Work Text:
1.
The first time Jack Abbot had dug in his pocket for you was not some act of kindness on a great scale of magnitude. Often during the night rotation at the PTMC—after being knuckle deep in a patient’s chest cavity—there was an unmistakable grumble in, not only your stomach, but Dr. John Shen’s too. With only mere seconds to bite into a protein bar before you’re called to another case, if at any point there was an eery lull in the Emergency Department; Grubhub was on speed dial.
Against protocol, because nobody was opposed to convenience, you and Shen would add a note to your order: DROP-OFF @ AMBULANCE BAY PLS. And, then proceed to Rock, Paper, Scissors your way into deciding who would run the risk of being caught red-handed, during a speedy collection by Dr. Abbot, who would undoubtedly have a few words if he caught wind of your misuse of the Ambulance Bay.
“Yo.” Shen caught your attention as you came out of Central 11. An empty cup of Dunkin in one hand, his phone in the other, he matched your lazy speed. “ETA on the food is 3 minutes.”
You held your open palm under the sanitiser dispenser, “Alright. Ready?”
Shen chuckled and tucked his phone under his armpit, “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He held out a closed fist the same time you did, “On three?”
You nodded and counted to three, throwing out a classic rock, confident it would land you another win compared to Shen’s four recent losses.
“Shit.” You hissed at the sight of Shen’s paper that he promptly wrapped around your fist to emphasise his winning round.
Shen shrugged, “Ooh. That was satisfying.” He backed away to check the board, “Godspeed, dude.”
Hands placed under the sanitizer dispenser out of habit, you scowled at Shen as he walked to the oval desk with a pep in his step, rubbing your hands together with vigour as you headed in the opposite direction to the Ambulance Bay.
Luck was on your side that evening, for one, there was no sight of an ambulance sliding into the bay and two, your Grubhub driver was already situated on the sidewalk with a motorcycle helmet still worn and a beige paper bag stapled with the receipt in his hand.
You gave him a friendly wave, head turned to check the doors as you stepped into his space to retrieve the bag of hot food. You exchanged basic pleasantries, and then the delivery man hesitated to step away, his eyes visible through the visor as he stared, waiting for something additional in return.
A tip?
”Oh! Yeah, sorry—” You reached into your pocket and pulled out a button and a sturdy hair tie from Ellis, “Um…”
“Here you go, man.” A third voice.
The gravelled tone that both you and Shen tried to discreetly avoid amongst the several rendezvous‘ with your Grubhub driver. The one that belonged to the attending physician, that in line with technically being your boss, was also the one man at the centre of your little workplace crush.
You had met Dr. Abbot amidst the mass-casualty during PittFest. Assigned to the Red Zone, you worked amongst the seasoned professionals with a hindrance of confidence in your own hands. Not the time, nor the place to reach a movie-like flow of a meet-cute whilst performing CPR on an asystole patient with blood up to your elbows.
But you saw him. And, Jack Abbot definitely saw you.
That being said, under alternative circumstances, you’d have welcomed Dr. Jack Abbot’s presence in the Ambulance Bay.
Your body stiffened, the guilt riddled all over your face. No question as to who the Grubhub bag was for.
The driver gave a two-finger salute to the generous $20 tip and backed away to his motorcycle parked to the side. Jack would be sure to mention an abiding PennDot Motorcycle Safety Course user, to Robby at some point during hand-offs.
He slowly looked to you with mirth.
“I told him to take the pedestrian entrance?” Not convincing even yourself with the higher octave in which you spoke, pocketing the receipt in your scrubs to avoid Jack checking the order note at the bottom.
“Uh-huh.” Jack dipped his hand in the bag and pulled out three fries, “Jack Tax.”
With a hand held out to gesture you back inside, you gave a strained smile and obeyed his silent order to get back to work.
Shen was on the other side as you entered. “Better luck next time, Rock.”
2.
“What the hell are those?”
You looked down at your new scrubs. OK, you had pushed the boat out and bought a different shade of black, more complimentary to your seasonal colours with the undershirt to match. Maybe you hesitated in your car, singing lyrics as words of affirmation to beat the hesitancy that robbed yourself the joy of a new purchase.
(Being perceived was a sore spot for you.)
And then, the universe placed you in the PTMC with a specific co-worker that made it his full-time job to perceive his surroundings and outwardly share his candid thoughts without much effort for filtration. Aside from that being engrained in the speciality of being a physician, you still entered the PTMC with gritted teeth and a nervous disposition that Dr. Jack Abbot would pin the attention onto you.
Despite this, you looked up from your body and toward Jack, “My scrubs?” You reiterated verbally.
“No.” Jack reached for the earphones dangling around your neck like a stethoscope and tugged once, “These beat up things. They still sell them with the wires attached?”
Thank goodness it wasn’t the scrubs. You didn’t fancy using your credits already.
You jumped to their defence, “I like them having wires. Means I can keep track of both earphones.” You then added, “It’s not exactly in my budget.”
“If they’re on a leash?” Jack looked to Dr. Ellis with an expression that read: Are you hearing this? She shrugged. “You have got to get a new pair from this century, sweetheart.”
This century? You bit the insult harboured for the salt and pepper haired veteran turned senior attending. Sometimes things were best left un-personalised to save any feelings hurt.
In replacement, you deadpanned where Abbot smirked, slowly pulling the headphones from your neck to bunch them up and pinch them with a butterfly clip.
Dr. Ellis chuckled beside you, body leant against the desk, “Tell a girl how you really feel, Dr. Abbot.”
“I mean it!” Jack gestured to the knotted wires in your grasp, “Is the sound even high definition?”
“Out of one ear.” You mumbled quietly.
“Out of one ear.” Jack repeated with a curt nod and a playful laugh that translated to the idea that he proved his point in one conversation. “Alright, go drop those historical artefacts in your locker, I’ve got a patient in 10 for you.”
It took two days after that altercation for you to arrive at your locker at work, your trusted wire headphones miraculously MIA, meaning you had to persevere with the ambient noises of Pittsburgh on your walk to work. (All eyes pointing to Abbot and his security accomplice, Ahmad.)
Code punched in, you barely had time to blink the sleep from your eyes—your Circadian rhythm still adjusting with the new shift rotation—when you spotted a small white case haphazardly wrapped in…twine?
It look as if it were meant to be a bow. That alone was distracting, and very telling.
“What the—?” You plucked the case from the middle of your locker, the realisation making your ears ring before you slammed your locker shut and sauntered into the belly of the Pitt to find your culprit.
Jack was at the work station, refusing to sit as he bent at an awkward angle to read the words on the computer, when you found him with a little more aggravation than he had anticipated.
“Fucking AirPods?” You struck the atmosphere with a loud call. Lena—the charge nurse—peered over her glasses at your sudden outburst. Out of respect, you were quick to change the level of your tone, “Jack, these are like $250.”
His eyes darted up to you, nothing short of a serious expression on his face. “OK?”
You hesitated, “Are you—Are you playing a joke on me? I can’t accept these.”
“Well, that would be a little rude.” He sounded monotonous, uninterested as he scrolled down the page with the mouse in his hand.
You took a different route of reluctance to accept such a gift.
“How can you afford these?”
“Blood money.”
“Jack.”
Jack stood at full height, “Re-lax.” He folded his arms across his broad chest, “Consider it a welcome gift to the Night Shift.”
(Nobody put money in the make-believe pot but him.)
”I changed shift patterns, two weeks ago.” You retorted.
He corrected, “A belated welcome gift, then.” When you didn’t seem convinced, Jack went in for—what they called in bowling—a strike. “Accept the earphones from this century…you’re too pretty to be walking around with those battered old things.”
“What?” You blinked in disbelief. Jaw slack.
Did you just hear that correctly?
Jack didn’t bring forth any further compliments apart from a shit-eating grin that had you stuck in the mud, clutching earphones way beyond your price range. You heard Lena chuckle at her iPad, and you snapped back into reality, fingers curled around the gifted AirPods; because performing a surgery to be able to clutch your own heart beating triple the amount of beats it should be, per minute, was downright unrealistic.
“Thank you.” You said quietly before turning back on your heel to put the earphones in your locker for safe-keeping.
Jack and Lena watched you scurry away like a field mouse, Abbot failing to miss the knowing gaze from Lena peering over her glasses at him.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Dr. Abbot.” She spoke in a tone of amusement.
Jack gave a nod, “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing.”
3.
The third time was on the lesser side of grand gestures such as brand new Generation 3 AirPods wrapped in a twine bow, but the outcome was more gratifying to both parties.
The shift had been considered one of your worst. From the moment you stepped into the PTMC—even before this, but you attempted to leave your personal life at the door—you were greeted with hurdles that you continued to get your foot stuck under, metaphorically grazing your chin as you landed face first into disaster.
In addition to this, you were notified of Louie’s passing in an insensitive, pass-off comment by one of the new residents, James Ogilvie. It was told to try maintain a professional barrier between you and the patient, don’t get intertwined in their life and make a best friend out of them. But, you adored Louie. Despite the reasons behind his visits, his face was a welcomed one with the abundance of kindness he brought for someone who was losing against his own demons.
You placed your head against the coolness of your locker, burning eyes shut after Dr. Ellis told you to take five after you delivered some harsh truths to a difficult woman who was labelled Dr. Google and had little belief in the medical care provided to her son.
The idea came to visit Louie in the Viewing Room, maybe have one last conversation with him, but the notion was thrown off when you came to terms with the knowledge that a one-sided conversation with your favourite patient would only make matters worse for you. You’d be sure to visit him once your emotions were wrangled.
You let out a shuddered breath that you had been withholding.
“Hey.”
Almost giving yourself whiplash at the speed that you turned your head, your heavy heart dropped at the sight of Jack Abbot standing a couple of steps away from you with an iced coffee in his hand. He looked empathetic, concerned after it was relayed to him about your outburst toward a patient’s family member.
You were never one for sudden outbursts. Especially toward visitors.
You crossed your arms in an attempt to close yourself off, “Hey, Dr. Abbot.”
“I heard about Dr. Google.” He took a step closer and you winced, prepped for a slap on the wrist moment. He would remind you at a later time. “You OK?”
“I’m fine. Just—” You rubbed at your eyes, “Having a bad day.”
“Preach.” Jack mused and extended the plastic coffee cup to you. He encouraged you to take it with a nod of his head, “I think I got your order right. Don’t get mad if it isn’t. I heard that’s your thing now.”
You took the cup by the lid and threw Jack a stern look, unable to conceal the growing smile. “Thanks.” You took a sip and revelled in the immediate caffeine hit, and subsequently, Jack getting your order right.
(He asked Shen to go through his order history that he knew you had shared.)
Jack bit back a smile.
“Jack Tax?” You offered the cup up to Jack.
He hesitated to take it—cross-contamination and all factors a doctor usually worries about—but then threw caution to the wind. Might be the closest he gets to kissing you. Or something along those lines.
Jack took the cup wet from condensation back, tilting the cup upward until the coffee hit his lips. His eyes pinned you to the spot and suddenly, the ceiling tiles needed your immediate attention.
You started to count them. Length by width to equate the amount in total. Twenty-six by fourteen would equal—
“Are you free tomorrow?”
Oh.
Your equation forgone, your solemn expression wiped and replaced with surprise. Your attention dropped to the male in front of you, almost missing the way his free hand shook at his thigh. The burning question left hanging in the air as you digested each syllable he had spoken as if it were sacred text to memorise by word of mouth.
Suddenly feeling sheepish, Jack realised that he had picked a sensitive time in your day to boldly ask the question he had been biding his time to get correct. His throat bobbed, fingers curled around your coffee cup as it dawned on him that he may be translating as a real jackass with little emotional maturity to understand that you may just want to be left alone.
There was no escaping it, he thought. That would just look ridiculous now.
He cleared his throat, “I’m sorry.” He scrunched one eye shut and waved his own question off, “I shouldn’t have asked you when you’re having a bad day.”
“No, no. It’s fine.” You let out a nervous chuckle, palms pressed into your back as you arched your back to stretch awkwardly, “Free as in…?”
“A date.”
The wind almost knocked out of you. Lips formed into an ‘O’ you began to laugh from feeling shy, “Yeah. Shit, Abbot. I am off tomorrow.”
He knew. He checked the schedule.
Jack finally took a breath. His hand outstretched again to hand you back the coffee he had bought you.
“Alright.” He nodded, backing away with his thumbs up, “You can explain to me the reference: There’s people dying, Kim, that you told to Dr. Google over some drinks.”
You grimaced with the coffee back in your hands. Nose scrunched, you spoke, “Yeah. Sounds good.”
4.
Chivalry wasn’t dead. According to the dive bar on Babcock Blvd with Jack Abbot punching his four-digit code into the card machine with every round of drinks he—and eventually you—had purchased on your night in Pittsburgh together.
You had both agreed on ‘casual’. Casual place, for a casual—no pressure—date, wearing casual clothes that differed from the usual scrub-wearing outfits you never seemed to be able to peel off.
Jack arrived early after you politely declined his text in the morning after you left work, asking if he could pick you up. The bar wasn’t far from your apartment, and it would save Abbot the fuel money that he so flippantly spent on brand new AirPods on you.
(The pieces of the puzzles were all coming together.)
Nervous wasn’t part of Jack’s vocabulary. Built on adrenaline rushes and catastrophic tragedies, there wasn’t a bone in his body that shook at the definition of nervous.
He sat at the bar with the sticky countertop, his curls dampened from the rain and his prosthetic leg causing irrefutable irritation from the way it caused him to ache uncomfortably. No, he wasn’t nervous—he couldn’t be—Jack just felt…overwhelmed.
At least that’s what he so stubbornly called it.
And then you walked in.
With a sunny disposition, your head shielded by a sodden newspaper you no doubted ducked into a corner shop to purchase on your walk. Suddenly, Jack felt inadequate in all aspects as a man, who wanted a date with the most beautiful woman he had set eyes on in a long time. His clothes suddenly falling short along the themes of ‘casual’, he regretted choosing a basic black tee—because it showed off his muscular biceps—and dark blue jeans. You looked breathtaking, and you weren’t even trying.
Jack threw back the dregs of his alcoholic beverage, hand slammed on the countertop as he gave a nod and a gesture to the bartender to give him the same again. Just stronger.
He stood when you approached, a grimace on his lips that told everything a doctor who knew him on a more personal level would know.
(His leg was killing him.)
You shrugged your jacket off, “Bothering you?”
“Not anymore.” Jack mumbled, eyes set on you with some well-placed adoration. When he sat, he spoke again, “You look pretty.”
“Thank you.” You tilted your chin into your shoulder.
After that, Jack paid you six more compliments—seven after his fifth drink slammed to ail his nerves—and aside from his attentiveness and eyes boring into your skull, the date turned out better than either of you had anticipated. There was so shadow of a doubt that it would’ve crashed and burned but as two doctors at the PTMC, it was in your nature to expect the worst but hope for the best.
The kiss came in between your last drink and Jack passing off his card to the bartender. Mid-conversation, you had spotted Jack becoming fidgety in the stool he was perched on and you had put it down to the buzz of the alcohol mixed with relief that you two were two kindred flames outside of the workplace.
And then, his mouth was on yours. His hand placed against your jaw, fingers curled at the back of your head, he pulled you in for a painstakingly languid kiss. Noses bumped, smiles mushed together, you eventually pulled away when the kiss became borderline inappropriate for a public display of affection.
It sent your head reeling, judgement clouded to where the casualness of the date at the dive bar followed you into the car park, where Jack Abbot was casually knee-deep in the passenger seat of his truck with your bare thighs constricting around his head.
When he had finished, the windows fogged with droplets of condensation drooling down the tempered glass, Jack sat on the floor of the passenger side with the door open as he refitted his leg with a triumphant grin on his face. You had managed to wrangle your outfit back onto your body, face hot from a concoction of euphoria and the remainder of the alcoholic buzz.
“I’ve ordered you an Uber.” Jack mentioned as he cracked his spine, “ETA is about 5 minutes.”
He wasn’t going to be presumptuous of the night. Satisfied that you had reached your climax, Jack kept a respectful distance to the idea of going home with you after a successful first date.
(Not that he didn’t want to. He respected boundaries. Plus, with work the next day, his scrubs were at his house across town.)
You stretched like a cat in the seat, “How much do I owe you?”
Jack chuckled as he stepped onto the tarmac, his body angled toward you as he brought you in for another sweet kiss. “This one’s on me.” He mumbled against your lips.
5.
“I’m sorry to miss this.” Jack gripped onto the steering wheel of his truck, face apologetic.
You applied your lipstick in the passenger mirror, brows pinched at his apology. The lid to your lipstick made a soft click as you spoke, “Girl’s night?”
Jack nodded once.
That’s cute.
You leant over the console and pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips. The relationship still fresh—and more important, under wraps—you would take any opportunity outside of work to spend together. In which, Jack Abbot had coincidentally discovered his newfound love for ‘Girl’s Night.’
With a handful of your friends having met the elusive senior attending doctor turned…a person that you shared a bed with from time to time—labels had yet to be discussed—Jack had been privy to the inner workings of a get together where the women in your life sat on your sofa and just talked.
A lot.
He ended up making himself useful, serving drinks and food with a stolen kiss that had all your friends beaming from ear to ear. It turned out that Jack enjoyed it. And, when he wasn’t needed, he’d retreat to the bedroom to watch some news reports on his phone; with one earphone flicked out incase you called for his assistance again.
You rubbed your hand to the nape of his neck, “With all due respect. You’re not invited. And, not just because you picked up a SWAT shift on the Fourth of July.”
“Yeah.” Jack drawled, “You look pretty.”
“Thank you.”
Jack gestured in a circular motion around his own lips. “I like the…lipstick.”
“Oh yeah?” You grinned, lapping up his compliments like a parched dog.
“Yeah.” Jack confirmed lowly. He took a moment to rake your frame with his hungry eyes, a fleeting thought passed in his mind as he began to fish into his back pocket for his wallet—he started to carry cash whenever you were around—and pulled out a thick wad of dollars, his thumb making handiwork to count out the bills. “Here. Before I forget.”
“I don’t want your money, Jack.” You argued when he began to hand the money over to you.
Jack insisted, “Come on. A couple of rounds on me. Please?”
You hesitated, but ultimately knew it was a dead end debate in which Jack’s generosity and stubbornness would prevail. Fingers pinched the cash, you—respectfully—counted how much he gave you.
You frowned at the amount. “Jack. You’ve given me $200.”
“Yeah.”
“Where do you think we’re drinking?” You let out a breathless laugh and went to hand back $150, only to be met with reluctance. You shook your head, “Drinks do not cost that much.”
”$100 for drinks.” Jack leaned back into the driver’s seat, “And $50 for new lipstick.”
“What?” You stared at his weathered features in surprise, “You just said you liked my lipstick. Now you want me to buy a new one?”
As if it were the most glaringly obvious statement in this side of Pittsburgh, Jack tilted his head with his brows furrowed, feigning innocence like you wouldn’t believe.
It made your stomach hot.
“To buy more of the same lipstick.” He shifted in his seat to lean toward you, his lips a hot breath away from yours. “Because, I’ll keep kissing that shit off of you.”
You visibly reeled.
+1
You found Jack on the rooftop, where you had been informed he would be. His frame outlined by the bleeding pink and orange hue of the sunrise that peeked above the horizon. Hands in his pockets, he stood at the precipice of the ceiling, his eyes scanned across the Pittsburgh skyline.
You allowed some grace. Hand clutched a familiar brown paper bag, watching as Jack took deep breaths to remind himself he was still human. Still apart of the Earth that kept spinning after another person was added to the death toll.
Another person he couldn’t save.
When you saw his feet shift, you called out. “Grubhub delivery for one handsome veteran?”
Jack tilted his head to your voice, chin meeting his shoulder, “I didn’t order anything.”
“Shit.” You took a step forward, “Must be the wrong roof. You’re still handsome though.” Your lightheartedness was met with a chuckle, you could see it in the way Abbot’s shoulders lightly bounced whilst he shook his head.
“What are you doing up here?” He asked. Not that he wasn’t inclined to savour more moments up with you. The rooftop just wasn’t your thing.
You approached the railing that separated you from Jack, “Your friend with the loose tongue told on you.”
In reference to the Chief Attending, Dr. Michael Robinavitch, who had every incline to believe that you and Jack Abbot were in the early stages of a blossoming relationship. The man was perceptive, and when Jack began to smell like aftershave masking the scent of a lavender laundry detergent that was awfully similar to the one that he happened to smell off of you whenever you were in close proximity doing hand-offs…well, everything seemed to make sense in his mind.
So, as any good friend would do, he had pulled you aside with the ruse of discussing patient care, when in fact—whilst sparing you the gory details—Dr. Robby had some wonderful insight about Dr. Abbot’s whereabouts coming to his shift ending.
“Snitch.” Jack muttered.
“Out of love.” You reminded him, “Coming through.” Your body already dipped to bend below the metal railing, only for Jack’s hand to prevent you from reaching full height on the other side.
He thumbed behind him, “Behind.”
You stepped back reluctantly, “Oh, so there’s a hierarchy up here?”
Jack grunted as he bent down, popping back up behind the railing, his exhaustion worn on his face didn’t prevent a smile seeping through the cracks as he looked at you.
(God, he was so fucking attractive.)
“With a girlfriend that is afraid of heights? I’ll take my chances with her behind the railing.” Jack kissed you, his knuckle brushing your chin as you both avoided the fact that he had just pinned the tail on the donkey and called you his girlfriend. He sniffed, “You’re much cuter when you’re not chicken soup on a gurney.”
He kissed you again to distract you from the confusing comparison.
In translation: Jack didn’t want you fainting off the side of the building.
Slightly amused, you pulled back from the kiss and waggled the bag of hot food in front of Jack’s face. He read the side of the bag with narrowed eyes, a low hum elicited from the back of his throat.
“Robby?”
You threw him a look of complete disdain. “Jack Abbot. I’m starting to believe you don’t think I have any money.”
“I know you do. I just don’t expect you to spend it on me.” Jack said with honest conviction. He took the bag anyway, hand already diving into to find a couple of loose fries at the bottom of the bag.
He offered you one and you bit it between your teeth with gratitude. Not wanting to overstep, you allowed the silence to blanket over the two of you—the distant wails of sirens the only ambient sound so close to the PTMC—knowing that when Jack wanted to confide in you about his troubling thoughts, he’d do it when he was ready.
For now, Dr. Robby would be the one privy to that information.
You watched the sunrise further up into the sky whilst Jack tucked into his food, occasionally offering you a bite which you’d take out of politeness as you hadn’t eaten since the start of your shift. As the colours of the sky bled into a watered down pink, you let out a sigh of relief.
What a fucking pain of a shift to have overcome. You knew Jack felt the same.
Jack watched you rather than the scenic view ahead. That familiar ache in his chest returning; the one that he had felt similar to when he first met his late wife.
Not a comparison. Just a feeling.
When you caught him in the act of admiration, you lifted a brow for him to fess up.
I think I’m falling in love with you. No. He’d tell you that in different circumstances. In your apartment, with a pizza box between you and a movie thrown on that you swore you let Jack choose.
So, Jack Abbot settled for the next best thing. Your secret love language. “How much do I owe you?”
You beamed, “This one is on me, Abbot.”