Work Text:
After rehab, Frank comes back to work—but he’s no longer the dayshift golden boy. The night shift is good, though, a fresh start and a new mentor to work under. His personal life is falling apart. Abby stayed for rehab the first time, the relapse, rehab the second time, and now, ten months later, she’s finally asked for a divorce. He knew it was coming; he’d known before the drugs even.
Jack Abbott is a breath of fresh air after trying and failing under Robby. He’s more straightforward, less hands-on, more watchful, but less judgmental. It feels good to be back in the swing of things.
His back fucking hurts, but it always hurts.
Robby goes on sabbatical; Frank hears whispers about an inpatient facility, and he hopes they’re right. The last thing that man needed was three months alone on a motorcycle.
Life goes on for a while, and he’s feeling confident at work, signing papers to split his life in two, finding an apartment near the hospital to sleep in when he’s not at work.
Night shift sometimes goes out for breakfast after shift, and sometimes it's just Jack and Frank, and that’s fine with him. He feels comfortable with the man, and he thinks Jack feels comfortable with him, too.
The thing about going away for ten months to work on yourself is that, well, ten months is a long time without distraction. Frank had been angry and resentful and detoxing, but then he’d been left with just himself. He’d gone to meetings and therapy appointments and yoga sessions and whatever else they wanted him to do. And somewhere along the way, well, it started to fucking work.
He was still anxious about it all and a little defensive, but he wasn’t angry anymore, wasn’t resentful. He’d gotten used to talking about himself in a way he’d never been able to before. Jack isn’t who he thought he’d feel safe talking to about these things, but he is. And so he does.
He finds himself talking about things he doesn’t with anyone else, about the pressure, the pain, the disappointment with himself, the desire to change but not always knowing how. Jack opens up in turn, seeing his vulnerability and offering pieces of himself rather than advice. He tells Frank a little about his PTSD, about learning to live without the leg, about finding balance after his wife died. He doesn’t go into detail about her, but he talks about the routines he built afterward, about woodworking in his garage when he couldn’t sleep, the veterans he still meets for coffee once a month, the neighbour who drags him fishing whether he wants to go or not.
Frank is a little jealous of how many people and things he’s surrounded himself with; he says so, and Jack laughs.
"It comes with time," he says. "And I have some years on you. Besides, you’re starting now, aren’t you? You have me."
There’s an energy between them sometimes, and he can feel it now, their eyes connecting over empty breakfast plates and cold coffees.
"Yeah," Frank agrees quietly. "I have you."
It’s been a while since their last major incident, and a week later they get hit. They start their shift early and end it late. Frank finds Jack outside in the late morning light, nodding off in the driver's seat of his car, and invites him back to his place.
He gestures to the building across the street. "Come on, I'm close by."
Inside, Frank finds him a clean towel, digs through a drawer for spare clothes that mostly fit, then laughs when Jack complains the sweatpants are too long and rolls the cuffs until they're somewhere around his ankles. They shower and eat cold pizza from his fridge. He makes a face when Jack tries to argue for the couch and waves him toward the bedroom instead.
"You've got one good leg," Frank says. "I'm not making you sleep on a couch."
"I've slept in worse places."
"So have I. Doesn't mean I'm letting you."
Jack gives up because he's too tired to care and falls asleep almost before his head hits the pillow. Frank is only a few seconds behind him.
He feels safe with Jack beside him, quietly satisfied to see him in his clothes, to hear him breathing in the bed next to him. The apartment feels less empty than it has in months.
Jack wakes beside him hours later from a deeper sleep than he can remember having in a very long time. He’s wrapped around Frank, one hand resting across his belly, his thigh wedged between the other man's. Frank’s hand is curled around his forearm, his back pressed against Jack’s chest.
He should pull away, slowly and carefully enough to avoid waking him. He should dress himself in clothes that don't smell like Frank and go home to his own bed. Instead, he settles where he is and tucks his face into the hollow between Frank’s shoulder blades, breathing in the faint scent of cedar body wash and laundry detergent. His eyes drift shut again.
Frank wakes a few minutes later. His body shifts with a sleepy stretch before going completely still. His hand tightens almost imperceptibly around Jack’s arm.
Jack doesn't move.
They've been circling something for weeks now, something a little to do with their mild flirting and everything to do with how damn easy it has become to exist beside each other. He wants to know what Frank will do when he thinks no one's watching.
Eventually, Frank relaxes again.
Very gently, his fingertips begin to move against Jack's forearm, combing through the hair there. The touch is slow, almost absent-minded, as though he isn't fully awake yet. Neither of them says anything. The room is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner, the afternoon sun peeks through the bottom of the curtains, the air is still warm beneath the blankets.
"I can't remember the last time I touched someone," Frank whispers.
Jack nods against his back.
"Same."
Neither of them moves.
Jack thinks briefly about letting his hand drift down from Frank's stomach, about turning him over and seeing what happens if they stop pretending this is still just coworkers sharing a bed after a long shift. Instead, he leaves his hand where it is, listens to Frank breathe, and before he can decide what to do next, sleep pulls him under again.
When he wakes again, Frank is gone.
The apartment smells like coffee and something cooking. The light has shifted, lower and softer now. He parts the curtains just enough to look outside and winces when he sees the hospital sitting directly across the street.
Frank really did mean close by.
He sits back on the edge of the bed for a minute, rubbing the tired muscles above the end of his leg before fastening the prosthetic back into place. By the time he reaches the kitchen, Frank is standing at the stove with two omelets going at once, the coffee maker still dripping into the pot.
Frank glances over his shoulder. "You sleep okay?"
"I apparently did," Jack huffs a quiet laugh.
"You snore."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
Jack rolls his eyes and slides onto one of the counter stools.
They don't speak while they eat. Frank refills their coffees without asking. Jack reaches over halfway through breakfast to steal a piece of toast from Frank's plate, and Frank lets him. Afterwards, they stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink, Jack drying dishes while Frank washes them, neither feeling any type of urgency to move faster. It feels good, really good.
Eventually, Frank dries his hands on a tea towel and leans back against the counter.
"Do you want to stay?" he asks, nerves in his voice. "We're both off, and like I said, I'm close by to work."
Jack looks at him steadily and imagines kissing him. It isn't really about staying for the afternoon or the convenience of Frank's address; they both know this. It's about whether this becomes something more outside the ED, more than shared breakfasts after shift and conversations in parked cars, more than simply borrowed sweatpants and exhausted afternoons asleep in the same bed.
He probably shouldn't. He wants to, though, and when was the last time he really wanted something? He can't remember.
The afternoon light catches in Frank's hair where it's fallen over his forehead, softer than it ever looks under fluorescent lights. His eyes meet Jack's, uncertain and impossibly blue, searching his face as though still expecting to have read the whole situation wrong.
He steps closer and raises one hand slowly, giving him every chance to change his mind, and brushes the backs of his fingers against the line of Frank's jaw. The stubble scratches pleasantly against his skin. Frank leans into the touch without him seeming to realize, his eyes slipping shut for a second.
Frank's mouth is soft against his, all coffee and sugar and warmth.