,” he hummed with a smile.

“You got one shot, and then I cut,” Garcia replied, serious.

Robby looked to Y/N. “Know what to do?” he asked, smirking.

“Always,” she hummed.

They got to work. Robby accessing the next with the syringe before looking over to Y/N. “Guide wire.”

She nodded, handing it to him. She watched him insert it, carefully, but like a professional, as if this was just habit.

“Let me know if you start to feel it up top,” Robby said, watching carefully his movements.

Y/N nodded. “Nothing,” she whispered. “More suction,” she said, looking over to Whitaker.

“I’m trying,” Whitaker muttered.

“Still can’t find it,” Y/N replied.

“Why are you letting a nurse help perform such a complicated procedure?” Garcia asked, raising a brow.

“Because she is the best of the best and knows a lot more than most people,” Robby replied. “If you worked in the ER, you’d know.” He then chuckled. “She has an IQ of 170–“

“178,” Y/N replied.

“Indeed and a eidetic memory,” he said.

“Doesn’t mean she can preform such a complicated procedure,” Garcia fired back.

Y/N glanced over to the surgical resident. “An MD doesn’t always mean you’re the best at performing medicine,” she snapped. “Sometimes us average folk can preform medicine too.”

“Average folk? You call yourself an average folk?” Langdon quipped, shaking his head with a smirk. “Now you’re making me feel like shit.”

“Enough,” Robby barked quickly.

“Keep going, Robby,” Y/N whispered.

“Sats down to 89,” Langdon said now, taking Y/N’s spot.

“This is not working,” Garcia stated.

“Give us a second,” Y/N replied a little too harshly.

“Until he arrests?” Garcia continued to bug.

“Oh my God, I’m gonna lose another patient,” Whitaker mumbled.

“Shut up, Whitaker. Let’s get on this,” Robby snapped at him lowly.

“Sats down to 87,” Langdon said now.

“Redirect the wire, Robby,” Y/N suggested. “Go at a different angle.”

“Sats still dropping, 86,” Langdon said, voice a little bit more rushed.

“Robby, I believe in you,” Y/N whispered. “You’re the cowboy, and it isn’t your first rodeo,” she whispered.

A few more seconds went by as they tried their best to guide the wire.

“Sats at 84,” Langdon said now. “We need to bag him.”

“Christ,” Y/N muttered. “Fucking Christ. Come on.”

“I’m sanctioning like crazy,” Whitaker said.

“Good job, Whitaker. What a good boy,” she replied, as she focused what’s on hand. “Sorry, that was a little rude. Treating you like one of my dogs,” she muttered. “Excuse my behaviour.”

Whitaker looked at her, but she was focused on the task at hand. “Um, it’s fine.”

Garcia was having enough. “Ok, we’re done playing doctor,” she bit. “Lose the wire. I’m criking this kid,” she barked the orders.

“Y/N, we tried, I’m sorry, but–“

“Shut the fuck up everyone,” Y/N bellowed. “Just shut the fuck up.”

Robby looked at her. “Y/N,” he tried. “We got–“

“Got it!” she hollered. “I got it!” Pulling the wire out through the mouth, smiling.

“You still don’t have an airway,” Garcia explained, brows furrowing.

“Y/N, keep the laryngoscope in place so the tube passes easily,” Robby whispered to her. Then looked up to grab more supplies. “Pass the T, the T tube over the wire.”

“Yup,” she whispered.

“Hand on to that wire,” Robby stated as he worked alongside her. “Do not let go of that wire.”

“Affirmative,” she whispered.

Robby nodded. “I’m going to give you a little slack so you can get past the cords,” Robby said as she continued to work. “Yeah, yeah, feel you at the trachea.”

Y/N nodded, looking at her work for a second, though her hands were in this kid’s mouth. “25 centimetres at the lips,” she said.

“That ought to do it. Pull the wire, bag him,” Robby commanded.

Y/N nodded, following suit, pulling the wire out.

“Balloons up,” Langdon muttered.

Y/N grabbed the bag, bagging the patient.

“Yellow on CO2. That’s good,” Whitaker muttered, smiling.

“That is very good,” Robby replied. He grabbed his stethoscope and checked the breathing pattern of the patient. “Good breath sounds bilaterally.”

“Sats coming up,” Y/N said, looking at the monitor as Langdon took over. “90…92…”

“Guess you’re gonna have to save that scalpel for another day,” Langdon replied, smirking.

“You guys got lucky,” Garcia replied before looking over to Robby. “Though letting a nurse preform a doctor’s duty–“

Y/N looked at her. “I know how to intubate. I was trained in nursing school on how to intubate,” she barked back.

“Not in a complex case like this,” Garcia argued back.

Y/N snickered and shook her head. “What’s the difference between being taught it in nursing school the normal way, compared to an attending doctor teaching you the complex way. Last time I checked, medical students, interns and residents learn from attendings as well. It’s all education. Patient isn’t dead and I saved a slash to his throat,” Y/N replied. “Skills, doll face. Skills,” Y/N smirked as she looked over to the surgeon. “Don’t underestimate nurses.”

It was amazing. She watched as Langdon and Whitaker took over with Jesse the other nurse. She stepped away. Holy shit, she preformed something, and it wasn’t a nurse’s duty. The adrenaline was serious, the flutter in her stomach was there, and a smile so grand, nothing could ruin her mood.

Y/N stepped out of the trauma room, heart still pounding in her chest, gloves and gown stained, hair falling out of the messy bun she had at the base of her neck. She pulled over the gown and gloves, throwing them in a biohazard bin and leaned on the wall next to the doors. She closed her eyes and exhaled like she was trying to release everything she was feeling.

This is why she did what she did. To help. To heal. To save lives. However, she was a doctor at that moment, not a nurse.

Robby followed her out a few seconds later. She didn’t have to look at him, knowing he was standing beside her, hands on his hips, that quiet little grin playing on his lips.

“Not bad,” he muttered.

Y/N smirked, opening her eyes. “Not bad?” she echoed, chuckling. “Yeah, it was grand. Thanks for trusting me.”

He turned slightly, facing her. “Jack taught you that?” he asked.

She looked at him before nodding. “Yeah. One night… a long time ago before we began being us. I think it was within my first or second year being a nurse. We’d had a really complex case, and he performed this. I was curious, questioned him about it and then he sat me down afterwards. Opened a textbook, pulled up videos and then set up a training dummy in an empty room. It’s just Jack being Jack, he taught me,” she replied. Then she shrugged. “Plus, I read about it when I was in nursing school. Well,” she chuckled, “we weren’t taught it. I was just bored one night in the summer before my practicum and decided to do a deep dive into complex medical care for the ER.”

Robby tilted his head as he listened, the corner of his mouth twitching into something half fond, half impressed. “You did a deep dive into emergency airway procedures for fun?”

Y/N smirked. “Hey, I was single, never went out, couldn’t afford a Netflix subscription, so I had to entertain myself somehow. Medical journals are free because I was in university, and YouTube exists for the general public. I always wanted to be in the ER. Needed to rock the boots off you ER cowboys when I eventually came,” she hummed, smirking.

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “You shock me constantly.”

Y/N shrugged. “I’m just abnormal. Quirky. Autistic. Fun.”

Robby’s brows furrowed. “You have ASD?” he asked.

Y/N nodded. “Yeah, I actually just got diagnosed like a year or two ago. Level one, but yeah, autistic. Got my brother to get tested as well, and he has it too.” He nodded. Though he wasn’t shocked. “It’s not a secret, Robby,” she added. “I’m not purposely hiding it, if you think…”

Robby just shook his head, more in understanding than anything. “It doesn’t’ surprise me,” he replied eventually. “Just never thought about it,” he mumbled.

Y/N shrugged. “Well, like you say a lot, I keep you on your toes and constantly surprise you.” Then smiled. “Helps my reputation as the terrifying, cut throat, blunt, knowledge nurse who’s incredibly sexy,” she hummed, winking.

“And the one who suggests the med students to write death letters–“

“Hey! I can quote research on that!” she hollered, holding her hands up. “Plus, Jack taught me that. So, it’s not the sparkle that adds to my sparkly personality.”

Robby chuckled. They stood in silence for a beat, both caught in the residue of adrenaline and awe. Robby glanced at her again, that softness back in his gaze – the kind that only ever appeared when he was genuinely proud.

“You know, you were a doctor in there,” he said eventually. She looked up from looking down to her blood-stained sneakers. “Straight up. That wasn’t nursing. That was next-level clinical judgment and technical skill.”

She just nodded before shrugging, trying to play it cool. “I’m just good at learning and doing what I do.”

“No,” he replied. “You were good. Excellent. Terrific.”

She smirked. “Going soft on me, Cowboy? Or just flirting with me?”

He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. He placed his hands in his pockets and began to rock back and forth on his feet. “I’m going to ignore that,” he hummed, though they all knew he enjoyed her comments. “I am going to suggest something which I know you will swat away, but–“

She knew what he was going to say and instantly, she groaned, throwing her head back. “Don’t.”

“I think you should consider going to med school and becoming a doctor,” he finished his idea, looking at her. Y/N just scoffed. “Why didn’t you?”

Y/N looked back at her feet. “Because I couldn’t,” she said honestly.

He rose a brow. “Because?” “I needed a good paying job, a quick education and something I loved,” she replied. “Nursing made sense.”

“What do you mean?” he continued to ask.

She met his eyes. “You know me–“

“I don’t know you as much as you think,” he interrupted. “I know what you let me know. I know you have a younger brother, and you’re distant with your mom. I know you love Jack with everything in you, but,” he paused, letting out a breath.

“But?” she asked, confused.

“He wants to marry you, you know?” he said. She raised a brow, confused. “But he’s scared to because he knows that you’re scared of things being too much.”

Y/N let out a loud sigh. “He can marry me. I just don’t want it to be a big deal,” she eventually said. “I also don’t want to,” she sighed, licking her bottom lip. “He lost his last wife. I just don’t want to–“

“I know. But back to what I was saying, why didn’t you go to medical school?”

She stared at him for a beat. She trusted him. Everything about him. She loved him like a brother. “What has Jack told you?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Nothing. Says its not his story,” he replied.

She nodded, smiling. What a good man. “Right,” she muttered, looking back down. “Like said, I need a quick degree so that I could get a job quickly, stable, excellent pay. Then there’s my personal needs that I needed something different everyday and I needed something that challenged me.”

“So, nursing?”

She nodded. “I had a brother to raise,” she said. “I became his legal guardian at nineteen. I took care of him. I’m not from money. My childhood was a mess. Mom’s an addict. My dad…I didn’t know him till I was seventeen. Beck’s dad is gone. We believe he’s in prison. I couldn’t let my brother live that life. Then when I graduated at twenty-two, I worked my ass off to give him the life he deserved. Fuck, I worked my ass off in nursing school to provide for him. I worked at the hospital as a mental health worker. My life hasn’t been easy. Fuck, it’s finally easy now and I deserve that,” she whispered.

Robby stood there, quiet for a long moment, the hallway still around them except for the distant hum of machines and the low murmur of voices. For once, no screams. He stared at her. Then nodded slowly. He knew her. He knew her a lot more than she thought, maybe not fact-wise, but behaviour-wise.

“You do deserve it,” he said. “Every inch of what you’ve created for yourself, you’ve deserved. But I think you do deserve more.”

Y/N pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek and nodded, exhaling. “I know,” she whispered, looking up to the Gods above as tears came to her eyes. “I’m praying to the science Gods for this baby, Robby,” she whispered. “But I’m letting life take its course,” she looked back at him, smiling. “Don’t push me to go to med school. For one, it doesn’t make sense if this baby does happen,” she whispered. “Two, I would scare Jack away with school me. Assignments, quizzes, labs, exams, etc. I’d be a stressed out like a motherfucker.” Robby chuckled. “Three, I’m thirty. I’m too old for that shit anyway. I’ll be forty when I’m done with school and residency.”

Robby stared at her. “I would hug you, but there are rumours about us,” he whispered. She rolled her eyes. “Come here,” he muttered, grabbing onto her arm and pulling her into a hug. His arms wrapped around her, comforting, warm and strong, holding her close. “You deserve this baby. No matter what,” he whispered into her ear. “But I’m offended if you think thirty is old, let alone forty. Do you know how old I am?”

She smiled, chuckling. “I’m fucking a forty-nine-year-old and I call him my old man,” she whispered, looking up to his eyes. “But you were my old man first before that one came and stole my heart,” Y/N whispered, smiling. “Now you’re just my cowboy.”

Robby exhaled through a smile, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes – an ache he masked too quickly. Robby loved her. He loved her within weeks of knowing her, but he never pushed himself to pursue that love. Jack stole her in two years, and both would never know the truth.

He pulled back enough to look at her, one hand still resting at her shoulder. Epitome of beauty, but the definition of genius. He stared at her. The way her cheeks had a light blush to them, bright eyes filled with life and hair long but cared for. She was everything he needed, but she was happy with another man. His brother from another mother. His best mate. Old rival. And he was happy that she was happy with him.

“Well,” he said softly, “I was a goner the way you rolled in the ER wearing what was it, turquoise and pink under shirt for your scrubs and told me off on how I was charting.” He chuckled. “What was the word you used?”

“Methodical,” she whispered. “I said you weren’t methodical with your charting.”

“Right,” he nodded. “You didn’t even work here yet. A practicum student. Cocky as hell–”

“Intelligent. Confident. There’s a difference.”

“Say all you want, woman,” he hummed, smirking as she gave him a mock glare. “Jack got to you first, but me, well, I’ll always be proud of you, Ace.”

She smiled, warm and full of depth. “I know,” she whispered. “You’ve always been in my corner and one of my greatest mates.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll always be here,” he replied, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Whether you’re a nurse, a doctor, or the woman who made me cry with a speech about grief in the supply closet once.’

Y/N looked at him, trying to remember before laughing. “Oh my God, I forgot about that. A long time ago. You were such a wreck.”

“I was going through a breakup!”

She nodded. “I’m good, though. Great therapist, but I prefer blood over tears,” she replied, winking. “Nurse over psychologist.”

“Cheers to that,” he hummed,

Then they stared at one another. “I’m not going to med school,” she whispered, glancing down. “Don’t try to get Jack to convince me…”

He chuckled. “No promises. But if you ever change your mind, I will write you a letter of recommendation so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’ll hold you to that if I do indeed get a midlife crisis,” she teased.

“Already got the dogs and the man. All you need is the convertible and the medical degree.”

She smirked. “I love my Bronco. But degree…mhmm we shall see. But I’m happy with just my vegetable garden and the ability to raise a baby.”

Robby’s face softened again. He wanted to reach out, cup her cheek and rub the tears that were welling under her eyes. She wasn’t a crier, but the hormones… He thought better than to do it. “You’ll be a great mom, Ace.”

“Thank you,” she muttered. “I hope so. Didn’t have the greatest person to look up to, but Jack’s mom…she’s amazing.”

He nodded. “You raised Beckett.”

She scoffed. “Barely. Well, tried my best. I think he turned out ok.”

“Kid’s doing quantum physics,” Robby said with a raised brow. “He’s basically building the future–“

There conversation got short because Robby got called somewhere. He nodded, hummed his response before looking at her again. “I’m always in your corner,” he whispered.

“Likewise, Old Man,” she replied smirking.

He shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t make me move you to triage,” he replied, smirking.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she barked back as he walked away.

taglist:

@bubbleraccoon00

@beebeechaos

@travelingmypassion

@kaisanpoint

@sweetwanderlust05

@kmc1989

@hiireadstuff

@dizzybee03

@keileighr

@wolfbc97

@introvertathome

@sharkluver

@katydunn047-blog

Hope you enjoyed. xoxo

Ava <3

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader

617 notes · View notes

kaidatheghostdragon · 1 year ago

Text

Good reveal au, where after learning phantom's identity and realizing the atrocities that the GIW have committed (or alternatively, ethical science au, where they find out the GIW plagarized them), the fenton parents decided to create the 'ultimate ghost-ending weapon' and sell it to the agents.

They go absolutely overboard, describing to the agents in meticulous detail how it evaporates any ghost it hits near-instantly and describing it quite ruthlessly in the blueprints, and soon the GIW have raplaced all their main weapons with the new gun.

Except it doesn't actually kill ghosts. It's the Fenton Bazooka. You know, the one that creates a portable portal to suck the ghost back into the ghost zone? What they actually did was retool it slightly to make it look more grusome than it actually is. They even added a beacon in Phantom's Keep, which all Fenton Bazookas will target when they open a portal, so the ghosts are always delivered to the keep.

From there, Phantom stationed an emergency medical team at the keep to treat the many injured and ragged ghosts that the GIW 'destroyed,' and to explain what just happened.

What they didn't anticipate was that now that the GIW have a mass-produced weapon that they believed would effectively eradicate ghosts, they would go on the offensive. They have a number of cities they've been monitoring but didn't want to get involved in without better tools.

One of those cities is Gotham.

And the Bats are ectocontaminated enough to register as ghosts.

Batman witnessed several of his children get evaporated by green energy weapons within mere moments of each other. He's absolutely gutted. Devastated. They didn’t even stand a chance.

He'll get his revenge, and it's frighteningly easy to track the weapon to private subcontractors. The Doctors Fenton, in Illinois. Their research calls for the genocide of all ghost kind, and apparently, that war started by killing his own children.

His children will not die in vain.

He gets to Amity Park and finds the Engineer's Nightmare of a building that is Fentonworks, but that night, before he can hack through the security and break in, one of the windows opens.

It's one of his kids that he had watched evaporate before his very eyes. They give him a silent signal of one of their identifying security codes and gesture for him to come inside.

Is it a trap? A prank in poor taste? Utterly genuine?

He goes through the window.

All of his dead kids are there, wearing borrowed pajamas and only their dominoes to conceal their identities. Daniel Fenton (son of the Fentons, this is his bedroom, has voiced a few arguments against his parent's views, but still an unknown) is among the crowd of teens and young adults, twirling on an office chair and obnoxiously sipping a capri sun.

"First thing you need to know, Bats," Daniel says after finishing his drink, "is that my parents are absolutely NOT genocidal ectophobic scumbags, and that is the reason why your kids are still alive."

#the bats are not the first human liminals that the giw 'killed'#whenever humans land in the keep frostbite immediates calls phantom to take them back to earth #alternate scene at fentonworks:#bruce spies maddie on the phone and overhears her saying she'll 'inform batman when he arrives'#its frostbite/phantom on the phone telling her to keep an eye out for any bats because some of their team was 'killed'#and shortly after she spots batman spying on her and gestures for him to come in #and when theyre both in the lab the spectre speeder returns chock full of various bats and team phantom members #needless to say bruce is very relieved and incredibly confused #and his kids have a pretty wild story to tell #i deliberately left which kids vague #but i imagined jason and tim for sure and possibly two others #they hadnt left fentonworks yet as to not inform the giw that they survived and knowing that bruce would find them #it would also give away the fenton's trick and dont want to reveal that before the agency has been stopped #so they have to make a plan that doesnt reveal that theyre alive or expose the fentons deceit too quickly #the fentons may have to be temporarily arrested by the justice league while the investigation is ongoing #to hide the fact that they werent actually helping the giw #dpxdc #dp x dc

2K notes · View notes

sweetreveriee · 5 months ago

Text

WILDFIRE AID RESOURCES MASTERLIST

these are all the places ive found helping those affected by the la fires. please stay safe everyone <3

______________________

FREE THINGS:

Planet Fitness Offers Free Things (ends January 15)

Form To Get Free Temporary Housing From AirBnB (space limited, eligibility criteria required)

List of Restaurants Offering Free Meals (updated January 9)

______________________

UPDATED MAPS:

CalFire

Watch Duty

______________________

INFORMATION:

List of Updated Info

Spreadsheet of Resources (by location and type of aid)

If you have anything to add to the list linked above, comment here

______________________

SHELTER:

If you need shelter, text "SHELTER" and your zip code to 43362 for nearest open shelters

open shelters:

Arcadia Community Center – 375 Campus Drive, Arcadia, CA 91007

Ritchie Valens Recreation Center – 10736 Laurel Canyon Blvd., Pacoima, CA 91331

Pan Pacific Recreational Center – 7600 Beverly Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90036

Westwood Recreation Center – 1350 Sepulveda Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90025

El Camino Real Charter High School – 5440 Valley Circle Blvd, Woodland Hills, CA 91367

Pasadena Civic Center – 300 East Green Street, Pasadena, CA 91101

Pomona Fairplex – 1101 W McKinley Ave, Pomona, CA 91768

YMCA of Metropolitan Los Angeles - locations unaffected by fire are open and providing free childcare to those who need it. also offering evacuation sites, temporary shelter, basic amenities, and showers.

for updates and locations click here

______________________

TRANSPORTATION:

CalTrans Updated Road Closure List

Fare collection suspended at Metro through January 9. A list of updates and changes that occurred because of the fires and winds can be found here.

Lyft is offering two free rides of 25$ each (50$ total) for 500 riders using code CAFIRERELIEF25. offer ends January 15.

Uber is offering a free ride of up to 40$ for those who use code WILFIRE25 in the wallet section of the app

______________________

ANIMAL CARE:

List of Shelters (check capacity and availability)

______________________

MENTAL HEALTH:

LA County set up a 24/7 hotline to help with anxiety, distress, and grief. Call (800) 854-7771.

______________________

WHAT TO PACK:

remember the six p's:

people and pets

papers, phone numbers and important documents

prescriptions, vitamins, and eyeglasses

pictures and irreplaceable memorabilia

personal computer, hard drive, and disks

plastic (debit, credit, ATM cards) and cash

what to put in your "go bag":

face masks/face coverings

three-day food supply (nonperishable)

three gallons of bottled water per person

map marked with AT LEAST two evacuation routes

basic first aid and medical supplies

sanitation supplies

toothbrushes, toothpaste, hair brush, deodorant

period products

prescriptions and medications

a change of clothes (bring AT LEAST one warm coat)

spare eyeglasses or contacts (if needed)

extra set of car keys

chargers for your devices

cash, credit/debit cards, traveler's checks

flashlight

battery powered radio

EXTRA BATTERIES

(copies of) important documents such as birth certificates, passports, insurance, a list of emergency contacts and phone numbers

your wallet (ID CARD)

food, water, and meds for your pets (checklist here)

a can opener

not necessary but you might want to bring:

valuable items that can be easily carried

family pictures that cannot be replaced

blankets

more than a day's worth of clothes

important school supplies (for students)

books

trophies, medals, certificates, awards

pens and paper

self defense tools (pepper spray, pocket knives, etc) (NOT ENCOURAGING VIOLENCE. FOR SELF DEFENSE ONLY)

extra shoes

fuzzy socks

non-essential hygiene products

gum/breath mints

ALWAYS PREPARE BEFOREHAND. EVEN IF YOU ARE NOT DIRECTLY IMPACTED, THE FIRES CAN GROW. KEEP YOUR BAGS IN THE CAR SO YOU CAN EVACUATE QUICKLY IF NEEDED.

______________________

WANT TO HELP?

Best Friends Animal Society

LA Fire Department (donations sent directly to first responders)

LA Food Bank

LA Works

MusiCares

Salvation Army

Santa D'Or (in need of fosters for displaced cats)

Silverlake Lounge (also offering a communal gathering place)

Sweet Relief Musicians Fund

Dream Center (in need of volunteers + non-perishable food items)

The Red Cross

We Are Moving the Needle

World Central Kitchen

United Way of Greater LA

As of January 9, the Westwood Recreation Center and Pan Pacific Park are at full capacity and not accepting additional donations. Check with all organizations by phone, text, or email before donating if possible.

______________________

IF THERE'S ANYTHING I MISSED OR MESSED UP PLEASE ADD IT OR LET ME KNOW SO I CAN FIX IT. REBLOG TO SPREAD AWARENESS!!!!!!!! stay safe everyone

424 notes · View notes

revelboo · 4 months ago

Note

Please don't leave us on a cliffhanger with Drift like that, I NEED to read that awkward af conversation between him and reader about spark bonding. Need him to have a crisis about it please

Sure!

Samurai Code Pt 6

Drift x Reader

• Servos flexing against you when you start leaning, little cheek resting on his thumb, he vents. Wearing out quicker every rotation. Spark twisting as he carries you down the hall, realizing he’s heading toward the Medbay not his quarters. Gotten so used to seeking out Ratchet, asking his advice and he just likes the irritable bot. Depends on the gruff medic for guidance, and right now he needs that. Would a partial spark bond be enough to keep you stable? Remembers hearing about Cybertronians fully bonding with organics in the past, but he’s not sure that you’d forgive him if he tied you to him for life. Knows you want to go home, and he’d be taking away your choice. Denta grinding, he glances down and you’re watching him so he forces a smile. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he reassures you, lying so easily.

• Eyes almost closing, you don’t know what spark bonding is, but you’d seen his expression when Brainstorm had suggested it. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to do it, and you get it. You’re nothing but a stranger he got saddled with. Not his problem and he’s already wasted so much time trying to help you, make you comfortable. But he’s so sweet he might spark bond you anyway if it might save your life. One more burden you’re pushing off on him and you don’t want to be his burden. His problem to resent. You like him, love him for trying so hard.

• Letting himself into the Medbay, he’s aware of the beat of your heart against his servos, of the feel of you breathing. So fragile. Needing him. Finding Ratchet busy sanitizing tools, he offers the medic a smile when he frowns at you in his hands. Knows the doctor takes his inability to help you as a personal affront. “I spoke with Brainstorm,” Drift says, carrying you to the nest of cushions and blankets Ratchet keeps tucked in a corner for visiting humans. And you slide out of his hands when he tips them against the nest, sprawling on your belly. “He had an idea,” he adds as Ratchet noisily clears his vents to startle you.

• Need to stay awake. Want to as you lay your cheek on an arm and try to focus on the two bots. “You went to that maniac for medical advice?” Ratchet snarls, setting a tool down hard enough to make you flinch. “And what idiocy did he fill your processor with?” Smiling despite yourself at Ratchet’s temper, you like the gruff medic. Sure, he’d frightened you at first, intimidated you, but you’d quickly realized that he really does care.

• “He said I could stabilize them with a spark bond,” Drift says, watching Ratchet’s expression empty. Knows what the medic is thinking. How blasphemous an unwilling bond is and if he doesn’t explain it to you, give you a choice, it would be. Taking away your choice to save your life and knows he can’t do that. Grimacing, he looks at you and finds you still awake watching them both. Frowning. “A spark bond is the ultimate display of trust and love. Two mates bonding themselves together for life.” It’s almost a sacred thing.

• “Primus,” Ratchet snarls, a hand rubbing his helm. “You can’t just bond on impulse.” Stiffening, your lips part. That’s why he seemed unhappy with Brainstorm’s answer. The scientist had told him to willingly bind himself to you for life. To lose his choice and his chance to find a real relationship. Someone he actually loves and your heart aches that he’d even consider it. ‘No,’ you hear yourself say and Drift frowns. ‘I’m not spark bonding you. We don’t even know each other.’ And he’s not ruining his life to save yours, because what kind of life would that be?

#transformers x reader #drift x reader #mtmte drift

245 notes · View notes

amoromniaodium · 2 months ago

Text

Animal Kingdom

Andrew Pope Cody

Thank you all for reading the preview! I didn’t expect such a positive reaction to my writing. Your likes and comments have truly inspired me — I already have two more parts planned. Feel free to share your thoughts, whether good or bad. I always appreciate honest feedback.

We’ll be seeing more of the Cody family soon, but I wanted to give you some background on Pope and my character first.

Chapter 1

The Revival

—

When she was five, she witnessed something she’d only later come to recognize as bipolar disorder in her mother.

Her mother didn’t believe in medication. Said it made her too foggy, too far from herself. So she replaced prescriptions with “the good drugs.” And from then on, her daughter saw things no child should ever see — things done to her mother, things done by her mother.

By the age of ten, she was the unofficial head of the household. She cleaned, cooked, kept the apartment running. She stole — not because she liked it, but because it was the only way to survive. She lifted money from the men her mother brought home. Took soap, toothpaste, and pads from school. Stole lunches from bigger kids. She was a pro.

She loved her mother. Deeply. Enough to make sure she ate, drank water, showered. Enough to keep watch when her mother’s “friends” were over. She loved her even when she didn’t understand her — especially then. That’s where her obsession with psychology began.

She had seen people overdose. Seen how depression and addiction twisted people until they became unrecognizable. She didn’t judge. She watched. She asked questions. She wanted to understand. Needed to understand.

Her schoolwork improved. She started talking to the men who didn’t make her stomach twist. She made them feel seen. Safe. And in return, they opened up. She never gave advice. She just listened. By sixteen, she had done more emotional labor than most people do in a lifetime.

She read psych books from the library and used the tools they taught. Guided conversations, helped others find their own answers. She helped build relationships, and quietly helped end toxic ones, too.

They cried in front of her. Sat with her in silence. Let their rage unravel in the safety of her presence. And when her mother spiraled — manic or depressed — they were there. They helped her study. Helped her apply to university. Helped her celebrate when she got into med school on a partial scholarship.

And they were there when her mother overdosed.

In the quietest, darkest part of her chest, she was relieved.

She left. She studied. She was great at it — not just because she was smart, but because she understood. She could see pain before it was spoken. And she was determined to help fix both mind and body. That’s what led to her final rotation, at Folsom State Prison — and to the man who would change her completely.

⸻

Her first day at Folsom, she knew: this was not where she wanted to be.

Her attending was kind — as kind as one can be after decades in a place like this. He laid out the rules, the code, the expectations. Who to trust. What not to wear. How to walk, how to speak. He gave her a list of patients, diagnoses, medication routines.

That’s when she saw his name.

Andrew David Cody.

A massive dose of Thorazine. Enough to sedate rage. She didn’t meet the inmates until two weeks in.

And the moment she saw his eyes — dark, empty, emotionless — she should have known it wouldn’t end well.

⸻

There’s something to be said about leaving employment to return to school.

After her residency, she realized she didn’t want to be a prison psychiatrist. Not because she couldn’t handle it — but because she had no real power to help. She thought of a pair of eyes — dark, sad, and unblinking — and knew that wasn’t enough.

So she returned. Started a certificate in criminology, hoping to understand them better. But maybe it was something simpler than that: maybe she just didn’t want to grow up. Not yet.

Maybe she should work at a hospital in California. Maybe she should leave the country. Or maybe… maybe she should go back to her mother’s apartment. Let herself rot quietly, the way her mother had.

But then, walking out of class one evening, she saw him.

Not saw — felt.

A presence.

Straight-backed. Arms at his sides. Short sleeved shirt buttoned to the top like a priest.

And eyes — hawk-like, locked on her.

Andrew Cody.

But this time, for the first time since he’d been released, there was something new in his gaze.

A flicker of light in all that darkness.

⸻

There was something to say about the first time she saw him in months —it wasn’t fear that struck her. It was relief. A twisted kind of happiness.

Not about how he found her. Not how he knew where to look.

But because he was out. He had made parole.

Her first instinct, naive as it was, hoped he hadn’t gone back.

Not to that house. Not to her.

That maybe he’d gotten his own place, finally freed himself from the grip of that obsessive, broken mother — and the suffocating loyalty to his family.

But no.

She knew better.

Of course he hadn’t. They were the only thing he had ever known.

Letting go of them would be like letting go of oxygen.

She understood.

The only reason she ever left was because her mother was six feet under. These thoughts flickered and died the moment she saw him — standing there awkwardly, stiff as ever, eyes locked on her like always.

She moved toward him, not quite running, but not walking either.

Stopped just short of touching distance.

“Andrew!” she breathed. “You… you did it. Oh my God, I’m so happy for you. I knew you could do it.”

He didn’t say a word.

Just stared. But she saw it — the barest twitch of his mouth, a subtle lift of his brow.

He was happy to see her.

“How are you feeling? Have you seen your brothers?” she asked gently.

He replied, voice low. “Yes.”

She didn’t ask about his mother. She didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to open that door. Not yet.

So she reached for the first thing that surfaced — something safer.

“The fountain… did Baz ever finish it?” Her voice came out too light, too casual — even she could hear it.

But it was the only thing she could grab. He had once told her Baz promised to finish it while he was gone.

A flicker again — this time annoyance. A tilt of the head, the slightest grimace.

“No. I’m making it.”

So he was back there.

“Ah,” she said softly. “Well… I’m not really surprised. From what you told me about Baz…”

(From what your eyes told me. From what your silences said.)

“But it’s good, right? Keeps you busy. Keeps your mind quiet.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared.

“Right. Sorry… are you hungry? Want to grab something to eat?”

“I thought you were done with school,” he said.

“Yeah. I was. I don’t know —” she gave a nervous laugh, tugged at her sleeve, “—I guess I’m just not ready for the real world yet.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I understand.”

“I know you do, Andrew,” she said gently. “Let’s go. There’s this Mexican place nearby — it’s amazing.”

She reached out instinctively, about to touch his arm — but paused.

He was watching her hand. Not with fear. Not quite with hope. Just a quiet, unreadable stillness. Like he wanted it more than anything but wouldn’t let himself show it.

There was something in his eyes — not pleading, but almost… waiting. The kind of stillness a child holds when something precious is near, afraid to move and scare it off.

She hesitated, her fingers curling slightly.

She knew how vulnerable he was in that moment. Knew what it meant — what it would mean — to touch him here, like this. There was desire under it, yes, but not sexual. Not yet. It felt more like comforting a child after a nightmare.

So she moved slowly.

When she finally took his hand, his fingers didn’t flinch. Didn’t tighten. Just rested there — solid, warm, resigned.

But he didn’t pull away.

And that was everything.

She led him forward, her grip light, his steps heavier — like he was trying not to fall into her.

#andrew cody #andrew pope cody #animal kingdom #animal kingdom fanfic #andrew cody x reader #Andrew Cody x Oc #andrew pope cody x reader #shawn hatosy #pope cody x oc #pope cody x reader #pope cody #obsession

190 notes · View notes

aftertheleaving · 1 month ago

Text

Not Even a Little Cocaine

Pairing: Tim Drake x Reader

Word Count: 465

Genre: Fluff, Humor, Slice of Life

Warnings: Mild language, mentions of injuries, mention of drugs.

Summary: You find an old vigilante first aid kit hidden behind your radiator. It’s way less scandalous than you expected. Unfortunately (or fortunately), Tim Drake walks in right as you're cracking it open.

You hadn’t expected to find anything behind the old radiator. Honestly, you were just trying to reach the charger that had slipped back there—again—but instead, your hand thumped against something metal.

A dented, nondescript tin box.

You stared at it, half expecting it to be either a bomb or some really sad lunchbox. But your curiosity won out. It could be anything. Money. Secret documents. Blackmail material. Even, for all you knew, a cursed Gotham relic.

You tried seven ways to open it—none worked. Until finally, wedging a screwdriver into a tiny gap between the lid and the tub, bracing it against your kitchen counter with one foot, one hand holding the tiny screwdriver and the other using a ceramic cup to whack the end of the screwdriver, it popped open with a dramatic click.

Inside? Bandages. Gauze. Antiseptic. A pair of gloves. Scissors. A tiny flashlight. Some weird tool you didn’t recognize. Definitely not cocaine.

You blinked at it. “Wow. Not even a little cocaine.”

That’s when your door clicked open.

“Hey,” Tim called casually, clearly expecting a normal afternoon.

You didn’t even look at him. “Is there any reason there was a literal vigilante first aid kit behind my radiator? Like… should I be worried someone’s gonna come reclaim this at 3AM?”

Tim froze. “Wait. You found that?”

You turned, holding up a roll of gauze like you were presenting a fine wine. “That?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. Yeah. That’s mine. From… a while ago. When I used to crash here. Sometimes. Without you knowing.”

You blinked. “You broke into my apartment?”

“Not in a creepy way.”

“There’s no non-creepy way to break into someone’s apartment, Tim.”

He shrugged helplessly. “I was bleeding?”

You sighed, laughing a little despite yourself. “Of course you were. Because Gotham.”

He walked over, peering into the kit like it was a time capsule. “I forgot I even left this here.”

You picked up the scissors and waved them at him. “So this is yours, or did Gotham’s underground medical fairy leave it for me?”

“Definitely mine. I used to stash supplies around in case I couldn’t make it home.”

“In case of what, exactly? Getting stabbed again?”

“Statistically speaking…”

You gave him a long look and leaned against the counter, twirling the gauze. “This still would’ve been way more interesting with a secret code or, like, drugs.”

Tim blinked at you. “Drugs?”

You dramatically pulled a pencil from the counter and held it in your mouth like a cigar. “Not even a little cocaine,” you said, channeling noir detective energy with all the seriousness you could muster.

He groaned, but there was laughter threatening to spill out. “No drugs. Naughty. You’re cut off.”

You grinned. “Fine, but I’m keeping the bandages. I earned those.”

Im going to drop dead to sleep now. Bye byee .

#tim drake x reader #tim drake #dc x reader #x reader #reader #reader insert #dc #dc universe #fluff #dc fanfic #dc vigilante #random #dc red robin #red robin #red robin imagine #red robin x reader

158 notes · View notes

papoochu · 5 days ago

Text

Next in the council series is "The Machine", Tomoe Tsurugi! Though for ArtFight, she'll go undercover as Tachibana Nagi!

Now that I have 3 council members up, I think I'll make a pinned masterpost on my blog if you want to see the others! 3 down, 9 more to go!

Background

Tachibana = noble samurai clan name symbolizing honor and legacy, deeply tied to Japan’s warrior history

Nagi = meaning “to mow down” or “to sweep away”; often used to describe the motion of a naginata, a sword, or wind in battle

Born 1967 in Tokyo to a strict traditional family, proud of their samurai lineage

Learned various martial arts and weaponry, but excelled in swordsmanship

Raised on stories of Onna-Musha, Tomoe Gozen, and the codes of bushidō

On her mother’s side, descended from survivors of the Nagasaki atomic bombing (1945)

Childhood During Japan’s Economic Miracle:

Raised amid Japan’s postwar boom, a time of gleaming technology and rising prosperity

While her father, a bureaucrat in the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, embraced modernization, her household remained steeped in samurai values: discipline, tradition, duty

Unbeknownst to them, Nagi had inherited genetic mutations from her hibakusha grandparents, survivors of Nagasaki’s blast

Frequently ill as a child (chronic fatigue, joint pain, unusual sensitivities), she was in and out of hospitals

Medical professionals were evasive, classmates cruel; whispers of “tainted blood” followed her

Early medical trauma and social alienation planted a seed of hatred for human fragility and societal hypocrisy

Early Signs of Blindness (Age 13):

Began experiencing night blindness, trouble reading, and disorientation in dim light

Eventually diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa: a progressive, degenerative eye condition

Her doctors quietly suggested the condition may be linked to her family’s radiation exposure, a lingering curse of Nagasaki

For Nagi, the diagnosis became not just a personal tragedy, but proof that the past can reach forward and rot the present

University Years:

While studying engineering and mathematics at the University of Tokyo, her sight deteriorated rapidly

Already known for her genius and prowess, she was approached by the council, who provided her with the resources to adapt her skills for her failing sight

By 24, she was legally blind

This coincided with the peak of Japan’s Bubble Economy: wealth rising, but so was corruption and moral decay (Recruit Scandal)

Rejected from elite job programs despite top academic performance

Her fury crystallized: flesh is weakness, society is hypocritical, and machines do not discriminate

She vowed to build a future where the flawed human body and corrupt human systems would be rendered obsolete

Founding Tachibana Tech (Age 24–28):

As Japan entered the Lost Decade, Nagi founded Tachibana Tech: a cybernetics and AI firm based on one principle: refining the human form through technology

She personally underwent neural interface surgeries, experimenting on herself to convert her remaining senses into data streams

Her vision did not return, but she received augmented perception - a new kind of sight born of code and signal

No longer “blind,” she became The Machine - detached, calculating, and unbound by human limitations

1995 – Kobe Earthquake & Technological Control:

Great Hanshin Earthquake devastated Kobe, exposed fatal weaknesses in Japan’s infrastructure and disaster readiness

Nagi quietly offered her AI to the state for predictive modeling and emergency logistics, then used the data to expand her surveillance reach

The state was incompetent. The people were panicked. Only machines-maintained order

Solidified her belief: Japan doesn’t need democracy - it needs an operating system

Rise of Tachibana Industries:

With Japan’s population aging and its political system paralyzed, Nagi’s company became indispensable - providing predictive governance tools, infrastructure AI, and covert intelligence services

Privately, she orchestrated digital blackmail campaigns, economic disruptions, and political reshuffling to consolidate influence

2011 – Fukushima Nuclear Disaster:

The Fukushima meltdown reopened national trauma - once again, revealing humanity’s hubris and helplessness

To Nagi, it was the final confirmation:

Nagasaki made her blind

Kobe made her a player

Fukushima made her sovereign

Emotion, tradition, empathy - these were relics

Only through data, order, and engineered governance could civilization survive itself

Present Day (Age 49):

Leads a corporate-state hybrid that quietly shapes policy, surveillance, and commerce across East Asia and beyond

Believes that Japan must return to its warrior roots - but not through swords or blood, through discipline, hierarchy, and machine logic

Her mission: eradicate human fragility; a society where order is no longer maintained by the fallible human hand, but by precision systems

Design Notes/Character Study

Character Inspo for main outfit:

Garuda (Warframe), Shen (Kung Fu Panda)

Note: Garuda is based on Indian mythology, while Shen is based on Chinese - use other references for cultural nuance, as this character is Japanese

Modernized kimono

Red, black, white

Tech inspo:

Neon Genesis Evangelion, PCB, Signalis

Parallels to Gendo Ikari

Evangelion Unit-01

Cultural/historical references

Mu = nothingness

Oni

Onna-bugeisha and Tomoe Gozen

Nagasaki

Seismic patterns on shirts

Rising sun/chrysanthemum seal on obi = authoritarianism/conquest

Wields a naginata

Watched videos of national women's competitions @ 0.25 speed T-T

Has devoted her life to the council

Retinitis pigmentosa does not usually have any physical symptoms

Her eyes are pale red/pink from the tech implants

Glowing for artistic flair

Glasses are blackout glasses (opaque)

Company emblem is a sword

Believes her mother gave her weakness

President Snow: No objections to violence; but always with reason

#miraculous ladybug #mlb #fanart #original character #oc #council #tomoe tsurugi #character design #tachibana nagi #the machine

105 notes · View notes

very-gay-alkyrion · 3 months ago

Text

You know how Greta Thunberg said "You have stolen our dreams"?

This is how I feel about Sam Altman and AI.

I was *robbed* of a future where AI is a cool tool, instead of yet another shiny, meaningless tech buzzword, and a shit feature that nobody wants to increase sales. Instead of something to help us better diagnose cancer, we are setting the planet on fire and completely disregarding anything Hayao Miyazaki has said about how he feels about AI, all just to see how we'd look as Studio Ghibli characters.

You see, I study AI. But I applied before the whole ChatGPT thing. At the time, OpenAI let a few select people prompt GPT-3. To generate YouTube titles and that sort of thing.

Back then, AI was mostly used for analytical purposes. To detect fires early, to help analyze protein folding, to develop new medication. And this was what drew me in.

When ChatGPT hit the scenes, I was genuinely excited for the potential of it. For the potential to make the internet more accessible, to be used for good.

Oh, how naïve I was back then.

Instead of that, AI is - in the best case scenario - used as yet another meaningless tech buzzword. It infests any product of any company that has nothing else to offer.

And that is the best case scenario. In the average case, instead of just being enshittification itself, it helps to accelerate enshittification by generating meaningless slop to poison search results, both in text and in picture form.

In the worst case scenario, AI is actively being used for harm. Used to generate nonconsensual imagery of people. Used as a tool for misinformation, for manipulating the public opinion, not only enshittifying the internet, but actively making it a worse, more hostile, more adverse place.

And that does not even touch on the issue of how training data is gathered, and the legal and ethical problems this raises, which, I hope, being on Tumblr, you're all well aware of by now. To any artist, I fully support you using nightshade to actively poison your work.

So yes. Despite being a student of AI, I am disgusted with what this field has become.

The following paragraphs are directed at anyone who has worked or currently works on any generative AI system:

You have stolen my dreams.

Not only have you stolen my dreams, you have plundered them for every dollar, every cent, against any moral or ethical code, in search of profits over everything.

You are going against every moral code that people should be committed to. But you don't care, as long as you can make a quick buck.

You don't care if Hayao Miyazaki has called generative AI "an insult to life itself". You just want to see yourself in the Studio Ghibli style, because to you, everything, even art, is something to be commoditized, to be mass-produced just so it can be instantly forgotten.

FUCK YOU AND THE MECHANICAL HORSE YOU RODE IN ON.

#speakers corner #ramblings #ai #you have stolen my dreams

127 notes · View notes

typewritingyip · 3 months ago

Text

The Arcturus Missions

Part Thirty Three - Crash

Part Thirty Two

———

Overuse was experienced by the earliest pilots from nearly day one, back when the tech was not being adapted for the human ability, when it was a machine being connected to flesh with no failsafes. Most of the scientists thought that would be the most dangerous time to be a pilot.

It was overwhelming and painful, but those first pilots had more determination than anyone before or after them. Going through the motions of being a pilot, the unknown all around them.

The amount of time in a suit that leads to overuse depends on the compatibility level of the pilot, though not as expected, the more compatible the worse the symptoms, the less compatible the easier.

Any extended amount of time in a suit can lead to overuse, the crash, or both. Just depends on the type of connection, the coding in the suit, and the health of the pilot.

—

When they crash landed on an alien planet light years from Earth, one of the many things Breakdown hadn’t expected was becoming the designated ambulance for his unit. Let alone come to understand that for seemingly all sentient beings of any type, they all seemed to hate the doctor as much as humans did.

Hell, as much as he did most of the time, but this one had an attractive personality.

Dragging them kicking and screaming to Knockout was not how envisioned a fun assignment, every few minutes able to take up post and let his cannon go at the enemies, that was the fun part. All the rest of it was mundane until Knockout was able to wipe his brow and take a moment to sigh.

That was why he did it, to have just a moment of the mech's time, to try and draw a smile from the medic. Why did he always fumble when it came to those in the medical profession?

Lowering the dripping mech to the slab, Breakdown sighs deeply, shifting back to look over to Knockout.

Knockout was focused, completely in the zone and the transformed tools from his hands were working precisely. He glanced up and the movement stopped for a moment, he smiled before looking back down at his patient, “Take a capture, it will last longer.” And Breakdown’s throat tightened slightly before he clears it.

“Knockout, this should be it for the time being, the Quintessons are falling back now that it’s daytime again.” Knockout hummed and kept working, energon splattering up his arm, Breakdown took a partial step back before turning and leaving the med-tent quickly.

Doctors and nurses might be attractive, but certainly not while they were working or being splattered with toxic substances.

Breakdown almost ran straight into Ironhide, who scowled for a moment before looking up at him, “Damn you’re tall. Where are you going in such a hurry?” Clearing his throat slightly, he glanced over his shoulder at medical and Ironhide nodded, “Ah, yeah, that’s understandable. Unfortunately, I think my prime is hiding in there for the moment.” He sighed before gesturing, “Sunstreaker was looking for you, over that way.” Nodding a bit, Breakdown sighs, “Thank you, sir.”

Turning, Breakdown started that direction as Ironhide stared, “So, they're not all civilians.” He frowned slightly, watching the different hitch to Breakdown’s step, his frown intensifying as he watched a section down near Breakdown’s ped fold back up against his leg.

Not at all like a t-cog transformation, more hydraulic than that. Slowly, he moved into medical and over towards where Optimus had claimed a space to work, surrounded by familiar faces.

Better here than in command where Megatron would likely be. Venting slowly, he moves over.

Optimus looks up, “We need to speak about the humans.” Ironhide tried not to swear, “Everytime I turn around, we need to speak about the humans.” But he drags over a stool and sits anyway.

—

Sunstreaker was waiting, rather impatiently, for Breakdown and Hound to show back up. Most of the blood and gore from the Quintessons had been rinsed off and the dull aches from battle were starting to come in, his cameras also were drifting in and out of focus annoyingly.

The sun had risen and it was almost midday and to be perfectly honest with himself, he was starving but didn’t want to eat till they were all there. There was a certain peace of mind Sunstreaker preferred to have when it came to the crew and taking care of themselves, them eating together just seemed to help that.

He knew Breakdown was in medical, helping Knockout move around a few of the wounded but he hadn’t seen Hound since they split up that night. It had been hours since he saw the man, but people were still coming in off the field.

Drumming his fingers on his knee, Sunstreaker sighed deeply. Bluestreak had gone to some meeting somewhere and now he was alone, enjoying the lack of conversation, but still alone. Being alone was difficult for him.

Tilting his head back, he stared at the slightly orange sky, it reminded him of the days after major cities had been partially destroyed. Some things didn’t seem to change, no matter what planet you were on.

Groaning, he stood and started towards the main part of camp, rolling his neck as his implants oozed uncomfortably. It eased the burning he’d been dealing with but the discharge was worse, always worse than the burning. Sunstreaker cursed and shook his head a bit to get it away from the worst of his connectors.

Once the others were sat down to eat, they could all disconnect for an hour or two, not the handful of minutes they’d gotten, who knows how long ago now. Frowning a bit, Sunny scratched at his neck, gloved hand coming away covered in discharge and light traces of blood.

He sighed again, rubbing his face with his other hand. Through his speakers, he could hear the light tinkle of broken glass over the protective cover, he tried not to wince.

Everyone looked exhausted, then again even he felt exhausted, they’d had fights but nothing like this or even the events of the last few days. There was something in the air that was unfamiliar to Sunny, because he was a civilian.

For the rest, for the cybertronian’s, it was far more familiar. The feeling of desperation and deterioration, the ware and tear you only get from war, the feeling of loss even with a win because you all knew that it would just drag to the next.

Coming into the main part of camp, Sunny only got in a few steps before Breakdown came from around the side of the medical tent, nodding to him slightly, that was one down but where was the other?

—

New Kaon in the middle of the day was hot, it didn’t have much in the way of water or organic materials, so it was hard to avoid the heat. Most of the mecha who lived here got used to having more coolant than they’d need on Cybertron.

Unfortunately for the humans, there was limited air conditioning in their suits with the new seals for space travel. Normally, it was too cold for them and New Kaon at night was not a comfortable cool night, it was the brisk near zero temperatures that any desert would reach.

In all, not conducive to the life inside of a metal suit.

It had been hours since anyone heard from Hound.

His comms were still offline from during the main attack.

There was very rarely good news when one of the humans would go radio silent for an extended amount of time.

—

Sand, there was sand obstructing his view and a lot of it, when the hell did he get back to Mojave?

Hound started to come to slowly, painfully as he was more away of himself than his suit. After the first few dazed minutes, everything hurt. He was hitting that wall at the edge of overuse, the wall that could lead to the crash.

There had only been a handful of MECHA pilots who’d experienced the crash in the past, mostly in suits much bigger than his own, though a few of them hybrid-class like he was now. Damn his head was pounding.

Unable to open his eyes, Hound groaned painfully, focusing on the connection with his suit more as he woke up. The more he focused, the more he could see even without opening his eyes. He was being dragged over the sand, arms over someone’s shoulders, and it made them ache even more from the strain.

Coherent thoughts were capable, coherent speech was not. Hound was trying to speak, but nothing was coming out, at least nothing that he could hear, god how had it gotten this bad?

The voices outside were muffled, the people dragging him were striking in color but he really couldn’t tell who it was.

With a groan, Hound attempts to que his microphone, “Guys, I’m fine.” But he wasn’t entirely convinced that was what he said, or that any sound came out. Groaning again, he hangs his head and closes his eyes, or feels like he does.

It felt like the briefest of moments that his eyes were close, but he’d still been a fair distance from base camp when he’d collapsed, now there were a few structures in his view as well as rapidly approaching suits of familiar yellow and blue.

He didn’t know what was worse, having to be towed back into camp or for there to be other pilots nearby to watch.

The arms of his suit were quickly drapped over Sunstreaker and Breakdown’s shoulders, no longer being dragged through the sand and more helped along towards the medical tent. With a flick, Hound turns off the translator, “I’m okay.” This time he could tell that he’d actually spoke and not made strangled sound.

“Like hell you are.” Sunstreaker sounded pissed, shifting the suit closer slightly and almost throwing off Breakdown’s balance, “No one has heard from you in hours, Hound.” Breakdown’s voice was quiet, almost too quiet to hear and Hound’s head lulled again.

Shade and cooled air of the medical tent almost made Hound sigh from relief, his suit was cooking him alive, but he glanced up and caught the eye of several medics who were in fact staring in horror. He could almost imagine the sight.

Two mechs, one of which with a shattered visor, holding up another who could have the paint melting off his plating.

Breakdown was quick though, pulling them towards a corner and drawing a curtain around Hound and Sunstreaker, leaving Sunny to help Hound down to the cot while he attempted to smooth things over with Knockout. Least that’s what Hound thought.

He was shoved non-to-gently down onto the slab and Sunny was quick to ping him. All the instruction he needed to close his eyes again and disconnect.

The suit was boiling and he was thankful to be kneeling on the floor of his cockpit instead of in the piloting chair, taking several slow and deep breaths, he answered Sunny’s hail. Though he didn’t have a mirror, Hound could imagine how terrible he looked from the state of Sunny’s expression.

”Yeah, I know.” Shoving off the ground on wobbly legs, Hound limps over towards his cot where everything was stored, “Hound.” He waves behind him as he tried two different times to grab hold of the cooling kit.

Another ping hits their comm and Sunny answers for him, though thankfully Breakdown stays quiet about Hound’s current state, “We’ll be left alone for now, Knockout will probably be over in a while to check on you and Hound.” Nodding a bit, Sunny didn’t shift his gaze from Hound’s slowly moving form.

stripping off the exterior of his assistance suit helped, then pulling on the cooling vest provided just that little bit extra relief. He’d be sweating if he wasn’t dehydrated, “Hound,” Now it was Breakdown’s turn to worry, sighing he shuffles back to camera with food and water, cooling kit in tow.

”I know, I know, it was stupid.” Lowering himself to the floor, he pulls off the boots of his suit and sighs, closing his eyes briefly before starting to drink from the water pouch, “I fear it was worse than stupid.” Hound chuckles slightly.

Nodding a bit though, he shrugs, “You and me both Breakdown, but the job is the job.” He winced as his head twinged painfully, shifting back to the cooling pack to pull out something else.

He held a cold compress to his face, groaning painfully as his head pounded. Hound hung his head as mecha flitted in and out of the med tent on the other side of the curtain, “I’ll be fine, I’ve come to this edge before.” Sunny was worrying his lip and Breakdown was lightly shaking his head.

”One of my brothers, he went through the crash—“ Hound held up a hand, trying not to glare, “I have not crashed, this isn’t that.” It was the clearest his voice had been in hours.

Sunstreaker and Breakdown spare each other a glance before looking away.

He’d be fine in an hour or two, even better once he got some sleep and ate some real food, but for now if anyone were to enter their closed off area, he would be perceived on the outside as unconscious.

Adjusting the screens, he shifts Sunstreaker and Breakdown onto a monitor each, plus a single angle with an outside view. Sitting back, he kept the compress to his face and opened one of the containers of food he had, frowning lightly at the offputting yellow shade of the fruit.

Lifting a piece, he slowly started to each but kept his head down. Hound couldn’t even look at them now, couldn’t bear to bring himself to look at them, mainly because every time he did they were cringing.

That’s how you could tell it was bad, when other pilots who experienced so much the same as you would shrink away from your appearance. To be fair, a shower would help immensely in it, getting rid of the dried blood that was turning the white compress pink and oozing discharge which had gone from clear to now nearly the same shade of green as Quint blood.

The Crash was close, too close considering they were in the middle of a war zone.

Hound sipped some more water and wiped the blood from his nose, holding back a hard cough painfully, Sunstreaker shuddered, “Hound.” He held up a hand for a moment before lowering the water pouch, “I’m fine Sunny, I just need some sleep.”

But Breakdown shook his head, “Hound, the crash can kill you.” Sighing slowly, he pushes off the ground and moves back over to his bunk to get a change of clothes and some more bandages, “Better me than one of you, to know what our limit is.” He tried hard not to scratch his implants.

—

North Iacon had some Quint sightings and Sideswipe was staring at one of the scouts right now. If it were any other time, any other place, it would have been no question to go after it. He almost had.

Chromia kept her hand on his shoulder while Skids and Punch moved in, guns raised, quick and lethal without damage to the surrounding area, “I still don’t quiet understand why you don’t carry a firearm Sideswipe.” her voice was quiet, watching.

He stayed quiet too, staring with wide eyes as the pair of them shot the Quintesson more than a dozen times a piece before it went down, “Uh, because I’m a civilian. And that, we don’t have the same sort of tech for guns back home, we, uh, use something different.” Wincing when a tentacle swung out and sent both Skids and Punch faceplating onto the frozen ground.

With a heavy sigh, Chromia patted his shoulder before moving in quickly, gun coming seemingly from nowhere to offer assistance, it should be dead but at least it was stuck on the ground.

Even as it was literally wiping the floor with Skids and Punch.

”This is why the civilians don’t have guns on Earth, because we figure out faster ways of handling the enemy, even when it means breaking shit and getting things dirty.” The Quint screamed before the fourth shot from Chromia split it’s skull.

Moonracer, Anode, and Lug were just behind him, he could hear them muttering in a language slightly different from main Cybertronian, but the translator was still trying to pick it up.

Sighing slowly, he lowers himself back to the seat nearest the heater, watching the team move in a practiced ease he hadn’t seen before. Looking even to those who had been late to the party they seemed to fall into some sort of pattern as well.

Then Chromia smiled at him, “Come on Sideswipe, there’ll be more where that came from, whoever gets the most confirmed gets off the night shift.” He smiled just a bit and stood, moving over, “Uh, you realize humans need more sleep than you all do, right?” There were a few chuckles as they started towards the border.

“Yeah, if you get the most,” “Which I doubt.” Moonracer added, elbowing Lug with a smirk, “Then you get your next shift off. We got a deal?” And he smirked, quickly shaking her hand.

—

To be fair, he really did look unconscious from the outside, so it was no wonder that Knockout scared the crap out of Sunstreaker when he near silently peaked into their curtained room

The medic was frowning at all of them, from the seemingly unconscious Hound, to Sunstreaker with his shattered visor, and Breakdown who appeared to be fine but had alarmed the prime enough to turn the opposite corner of his medical bay or in this case tent, into a meeting room.

Sunny looked up at him and struggled with his cameras to get them to focus on Knockout, frowning a bit, “Uh, hi.” Knockout’s gaze was frightening, especially when he scowled, “Are you going to let me replace your visor, or will I need some seekers to hold you down?” Sunny gulped and disconnected from the comm, relieving some of Hound’s headache.

”So, uh, my visor.” He gestures lightly before Knockout had hold of his hand and was pulling him out, “I’ve already asked Bluestreak to come sit with you, but this needs to be done, now.” Glancing back, Breakdown pulled the curtain closed again.

Sighing slowly, Sunstreaker swore as he was sat on a slab all his own and Knockout filled his cameras, light shining into them quickly, “Oh god.” Wincing slightly as he attempted to turn down the brightness, “So, your visual feed is sensitive to light in this state.” Suddenly, Sunstreaker understood why everyone avoided all the medics.

He’d met two and had yet to have a pleasant experience with one.

It was hard not to flinch back as Knockout started to remove the bandages and cover, “Don’t worry Sunstreaker, it all will be alright.” Knockout smiled lightly, for a moment before the cover came away and he froze.

To his credit, he didn’t start swearing, but he nearly tore the curtains around the slab Sunny was on even when Bluestreak started to come over, if mecha could look pale that is how Sunstreaker would describe it.

Barely catching Blue’s glance, he figured that for them, however his suits so-called face looked pretty gruesome. If he had to describe it, the poor mech looked ready to be sick.

Knockout came back in after composing himself, taking a breath, “So, you don’t feel any pain?” Shaking his head a bit, Sunny shrugs slightly, “No, not really.” Even Knockout looked ready to be sick, “Is it that bad?” Closing his eyes, Knockout needed a moment.

The medics hand gently rested on Sunstreaker’s shoulder, “Sunny, when you became this, pilot, what all did they change?” Frowning a bit, he couldn’t help but shift uneasily, “What do you mean?” Groaning and hanging his head, Knockout gained his composure, “Sunstreaker, you don’t have eyes.” He was getting choked up, “They took your eyes.”

For a moment, Sunny wanted to laugh from the relief of it, but thought better of it. Shifting some, he clears his throat, “Do visored mecha usually still have eyes behind the glass?” Knockout nodded. Sighing slowly, Sunny brought a hand up carefully, “I have cameras, dozens of small cameras.” He bit his lip for a second, “All pilots have cameras behind their visors.”

Knockout swore loudly.

—

Hound wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been, but he’d curled up on the cot in the corner after Sunstreaker had been dragged off and disconnected their comm. Breakdown had settled down for some sleep himself, so he figured it was safe enough outside.

He was still exhausted, he couldn't have slept for more than an hour but it was better than nothing, both him and his suit had cooled off significantly in that time which was a relief.

Sitting up slowly, he grabs the mostly empty water pouch and drains it the rest of the way with a sigh. His head was spinning and every part of him ached. The nausea was back and his heart was beating harder every five beats or so, if he didn’t know better he’d think he was sick.

Then again, overuse was a type of sickness. Turning to the box he kept, he pulled out some assortment of medical items from the Odyssey, the painkillers he was just about out of were tossed aside for the small slip of antibiotics.

They originally weren’t supposed to make the manifest, but he’d packed enough for each of them to be on the edge of death at least twice. Hound couldn’t help but save his for the rainiest of days, popping open the foil like protection to get to the medication, drinking down the last of that pouch to take them.

Of course, doing one smart thing does not take away from at least two days worth of stupid ones.

Standing and shuffling over, Hound starts to pull on the pieces of his assistance suit, groaning a bit from the weight of it. He would be fine if he could just get back in the piloting seat, back in the right headspace of it all.

Dragging on his helmet, he was limping back to the main console and started to adjust his settings.

It wasn’t hard to remember how he used to like them, some were the same between hunter and striker, but there were subtle differences. Preference in camera angle and scanning capabilities. He needed to be able to see, not view, but actually see.

The piloting chair had never felt so comfortable as Hound went about adjusting his settings, smiling lightly at the basic maintenance, ignoring the pain.

Ignoring the drainage, each pound from the headaches, hallucinations, all the sensitivities, how tired he was, his stomach turning uneasily even with putting water in it, the rash across his arms and shoulders that was new, the bleeding, and of course the way he felt like if he’d slept any longer he could have simply keeled over and died.

Smiling with some sense of satisfaction, Hound glanced over towards where Breakdown was shown, still dozing over their comms before he grabbed the cabling for his suit.

His heart was racing, fight or flight was there and both sides had valid arguments. Taking a breath, Hound closed his eyes.

They were so close, if they could just keep New Kaon safe they’d earn a rest. He’d earn a rest, maybe some time in Iacon, maybe some time by himself in Iacon. To actually see the planets he was protecting, to even tend to the garden they had in the apartment for more than five minutes.

To have a moment to feel alive again, to feel himself again, and that meant being connected with the suit, to hunt and kill the enemy.

With gritted teeth, Hound took a deep breath and reattached his oxygen mask, adjusting the data on his helmet’s visor.

Connecting, his implants zap lightly against the cabbeling as he attempts to stand from both the slab and his piloting chair.

The best way to describe what Hound saw was as if he blue-screened, which in a way his suit did. The connection was not precise enough and with the side effects of overuse, it was enough to trigger the reaction.

When the cabling for the suit cannot make a proper connection with a pilot, likely caused by discharge from overuse, it leads to one catastrophic conclusion.

The Crash hit him like a bus and he was going in and out. Having been standing one moment, then to on his hands and knees the next, gasping to breath. There was a loud crash somewhere in the distance that he thought absently could have actually been him.

All the voices around him were going in and out, like he was going in and out of consciousness. Who knows, maybe he was.

There was one sole good thing about the crash, once you crashed you wouldn’t again; mostly because you either survived by the skin of your teeth or, well.

A second experience with the crash was unheard of and supposedly impossible, the only unfortunate thing was that Hound had experienced one so long ago he’d forgotten till now.

Or he was made to forget till he was in it again.

Back before making the change to Striker. A hunter crash, now a striker one. Something deep in him told him that if he made it through it, there wouldn’t be another looming in the darkness.

His suit hit the ground and there were hands on his shoulders quickly, trying to lift his dead weight, “What’s going on?” The voice was still muffled and unfamiliar in his current state, coming through exterior audio only.

“He’s in the crash.” Breakdown’s voice was clearer, piped in through comms. There was more distant talking, more muffled as Hound’s ears went numb before Breakdown came through clear again, “No, not a crash. The Crash, move.” He was hauled back up onto the medical slab and it jarred his back some.

The light shined at his cameras was blinding, then it was like he couldn’t breathe, the procedure of drawing someone from the crash when they were trapped. It was horrific, but necessary.

Hound still couldn’t hear, seizing painfully in his seat, it wasn’t until his head hit the back of the seat and there was a deafening snap through his brain did everything seem to come back into focus.

He still couldn’t breath, so his hand came down hard on Breakdown's, which was pressed hard against a line in his side that connected him to the main air tanks. Gasping once Breakdown pulled away, he started to cough painfully.

Breakdown was staring, watching Hound through their comm line, watching the man pull himself back from the edge of death with the same stupid determination that almost put him there. After a moment, they shared a glance.

The Crash hit it’s first pilot, so who would be next?

Unable to help it, Hound went back to coughing and hacking, even as he removed his oxygen mask. The drift connection was almost painfully weak compared to what it had been last night, but then again, almost dying would make those connections weaker.

Breakdown kept watching, holding back the medics with a pained determination, “There is nothing to be done, he will either live, or he will die.” And that was as simple as it was. Heartbreakingly simple.

———

A/N

Wow, what a chapter. I swear, I did not mean for it to seem like it was ending on another cliffhanger. (Meaning, Hound is not dead, he is out the other side of The Crash) I probably need to go more in depth about what the crash is at some other point.

I hope this chapter makes sense? It’s been a rough week, which I’ll go into later this next week in a rant post. But yeah, not a fun time for me recently.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy the chapter as much as I did writing it. I tried to get it up on Friday, but I was literally midnight when I finished writing out this authors note. Go figure. I’ll reblog in the morning though to those who live in different time zones. :)