Chapter Text
You were Frank Langdon's sister. A woman who, unlike her brother, could hold her tongue when necessary. You loved him dearly, and would do anything for the sad sack, but it came to a point where there wasn't much you could do for him, any less than he could do for himself. You hated his puppy dog eyes, the way he practically begged for your help at times. So when he asked you to swing by the ER for a few minutes on Friday evening on your day off, right at the time night shift was rolling in and day shift was clocking out, you reluctantly agreed.
Had issues of your own, of course—who didn't? You kept your therapist employed, all for the inner turmoil you dealt with on the daily. Not your parents fault, as Frank so often reminded you (it wasn't their fault, it wasn't his fault—the outlier remained ever prevalent, your face in the background as the number one culprit). Frank seemed a bit... off, lately, but you chalked it off to marital issues. You loved your sister-in-law, but you knew how your brother could be. You didn't live under a rock.
You were a woman who, unlike her brother, often ran from her problems instead of facing them head-on. The problems that started small in the gut, forming into avalanches that took out all in sight. It's one of the reasons you refused to go to the ER as often as you used to. This was a one-time thing. Your brother would be sure to hear that from you, especially knowing who was waiting in the damned hospital.
You dipped through the ER entrance, waving quickly at the security guard as you passed. He knew you just as well as he knew your nephew, Tanner (Frank's kid). You walked the floor, smiling as your favorite charge nurse greeted you enthusiastically—it must have been a good day (or at least, a decent one that didn't end in anyone hurt).
"Look at you!" Dana said, smiling as she handed a clipboard to the nightshift nurse. She was a breath of fresh air. "What are you doing here, sweetheart?"
"Frank asked me to come down," you said, hands on the counter as you leaned forward, smiling softly at her. "Wouldn't be here otherwise."
"I hope not," she said, grinning. "I've got to run to the break room, so if I see him I'll let him know you're here."
"Good deal," you answered, nodding in retrospect. "Thanks, Dana."
She waved you off. "No problem."
She had no idea what thoughts ran through your mind. If she did, perhaps she would have stayed at the nurse's station, waiting for a moment to pounce on the issue at hand.
You looked up at the patient tracking board, eyes flickering over many phrases you had no clue how to even begin to decipher. Many patients had been seen in just the last few hours, and you knew it would only be worse. Frank often mentioned the multitudes of waves, how the patients would lull and then explode as if the fates decided to bring everyone all together in one go. You would loathe to work in a place like this. It takes a very special person, and Frank must have been one of them (though you'd never say it to him—he didn't get enough shit on your end to begin with).
You heard your name, but that all-too-familiar voice did not belong to Frank Langdon.
No, it belonged to Dr. Abbot—the one face you had hoped you wouldn't run into during your quick detour to the ER. A man you talked to your therapist profusely after falling head over heels and then quitting him cold turkey when you realized how crazy it all was. How crazy it was to have fallen for the nightshift attending doctor, knowing your brother worked with him. Knowing he was a man who deserved better than your mess of a mind (a mind that still had yet to be fixed by the medication and the talking and the constant breathing strategies that all went to shit).
You broke things off with him when it felt a bit too real, and never even decided to explain yourself.
Your breath hitched at the sight of him.
He looked well, standing with a coffee in hand, black scrubs covering his well-worked body. He seemed to have a few more grey hairs than last you saw him (not that you were complaining; it was one of his focal points, after all).
"What are you doing here?" he asked, walking over and sitting his coffee on the counter beside of you.
He always did this when you saw him in public. Acted like you hadn't ripped the chair from under him, ending your relationship before it even began.
"Frank," you said, eyeing him warily. "He asked me to come over."
Dr. Abbot raised a brow.
Oh, god, you wished you still called him Jack. After you left your barely budding romance, you went back to calling him Dr. Abbot. Or just Abbot. It felt too serious a title, but the separation made you feel more confident in your decision making skills (which were shit—they were shit).
"Oh," he said, nodding slightly. "Glad to hear you're not here for an emergency, then. Seems like we're behind on multiple fronts." He looked to the tracking board, frustration marring his handsome face.
Christ, where the fuck was your brother?
Dr. Abbot shifted where he stood, knowing it was going to be a long night. Dana came into his line of vision and he smiled, greeting the charge nurse with a good evening. Dana, ever-caring about her people and those related (so, you, by default), came beside of you and patted your back.
"Langdon's wrapping up a case. He'll be out in a bit, he said."
"Great... He didn't say how long he'd really be, did he?" you asked, fingernails digging into the flesh of your thumb as you looked between Abbot and Dana. Your therapist would have a field day with this one.
Dana shook her head, walking around the nurse's station and grabbing her things to leave.
"No, unfortunately," she said, slipping on her coat. "Was it snowing on your way in, Dr. Abbot?"
"Just a flurry."
You looked to the ER doors. Sure enough, the snow your local weather station had promised was starting. You frowned deeply. If your brother didn't show up like he promised, you were going to actually kill him. It wasn't the first time he called you to his work like this, and it wouldn't be the last. Last time, he asked you to get his kid (which of course you did, because you're not a fiend, and Tanner is your favorite nephew ever). Another time it was to go to your parents together so he didn't roll up completely alone (something he still hadn't explained to you—his need to go to your parents together, even if Abby wasn't coming along).
Dana left right after, saying something in regards to her husband, but she did not stay behind to see what would come of Langdon's sister.
At the emergence of Dr. Robby from the same room Dr. Langdon came out of, Abbot seemed to perk up a bit.
"Good to see you, brother," he greeted his confidant and dearest friend. Robby smiled, though the act alone may have been strained to the trained eye.
Langdon came around, seeing you and immediately relaxing. It must have been a shit day.
"I am so glad to see you," he said. "Let me grab my things and I'll meet you in a sec."
You nodded. If he made you leave your car in the hospital parking lot...
Robby noticed you standing there as he finished up telling Abbot about a few of the cases he was leaving him.
"Nice to see you again, Ms. Langdon," he said, nodding in your direction. He appreciated the Langdon family—if they were all as impressive as Frank, they were incredible in his book. Not that he would ever say it aloud. Actions spoke louder than words.
You sent him a smile. "Hi, Dr. Robby."
"Been a while since I talked to you last," he said, typing on the computer in front of him. "Langdon's Halloween party, right?"
Oh, fuck. Yes. Halloween party. The one you dressed up for, going as some kind of "good" witch. The one where Jack—Dr. Abbot—had you alone in the bathroom, body up against the porcelain sink, lips all over yours, hands unable to stay to themselves. He'd tasted like chocolate and cheap beer but it felt like heaven melted in the pit of your belly, catching all of the hints Jack cared to drop.
Embarrassment crawled up your spine, your eyes quickly averting their gaze at the memory.
"Yeah, Frank's party," you conceded. You cleared your throat, ignoring the look Robby throws at you.
You miss the look Dr. Abbot sends you.
It's good that you did, though, because you knew you'd melt in an instant. You hadn't been thinking of asking him to talk—you hadn't been questioning your decision to leave him only a few weeks ago.
Maybe this was something you should bring up at therapy. You had your appointment soon...
Frank's voice rang out over the others, a hand on your forearm to draw you out of your mind.
"Come on," he said. "We're going to eat."
Your brows furrowed in confusion, lips parting as you let him pull you along.
"What? What do you—"
"—Abby's gonna meet us there, but you got to drive me. Her car's in the shop, so she's got mine."
"What the fuck? Since when?"
"Uhh, Tuesday?"
"Jesus Christ, Frank," you said, more or less annoyed with the fact your brother didn't tell you about his car more than you were upset at his haphazard invitation.
As the two of you left the ER, two doctors stayed behind, one watching after you while the other finished up his charts on the computer.
Robby spoke first, not even looking up from the computer screen.
"She still hasn't talked to you?"
"Not much," Abbot said, fingers tapping against the counter as he turned to face his friend. "Not since..."
Robby frowned, but said nothing of it. Abbot was a grown man, and he could take care of his relationships without him prying. However, he could see the way his eyes lingered on you any time you were around. It had been what, nearly a month since you'd last properly talked to Jack before up and leaving?
"You tried calling her?"
Abbot hummed softly, moving to grab one of the clipboards from the nurse's station. He couldn't stay motionless forever. His stationary status would give him trouble if he did it for much longer.
Robby grabbed his old coffee that had been sitting by the computer for nearly an hour now, tossing it in the trash.
"Have a good shift, brother," Robby said, to which Abbot thanked him and smiled as he watched him leave.
His eyes flickered to the chart in hand, heartbeat thrumming through the rushing blood in his ears. That woman always left him breathless, even when she wanted nothing to do with him. What he did, he wasn’t sure. The veteran had only an inkling as to what it was, and if he was right, he’d punch himself for it.
Your therapist always listened. She was kind of paid to do it, but you’ve had therapists in the past that you were sure only cared about the paycheck—you knew for sure that this woman was there because she genuinely wanted to be. She actually listened.
And at the rate in which you divulged your thoughts on a certain Dr. Jack Abbot, you were sure she would have blown up had she not been a professional.
She said your name, let out a soft sigh, and then: “Are you telling me you broke things off with the one man you genuinely feel things for because you were scared he wouldn’t be able to handle you and your… thoughts? Pardon. Your depression?”
You blinked slowly. Now that she had put a label to your lament, it felt quite foolish. Is that really what you have done?
“We’ve talked about this, have we not?” Her question seemed a bit harsh, but that was one thing you enjoyed about her. Her bluntness. You needed that in a therapist—one that was going to tell you how it was instead of what you wanted to hear.
That warmth of embarrassment haunted your face. You could feel it.
“We have,” you softly said, “but I just… I don’t think it’s fair.”
”What’s not fair?”
”That he’d have to put up with me. That he’d have to deal with all of this.”
She paused in her typing, looking up at you over her cat-eye glasses. Her jaw clenched as she observed you carefully.
“Have you asked him?”
”What?” Your voice almost cracked, startled by the question.
”Have you asked him what he wants? Or are you simply assuming that based on the short timeframe of you falling for him, you believe he would not want that?”
She read you like a book. You played him like a fiddle and decided one day that you were the issue, and he hadn’t a say in anything though all he wanted to do was feel your soft fingers against his neck, against his hard knocked body. What if he really did want you? All of you? And you decided one random evening, nearly two weeks after making out with him in your brother's bathroom (feeling more like an excited girl than anything), that he didn't deserve to deal with your issues? Like he didn't have issues himself. Like he hadn't expressed his interest in you far before that moment.
“I…” You began to speak, but you trailed off quickly. You didn't know what to say.
“I am not here to tell you what to do, but as your therapist, I am asking you to take that into consideration.”
You looked up at her, nails digging into your palms. The pain usually grounded you. At this point, all it did was scorch the skin.
”If you were… if you weren’t my therapist, what would you say?”
”I’d tell you that I think you’re making a big mistake.”
”Really?”
”From what you’ve told me, you seem to really care for him.”
You pursed your lips, averting your gaze once more. You looked at the clock on the wall. You still had twenty minutes left of the session.
”Moving on,” your therapist sighed. “How’s work been?”
”I was moved to evening shift.”
She paused, looking at you.
Your fingers gripped at the edge of the sofa you sat on. You stared down at your shoes, unable to hide the ridiculousness of it all.
”Did you ask to be moved?” she asked.
You nodded in answer, not trusting your voice.
“Why?”
You shrugged. She knew why.
”Did you do that to try and make it easier for you to see him?”
Your teeth took in your bottom lip, nearly piercing the skin.
That answered that, then.
Last you saw him had been that Friday evening you had off, finding Frank and being surprised for what seemed to be the millionth time with someone Frank dragged you along into. Last you saw him, you had thought of asking him to talk, had asked him to try it all over again. You didn't, of course.
It was early in the morning when you walked into your favorite little coffee shop. It was about six in the morning. Your shift at work had gone a lot later than you had anticipated, ending roughly at four in the morning. You had been on your feet all night, and you wanted to do nothing more than go home and crawl into bed. A caffeinated beverage would help, at least until you could actually get home.
You got your order, a pastry of your favorite kind to go with it, before you went and sat by the window, pulling out your phone to see if there was anything you had missed.
You didn't know how your brother did it, in the ER—staying up, working a double shift when the need was there. Kudos to him, of course. Couldn't be you.
As you scrolled on your phone, waiting for the time to pass as you had a busy day ahead of you that you knew you had to brave as best as you could, what with going to help your parents finish their current project after having you and Frank helping them move months ago (and Frank ultimately hurting himself), you missed him.
The way he did a double take when he realized you were in the cafe. The way he had found a parking spot so quickly just to come in and talk to you.
In your supposed solitude, you brought Dr. Abbot's contact up, viewing your past messages. You had left him on read on more than one occasion. Guilt festered in your chest, somewhere near your heart, or maybe it was near your lungs; painful in a way, not that you knew for sure. Where did guilt really settle itself? Past the nerve endings or in with all of the blood and gore?
You began to type just as the cafe door opened, the jingle of the bell sounding true, but made no effort to look up. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. What should you say? You took a moment to type out a few things...
Hey, we need to talk.
Hey. What I did was really stupid.
I miss you.
Can we talk?
You took a sip of your drink, pausing in your escapade as you wanted to get as much from the caffeine as possible as you thought of what to text him. Chugging it was not a good idea, for now, especially with the way your heart seemed to flutter at the sound of his voice.
You looked up from your phone, from his contact, seeing Jack Abbot ordering himself a coffee. He looked over his shoulder, eyes landing on yours—you held his gaze, wide eyed and worried that you'd do something ridiculous. But you did not leave. You did not bolt. Not this time.
Your thumb froze over the keyboard.
Jack thanked the barista for his coffee and walked over to where you sat. He gave you a soft smile.
"This seat taken?" he asked, motioning with his cup. He was still in his scrubs. He must've come off of a shift, just as you had, though you were sure he was much more inclined to the lack of sleep and ruining your REM cycle over and over again.
You shook your head, skin prickling at the sight of him.
"No. Feel free."
Jack Abbot sat down in front of you, sitting his coffee down in the process. He looked at your pastry, your drink, and then his eyes found yours once more. Silence found the two of you, an unwelcome guest hovering over your shoulder, whispering nonsense and hoping you would bolt.
"Can we talk?"
"I need to talk to you."
Wide eyes from both parties greeted the other. Can we talk from Jack, I need to talk from you. It seemed the two of you were on the same wavelength, whatever it may be.
You felt your heart sitting precariously in your throat, threatening to jump out and attack him, apologies flying from every which way.
"You... you first," you hesitantly said, finally finding two words that wouldn't melt you into a puddle of disrepair.
Jack blinked slowly, lips faintly quirking up as he watched you. That familiar little look he had when he was proud of something, when something interested him.
The ghost of his lips on your own haunted your every waking moment.
"You, uh... You kind of went ghost on me, there," he said, your name so sweet as it leaves his lips.
Regret sprung to your face. "I know," you admitted. You glanced toward your phone, his contact still there. You made no effort to take it down. "I know, and I... I've... I understand if you're upset, and I'm really, really sorry. You've no idea how sorry I am."
Jack shrugged slightly, sipping at his coffee.
"I am upset," he said after a moment. "But I feel like you've got a reason, so..."
"Yes," you blurted. You sat up a bit straighter, catching his eye. "Yes. I got a reason, I promise, I just..."
"...just what? Thought I wasn't all in for it?"
Your eyes widened. Oh, he was good. You knew there was a reason you felt so strongly for him. You knew it and you felt so unbelievably foolish. The insecurities of all your issues clawing their way up your spine had been the culprit, and yet, just Jack being here helped to decimate their very power.
"I told you," Jack said, sitting his coffee down and leaning forward, a hand shooting out to take the wrist which still kept your phone close by. Your fingers relaxed and you dropped your phone to the table, watching as he pulled your hand into his. He eyed his contact on your phone. He was unable to hide his smile. You had been about to message him.
"I told you," he continued on, nothing but truth escaping him, "that I was all in. Day one."
Tongue darting out to wet your lips, you averted your gaze. "I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes," you said, nodding almost immediately. "Yeah, I uh... Shit, my therapist knows you by name."
The laugh that left him was one you hadn't heard in some time. He smiled at you, that familiar twinkle in haunted eyes just as beautiful as the moment you first laid your eyes on him.
"You talk about me to your therapist?"
"Yes."
"So do I."
He let go of your hand, but you did not let him—you laced your fingers with his, the base of your wrist pressing against the table.
So do I. He went to therapy, too. There were things you had yet to learn about the man. You knew he was an amputee, that he spent some time in the military and was now a veteran, but there were more things you needed to learn, just as he would have the chance to learn all about you and the things that truly made you tick. He would hear all you told your therapist, and then some.
Would he do the same?
"So what is this, then?" he asked, drawing your attention back to him. "Can I expect you back in my messages or should I keep up with the notion that you're out of the question?"
You took in his words, every last one of them. The way his voice lingered in the air, warming the very room around you.
"You're... you're not mad?" You couldn't help the words. You were surprised.
"I'm upset. Not mad."
Your thumb gently brushed against the knuckle of his. "I... if you'll have me, I'll be back in your messages."
He smiled softly. He eyed you for a moment, squeezing your hand. "What are you doing out so early?" The question caught you off guard, completely opposite from what you'd been discussing.
"Working evening shift."
"Evening?"
"Went a little overtime," you said, smiling at him.
"A little?" he asked, checking the time on his watch. "I think you're way over."
The new silence that greets you doesn't sting as much. It's one filled with prospect—one that cried, this is good. This is what we've needed.
There's a bit of a pause in the time it takes Jack to sip at his coffee to address you once more.
"Where are we starting back, then?"
"Huh?"
"Are we starting over or back where we left off?"
The realization you still held his hand settled upon your shoulders. This time, no crude whispers greeted you. Only a peaceful bout of this is nice.
"Maybe... maybe we should start over? You know, this time not keeping it from my brother or anything like that," you said, unable to hide your smile. "As much as I enjoyed the Halloween party, it might be a good idea..."
"I can respect that," Jack said, squeezing your hand. He let go of you, leaning back in his chair. His eyes scanned you meticulously, as if he were trying to memorize every square inch of you. He had so much to ask you, he had so much he wanted to say. But you were in public, and this was just the beginning.
He could respect a mistake. He could respect your fear, for he felt it so strongly within his marrow. Phantom pains forever stinging his retina, the reminder that he was not as whole as he once had been. Perhaps getting to know you, to know the real you and not the one you gave out on a silver platter to the public would help him find a way to ease the few worries that still sat in the bottom of his gut. His therapist knew you by name. His therapist knew he cared deeply for you, even if Jack hadn't made an effort to vocalize it again.
You finished off your drink, silently observing the man. You pushed your pastry plate in the middle of the table, offering it to him with a wave of your hand.
He shook his head, smiling softly. "No, thanks," he said. "I'll eat later. Not really feeling it."
He was quiet once more, sipping at his own coffee, before he asked you a very simple question: "If we're starting over, does this mean I should introduce myself again?"
A sly smile spread across your lips and you tilted your head, a soft giggle following suit. "If you'd like. I don't see why not."
He grinned, pushing his coffee to the side. He held out his hand across the table, hovering over top of your pastry. You took his hand in turn, which he shook in a strong but gentle grasp.
"It's nice to meet you, then," he said, eyes locked with yours. "I'm Dr. Jack Abbot. And you are?"