Chapter Text
There are several short straws you felt you could draw as cases on your first day as the latest social worker at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre. To prepare yourself for all possibilities, you listed them the day before.
The shortest straws involve children, always. Over your career your ears have been victim to countless screams: screams of pain, anger, fear and even screams direct towards you. But on the darkest nights, when your brain is relentless and your nails embed themselves in your palms, every scream you’ve bared witness to after a parent loses their child, plays on loop.
And you thank god, or whoever it is up there usually pissing you off, that another one of those screams wasn’t added to the list this time.
This time the screams were for a young veteran killed by a drunk driver, and anything to do with veterans is a short straw case. It’s always loaded. Packed with a heavy history of horrors before the one that ultimately leads you to knock on the door of whatever quiet space has been designated as your domain.
At The Pitt, they call it The Family Room. ‘Ironic,’ you huff, ‘feels like the last place any sane person would actually want to take their family.’
The comment earns a snort from the Charge Nurse, Dana, who is giving you the grand tour. ‘You’re kinda dark, kid,’ she chuckles, ‘means you might just last.’
Despite the comment, The Family Room was pleasant. Warmed toned walls and soft furnishings, pictures generic and calm enough for one to get lost in. A small play table sits in the corner with puzzles and an empty pot you assume was meant to hold crayons. Mentally, you make a note to replenish them but hold onto hope it will be a while until there’s someone there to use them. In fact, The Family Room is lightyears away from what you’d grown used to in your previous job, for that you’re grateful.
When Dana leads you back to the nurses station, you get your first introduction to one of the doctors.
‘Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Chief of Emergency Medicine,’ his eyes crinkle when he smiles and shakes your hand. There’s an undeniable warmth to him, instantly you understand the respect he’s garnered from Dana, Kiara and Dylan.
‘But you’d rather Dr. Robby, right?’ Those crinkles multiply as he laughs and claps you on the shoulder.
‘Someone’s done their homework, huh? I like that,’ Robby and Dana nod at each other. If this was a Scorsese film, you’d just got approval from the don.
‘Oh yeah. Got a case file on each and every one of you,’ you laugh before introducing yourself properly.
‘You’d have several volumes for a half of this lot, hon,’ Dana cracks and jabs at Robby, ‘lot of old folks with a lot of baggage!’
Robby shakes his head whilst failing to hide a smirk as he unfolds the glasses previously hooked to his scrubs.
‘Speaking of…’ his fingers drum roll on his tablet screen before scrolling for a right page. ‘I gift to you, your first official case at The Pitt. My night attending, Dr. Abbot, unfortunately lost a 39 year old tonight. Hit by a drunk driver, coded and didn’t make it. Only family is a sister who should be here in an hour. The guy was a vet…’
Knowing looks of concern pass between Robby and Dana as he hangs on his last sentence. The tablet is passed onto you as you decipher the charge notes, eyes flickering at the timeline of events.
‘That was a lot of intervention for someone almost DOA. Coding for two hours? Was there any reasoning from Dr. Abbot?’
Medicine isn’t a mystical art to you, you know more than enough to follow the charts. More than enough to know two hours of delaying death was brutal on the body. Something one would do when it was desperate… or personal.
‘Would you like to open that can of worms, Robby or shall I?’ Dana sighs. Robby shakes his head, the creases round his eyes aren’t from laughter now.
‘Nope,’ Robby guides you by the arm to walk and talk, ‘this one’s on me…’
‘Shit…’ you whistle after Robby confirms your previous theory - it was personal. The old vet loses a younger one, almost poetic in a grim sense. ‘Thank you for the context, Dr. Robby. I don’t want to pry any further than necessary,’ you offer a sympathetic smile, ‘do you know where Dr. Abbot is now?’
The heels of his palms press into his eyes, as if Robby wishes to wipe away the exhaustion of a day that’s only just starting. ‘Nope, but I have a hunch and I’m gonna go find out if I’m correct…’
You nod, watching as his eyes stray towards the exit to the emergency stairs.
‘Let me know when you do. I imagine the sister may want to talk. Maybe Dr. Abbot will want to talk himself.’
A sadness flickers in Robby’s eyes, ‘I don’t think tigers tend to change their stripes… but I’ll update you.’
‘They’re solitary animals, did you know?’ You blurt out, ‘they can have individual territories of up to 100 square kilometres.’
Robby stifles a chuckle, ‘now see, when you meet him, you’ll realise why that’s funny.’ He shakes his head as he wonders off in search of Dr. Abbot and you stand wondering what possessed you to say that.
Before the sister arrives, you ask Dana if you can help her prepare Mr Orser’s body for visitors.
‘I don’t really think that’s part of your job description, hon,’ she’d replied with a squeeze to your arm. But she recognised the look in your eye, and knew better than to refuse. ‘But it’s real sweet you want to. Let me show you what we do.’
Dana took you through the gentle and methodical steps she takes in order to prepare a patient’s body. It wasn’t gruesome or uncomfortable, it was dignified, with a rhythm it must’ve taken her years to craft. Careful hands wipe away the reminders of pain and restore Mr. Orser somewhat closer to what he’d have looked like had you met. Something catches your eye and you notice the shimmer of his dog tags that had fallen behind his neck. It’s as you’re untwisting the chain that the door bursts open.
The eyes that meet yours are frantic, surveying you as if you were something they found personally offensive. They flick between Dana, you and your hands that have now stilled whilst adjusting the tags.
‘Dana - who the fuck is she?’
‘Jack!’ Dana scolds. Before you can blink, his figure looms over you and his hands remove yours from Mr. Orser’s orbit as if they were tainted. The grip on your wrists so fierce they sting after release. Territorially, he takes hold of the dog tags, arranging them himself so they lay straight and flat over the patient’s heart.
‘Dr Abbot, my name is…’ you introduce yourself, back straight and refusing to cower, ‘I’m the new social worker for PTMC.’
Jack scoffs, knuckles white now his hands grip to the rails of the bed.
‘Another one? I don’t remember this being in social work’s wheelhouse, Miss.’
‘Jack, seriously! Some respect, please,’ Dana hands flail from you to the body to the solemn environment. But you notice the trembling knuckles of Dr Abbot, the straining veins in his neck. You know when you pick your battles.
‘Excuse me both,’ you say calmly, ‘it’s best I check whether Ms. Orser has arrived anyway.’
You offer Dana a small smile as you back away, Jack’s head is now bowed, fixating on the small pattern of the bed’s blanket.
‘Thank you Dr. Abbot,’ you gently add, ‘for not giving up on him.’
He doesn’t appear to flinch and you make your leave.
That was not how you intended for your first meeting with Dr. Abbot to go. But what rattles you most, is that is not how you expected Dr. Abbot to look. The aged, dog-eared Vietnam veteran you’d conjured was no where to be seen, this version could’ve been touring Iraq with Mr. Orsor. And it’s hard to imagine him looking much different physically back then. He had eclipsed you with the breadth of his shoulders and the definition of his arms displayed as he tensed at your presence. No, this was not what you’d intended at all.
Ms. Orser looks like her brother, she says they were ‘Irish twins,’ born within a year of each other. She tells you about their childhood together, how she was practically his shadow, a double act. For an hour you just talk. About how he joined the army, his success there, how he survived three tours and came back decorated after saving a classroom of little girls when their school was attacked. You talk about what he’d have wanted now and where she goes from here, no longer a whole, after losing her half.
‘I know what you’re feeling,’ you admit without realising. ‘Sorry, I know that’s what I’m supposed to say, it’s my job. But in this case, I really do know. I lost my other half too.’
You’re not sure how long you hug each other, but it surprises how much better you feel for it. Never had you told someone you’re helping about your personal life. It didn’t feel right, like you were adding to their burden out of selfishness.
‘Before you go, I have something for you.’ From your pocket you unfold a piece of paper which Robby had presented to you earlier. The words inside scribed neatly but still frantic… personal. ‘The doctor who looked after your brother, he didn’t give up. Most doctors would’ve, he couldn’t. He wrote this for you. He’s a veteran… like Raymond.’
As you walk her to the car your mind flickers between the gentle words on the page and the man who glowered over you earlier. They feel like two opposite entities, with no possible crossover.
The sky from up here spans wide, uninterrupted by rooftops and transmission towers, the full array of colours on view. This morning Pittsburgh sky is mottled like a bruise, purple blurring into blue blurring into pink.
‘It’s a nice view,’ you announce, ‘I see why you’ve called dibs on it.’
Dr. Abbot’s broad figure is the only interruption of the view. His arms stretch behind him, across the guard rails. He remains on the side that is bad for your blood pressure.
‘So, Robby can’t keep his trap shut, huh?’ He finally replies.
It’s the first time you hear him speak without active venom in his voice, although it’s still gruff. Yet, better than the silence you’d anticipated as a reply.
‘No, I think he’s quite fond of you, Dr. Abbot,’ you shout over, keeping your distance, ‘plus he’s taken pity on me. Do you know how much paperwork I’d have to fill on my first day if an attending hurls himself off the roof during my first shift?’
His hand tugs through his silvered curls which almost glow in this light, the only indicator - besides the lines on his face you’d caught earlier - of his age. Back here you can take him in fully, the toned back visible under taught cotton. Solid and sculpted head to toe, you understand why his presence feels so significant in the department. A man who surely keeps himself regimented as if he were back in the military, you can’t imagine he’d struggle if he rejoined tomorrow.
‘Is this why they keep getting through social workers, Dr Abbot? You keeping them on edge… sorry poor choice of words.’
A wildflower thrives amongst the gravel of the roof, you nudge it with the point of your shoe and it bounces back into place; sturdy at the stem.
When you look back up, Dr. Abbot’s back remains to you but now he’s retreated to the safer side of the guard rails. Instantly, your body eases a little and understands that maybe you’ve done all you can up here. Your shoes crunch over the gravel again as you turn towards the fire door.
‘She liked the letter, Dr. Abbot,’ you add before heading back towards the building, ‘really wanted to thank you in person. Not just anyone would keep going for two hours.’
Your own figure slinks away and disappears beyond the door, never catching that Dr. Abbot finally turns just to watch you slip away. His chest had stuttered at your words, the hairs at the back of his neck prickling at your recognition of his actions - your recognition of him. He wasn’t sure if he liked that at all.
In the following weeks you become a spectre plaguing Jack Abbot’s shifts. No words nor looks have been share between you since the rooftop but your presence is hard to ignore. Only ever capturing the swish of your hair as you disappear, the echo of your laugh from a room he’s not privy to or the click of your heels retreating to your office upstairs. You’ve made an impression throughout The Pitt, that’s clear, in a way your predecessors certainly hadn’t.
Robby and Dana continued to sing your praises, officially their latest golden child. You’d earned the respect of some of The Pitt’s toughest crowd: Ellis, Santos and the whole OR team all thinking you were ‘badass’ as Ellis had put it. Whitaker seemed to go soppy at the mention of your name and Mel spoke of you like the oracle. The fact Abbot had nothing to respond to their cooing left something gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Not that he wanted his own stories of you, no, you had already overstepped with him. To invite your intrusion further would be a mistake.
But it’s one evening where Jack can’t help himself from joining in. He gets the best look at you he’s had since your first day. From the fractured glimpses he’s collected of you, he knows you always look presentable; tailored clothes and expensive shoes looking out of place amongst the scrubs.
Today Jack had finally had his chance to observe you fully, undisturbed. Through the doors leading to ED reception booth he stilled to watch you speak with a furrowed brow to Lupe. You stood tall, elegant. A soft blouse tucked into your tailored skirt, pristine stockings and heels; all perfectly matching shades of black. Not a pop of colour to be seen and that was new - not that Jack had been cataloguing your outfits.
Jack makes himself scarce when he swears your eyes flicker towards him. Around the nurses desk he catches them huddled, an array of your greatest admirers and he can’t quite bite his tongue.
‘What’s with Morticia the social worker?’
The response he gets are blank faces and wide eyes. For the first time in history, The Pitt is silent.
‘Dude…’ Ellis is the first to groan. The only other sound is the smack of Dana’s palm to her forehead, followed by the sound of Shen’s iced drink rattle as he releases it to gawp. Mel finally takes pity (and decides she can’t take the silence anymore).
‘Funeral,’ she murmurs, ‘she’s been to a patient’s funeral today. Pedestrian casualty of a drunk driver … it happened maybe three weeks ago?’
‘Oh!’ McKay pipes ‘the vet guy?’
‘The vet… wait, wasn’t that your patient, Dr. Abbot?’ Santos pieces together, an eyebrow now raised. Jack pales, too many eyes fixed on him, like he’s taking the stand.
A clap breaks the tension and Dana disperses the herd. ‘Alright people, are you not meant to be saving lives or going home to your loved ones? Shoo!’ she swats them away like chicks from her nest. ‘Not you, Dr. Foot in Mouth,’ she points at Jack.
Now free from the audience, Dana levels with one of her oldest friends.
‘You didn’t know she was going to Mr. Orser’s funeral?’
‘No,’ Jack exasperates, ‘why would I know that?’
‘My god, Jack! Have you not spoken to that poor girl yet since you went terminator on her?’
‘I didn’t go - no, I haven’t, ok. But I was there…’ he whispers, ‘today. At the funeral. I didn’t see her!’
Dana sucks her teeth, wondering how so much of her job became about wrangling two clueless middle aged men.
‘Well, I hate to break it to you Abbot but she may just well have been avoiding you,’ she pauses, ‘Morticia? You ass, she looks lovely today.’
He falters, knowing when he’s lost a battle with Dana. Sighing, he pivots, muttering under his breath. ‘I never said she didn’t…’
Embossed in metal, your name now sits beneath Kiara and Dylan’s on the office door. It lingers ajar and Abbot’s knock pushes it further to only reveal your absence. The call to enter, regardless, is hard to resist, he crosses the threshold and beelines to the desk he senses is yours.
There’s parts of how Jack operates that are permanently altered by his military training. How he enters new territory is one. He cannot help himself from internally cataloguing every little detail, like it might somehow end up being of grand importance.
Your desk is tidier than the others, stationary organised meticulously as if it were a display. Unlike your colleagues, there was an overall absence of personal items - homey reminders. No ‘Best Mom in the World’ mugs or crayon family portraits. It was the first time Jack felt he was gaining any leverage about your personal life, something in him ticked, the urge to level the playing field.
No kids, he confirmed to himself. There were only three real insights into who you were on your desk.
Number One: a potted orchid, not fake, very real and blooming hues of magenta at several different stalks. Well cared for.
Number Two: a Snoopy bobblehead.
Number Three: a framed photobooth strip, it’s you but younger. But you’re not alone, you’re with a man. Three silly poses and the fourth is tender, your head leaning on his shoulder.
Abbot’s fingers twitch, he can’t stop himself from inspecting the picture further. He doesn’t know why he needs to know so badly who this was, he doesn’t know what’s possessing him to retrieve his reading glasses to inspect further. The metal frame is cool to the touch, he runs his finger down the side as he takes the photos in more.
You could be late teens, early twenties he wonders and the guy beside you looks a few years older. But not so old he couldn’t be a boyfriend, maybe you have a childhood sweetheart? He’s handsome, eyes focused on you more than the camera ahead. In every photo your smile is beaming, cheeks round and eyes sparkling. Jack wonders if that’s a smile the other Pitt staff have seen. It makes his stomach churn, being as hard as he was on someone who can smile like that.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold.
Jack pushes the churn down, before it can consume him. He returns the frame to its previous position without letting himself be drawn in by your smile again.
Distracting himself by letting his fingers run over the dispenser holding different coloured tapes, across the front of the pen pots, over the soft leaves of the orchid and down its stem. They hesitate over the Snoopy bobblehead, then tap it. Snoopy’s head bounces exaggeratedly and the corner of Jack’s mouth twitches.
‘Do you make a habit of going around and touching women’s bobbleheads,’ you cough from the doorway, ‘or am I just the exception, Dr. Abbot?’
Jack flusters, coughing before retracting his hands behind his back, attempting to regain his composure. Praying you only saw his interaction with the Snoopy and not the photo frame. His discomfort brings you some satisfaction, the mighty Dr. Abbot twitching like a little boy being caught doing something he shouldn’t by his teacher.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he shrugs, the two of you circling your own desk now, ‘Snoopy simply bobbled himself.’
You hum, a smirk at your lips as you place the files you were carrying at your desk.
‘I didn’t know you wore glasses,’ you respond now you take him in as he stands before you. The black frames have slid down his nose, his eyes staring unashamedly back at you over the rims. You’ve never been close enough to him before to take in their colour, you can’t quite put your finger on just one though. Flecks of every shade of autumn in just one iris.
‘You were at Raymond’s funeral,’ Abbot says almost accusatory.
‘I know.’
‘I was there. You didn’t tell me you were going,’ a tinge of irritation in his tone.
‘I know, I saw you.’
‘What?’ you notice his biceps clench, as if the hands behind his back were now fists, ‘you saw me and you chose not to say anything?’
‘Our last interaction had you running to the edge of the roof, Dr. Abbot. I thought it was best I left you in peace.’
Jack huffs, louder than he hoped. The churn in his stomach daring to return as the suspicion you had been avoiding him felt confirmed,
‘You didn’t have to,’ god he knew he must sound pathetic, ‘we are colleagues. You’re allowed to talk to me. I’m sorry if I gave the impression you couldn’t.’
You nod in reply, ‘I’ll bear that in mind for the next funeral.’ There’s a smirk on your face that causes Jack to feel one twitch to life on his own. It’s not the beaming smile from the photo, but it will do, he thinks.
Before the silence becomes too much, Jack turns on his feet to leave you alone. Still unsure why he felt so compelled to come here in the first place. ‘If I’m not here or at the nurse’s station, I’m in the office in the disused wing,’ you add before he can leave, ‘just incase, for next time … so you don’t stay pestering my bobblehead.’
Jack just looks at you, for the first time face on, he can take you in. Not just stolen glances of you in motion or the back of your head retreating in the distance. Head to toe, strange and beautiful you. Offering him an olive branch, again. He just doesn’t understand why. Finally, he grunts in acknowledgement, hands gripping his stethoscope as he leaves you to return to his own domain. Wishing his brain hadn’t acknowledged your beauty as he stalks back down the corridor.
The Pitt felt like home. Unlike any positions you had previously. It was easy to feel comfortable here, let yourself slip into revealing parts of yourself to new found friends.
Dana felt like your anchor, the perfect levels of nurturing and no nonsense. She’d been there to introduce you to the team and help you assimilate. And along with Robby, she’d been there to pull you back when you fell too far into cases where you couldn’t fix everything.
Ellis and Santos felt like the two devils on your shoulder, reminding you to have fun and not take work home with you. The closest thing to real friends you’d ever found the workplace.
Then there was the kinship felt with McKay, recognising the darkness in each other that you both tried to leave at the ED doors.
You found yourself merging into the night shift team, taking those hours so Kiara and Dylan could be at home with their kids. It felt natural to you, easy to acquaint yourself with the weirdest and wildest patients. But with that came Dr. Jack Abbot, the harbinger of the night. The two of you danced around each other, never breaking beyond sarcasm or dry comments to each other. Strictly surface level interactions, as if neither of you knew what could happen beyond that and neither daring to find out.
Today you’d begun early evening, relieving Kiara so she could actually enjoy the Fourth of July with her children, rather than watch their fun through updates her husband sent.
For a day dedicated to fireworks and family fun, a sadness lingered through the air of the Pitt. Walking into your shift to the news that Louie had passed. A man who only in a few months you’d grown a fondness to, so you couldn’t imagine the loss those who’d had him as a regular for years felt.
It had hit Perlah hard, you’d sat in silence in your office, her hand in yours for a while. Both of you reflecting on what it’s like when a laugh so loud, it vibrates through your soul, is no longer there. She left with the promise she’d come back if she was struggling. But you weren’t far behind her, ready to play the system and guide a patient of Dr. Mohan, through the rigged game of health insurance.
When the lift opened onto the Pitt, it was like stepping into a precinct rather than your ED. Squaddies and armed police crowding the foyer.
‘Dana!’ You shouted over the sea of helmets, ‘what’s the deal with the cast of Heat?!’
Dana and Princess snorted as you weaved your way through the officers, very aware it was guns your thigh was brushing against.
‘Sorry officer,’ you mumbled a set of gloved hands has to hold you steady, your lanyard catching on their uniform. You look down at the tactical belt, disarming to see in your workplace, ‘deadly weapon or just excited to see me?’ You grinned as finally you broke out of their huddle and into the nurses station.
Princess is in fits of giggles from the scene before you, ‘I think you made an impression on that one. You like a man in uniform?’
‘I could dabble,’ you shrug, before craning your neck to see the board.
‘If it’s not Denzel, I don’t wanna know,’ Dana scopes the crowd over her tops of her glasses, ‘I just want them out of my damn ED.’
‘What’s going on anyway? Need me to do anything?’
Dana shakes her head, ‘High velocity GSW to SWAT officer. Nasty, not out of the woods yet. Brought the whole unit in with him.’
‘Including Dr. Abbot!’ Pipes Princess.
Your blood runs cold, ‘what do you mean, including Dr. Abbot?’
‘Stubborn bastard has a death wish,’ Dana sighs, ‘forgets he’s an old man now. He’s a medic for them.’
The information makes your eyes widen and you can’t stop your mouth from commenting about the man you barely know, ‘Well that’s just fucking stupid!’
The outburst has Princess and Dana sharing a look before replying in unison, ‘Agreed.’
You resist temptation to scan the crowd for a glimpse of Dr. Abbot’s curls and remind yourself what you’re here for. Tucking your hair behind your ears and reordering your papers, attempting to re-centre yourself.
‘Well, anyway,’ you proclaim, ‘Dr. Mohan requested me. A Mr. Diaz, DKA? Do you know which room?’
‘Central 15!’ Princess and Dana point.
They smirk to each other as you turn in pursuit of Samira.
When you enter C15, your eyes blink as if you might be hallucinating. Before you Mohan tends to a very shirtless Abbot. A hundred questions bubble up in your throat but more importantly, you’re determined not to stare straight at the freckled pecs exposed.
‘I’m supposed to be looking at a 56-year-old male of Latino descent in DKA. I can’t shake the feeling this isn’t him,’ you query, brow raised.
‘I’m glad you don’t think I look 56,’ Abbot quips as you scowl at him.
‘I’ve lost him,’ Mohan admits sheepishly, ‘and Jack was here and he got shot-‘
‘Grazed. I was grazed,’ Jack interrupts.
‘-and he got grazed but couldn’t reach so I was helping and-‘
You cut Dr. Mohan off, ‘Well I think we can establish Dr. Abbot will live. We don’t know about Mr. Diaz, I think he’s a little more important right now-‘
‘Ouch,’ Jack interrupts you this time, he’s met with your finger, signalling him to silence.
‘Dr. Mohan, I suggest you go to security and have them help you track down Mr. Diaz before he makes himself sicker. I will deal with your attending.’
Samira stutters, frazzled and looking between you and Jack. You feel bad for using a sharp tone to someone so sweet but it just took over you. With a sigh, she ditches her gloves and grabs her radio before running out the door.
The smirk on Abbot’s face is infuriating as you turn towards him.
‘I take it no one knows about this?’ You glare at him.
‘Just think of the paperwork,’ he says dryly as he returns to attempting to clean his wound. You circle round him until you see the light gash on his shoulder blade. Blood pushing to the surface every time a muscle ripples in his back.
‘You’re making it worse,’ swatting his hand away from himself, ‘and I take it you want no one else to know about this?’
‘Two for two, Miss,’ Abbot looks delighted to taunt you with your surname.
You assemble everything him and Mohan had already gathered onto a tray.
‘Better come with me then, smart mouth… and at least regain some kind of decency.’
After slipping out of the room together, you guide Abbot to the elevator and press the button for the abandoned wing. You catch the intrigue on Jack’s face but choose silence. When the doors part, you frogmarch the doctor into one of the empty patient rooms and lock the door before twisting the privacy blinds.
‘Sit,’ you command, ‘take your shirt back off.’
In a rare occurrence, he does what he’s told. You sanitise the trolley before laying down the tray of supplies and grabbing a box of gloves. But you’re interrupting by grunting coming from Jack. You turn to find him struggling with the camo jacket he’d draped back over himself to avoid parading shirtless through the ED. A man so typically in control, who you imagined looked menacing when donning the camo outfit, is frustrated at his own weakness. Sweat beads under the mussed salt and peppered curls on his forehead.
Your knee knocks his, a silent ask for him to let you in. Abbot hesitates, already you’re the closest you’ve ever been. Right here, at this proximity and height, he can see the where the lace of your bra indents into the fabric of your top. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperate not to sound like an old pervert, even if you can’t hear his thoughts. One final time, he attempts to shift the jacket off but the angle required of his injured shoulder has him groaning. Defeated, his legs part for you.
You step forward, no smirk on your face at his defeat, just concentration. Lightly, your fingers flit down the stiff fabric, releasing the final button he couldn’t muster. His entire frame tenses as your skin makes contact with his own.
‘It’s okay,’ you whisper, ‘just relax.’
It’s easier said than done, Abbot scrunches his eyes shut. Watching you undress him is a level of intimacy he cannot bear. Not because it’s undesirable, but because right now it’s too close, too vulnerable.
Carefully you push the shirt back over his good shoulder. Freckles bare beneath the light. The sleeve slips down and pools at his wrist, he retracts that arm himself, minimising the amount of touch he’s willing to expose himself to.
‘Let yourself go loose, it’ll be easier to pull off,’ your voice is softer than he’s ever heard before, it makes the hairs on his exposed body, prickle.
One hand raises slightly his arm with the injured shoulder whilst the other carefully drags the fabric further and further away from his chest. Delicate not to jolt him and cause more damage. Abbot reckons you play a mean game of Operation. Until finally, the shirt drops back to the bed and once again, the entirety of his chest is on display to you but this time, without the buffer of Samira.
For a moment, he lets his gaze meet yours. You stood between his legs still, him frozen and looking up at you. Like the angel summoned, glowing over the praying mortal man. The assessment you made to yourself when you took Jack in for the first time was correct. Under fabric, he maintained the body of an active soldier. Only the markers of age on his skin gave him up. Patches where the sun has caught, the few hairs he has on his chest match the greying of the hair on his head. He’s really something and it’s hard to look away.
‘What now?’ Abbot murmurs, in a way that felt alien for the man who usually commands the room. You gulp before finally breaking your trance and turning to the assembled trolley. Jack hears the snap of gloves against your wrist and realises how serious you were about help.
The trolley rolls behind you as you position yourself for the best view of the wound.
‘Ok, so I’ll tell you what to do,’ Abbot states, ‘it’s nothing too complicated-‘
‘Dr. Abbot, I know what I’m doing,’ your voice is stern and confident in a way that tickles Jack.
‘I know it doesn’t take a genius to clean a wound but just to be careful-‘
‘No, Jack,’ he stills hearing you say his first name for the first time. But your neck sentence pulls him from wishing you’d repeat his name just once more.
‘I mean I really know what I’m doing,’ you sigh as you spray the wound to clean it, ‘I went to medical school. I got to R3…’
For once in his life, Jack Abbot is speechless and for a moment, the bullet wound is obsolete, as he whips his head around to look at you. For months, he’s been trying to get any semblance of insight into who you were but this was never expected.
‘Fuck!’ He grates as the wound punishes him for his movements.
‘Shocking, I know,’ you scoff as you readjust the angle of his head and get back to work.
‘You could be here as a resident,’ Jack puzzles, ‘why are you a social worker?’
‘Things happen. The path can change even whilst you’re on it.’
For the first time in his life had Jack wished he was the type of person who could effortlessly pry. Introduce himself and have someone’s life story after twenty minutes, a skill most of the nurses seem to possess. Usually he likes the bare minimum, not necessarily including the pleasantries half the time. But for some reason, he’s desperate to tug the thread that might unravel you.
‘I mean, did you think you end up running an emergency department when you were over in Iraq?’
‘I didn’t think much about anything beyond the right now, when I was there.’
He stops himself from revealing himself further, from saying no, I didn’t think that would fucking happen because I didn’t know I would fucking have my leg blown to pieces.
The wound was clean and dry now.
‘It’s surface level. No stitches, just a dressing,’ you interrupt.
‘Thank god,’ Jack chuckles, ‘when was the last time you did stitches?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ you pause, ‘for insurance reasons.’ You busy yourself cutting the dressing and decide to work out what’s led to this revelation anyway.
‘What were you thinking when you decided to be a SWAT medic?’ There’s a disapproving tone to your voice.
‘I was thinking that my psychiatrist said I needed a hobby,’ Jack retorts, ‘and the knitting club rejected me.’
‘Funny. Did they mention anything about using sarcasm as a shield?’
Abbot tenses, he knows this is part of the strange rapport you two had started to build. A little element of snark. But right now, he already felt exposed in all senses and the part of his brain that gnarled away at him, told him to stop letting you burrow in further. She’s getting through the cracks.
‘What dressing have you used?’ Abbot asks, straightening himself.
‘Gauze but non-adherent. I’m assuming you’re only going to redress it yourself so I thought I may as well save you some hassle.’
Abbot exudes a snort and you return from your position behind him. Blue gloves pinging off your fingers before you tidy your trolley. You look good like this, a natural. It nags at him that he doesn’t know why you stopped at R3, so close to the end.
You catch him analysing you, like a case yet to crack. The thought comes to you that there’s nothing clean for him to put back on when the door rattles.
‘What the…’ Robby’s voice mutters on the other side, ‘Abbot? Brother, are you in there?’
There’s countless things wrong with the picture Robby could walk in on. It lost starts with one of the most senior doctors shirtless in an abandoned room with a young, pretty social worker, it ends with said social worker clearly performing medical care without a license.
‘My hideouts been rumbled,’ you sigh. Unlocking the door before Jack can protest. Robby’s fist is mid air and his eyes land on his best friend looking worse for ware, before realising it was you who opened the door.
You stand like a deer in headlights, a tray of medical supplies beside you. Jack’s bloodied shirt is crumbled on the ground and a flush Robby has not seen before, creeps over his exposed chest.
Robby clicks his tongue and crosses his arms, ‘is this going to end up with me grovelling to Gloria?’
Abbot blinks as suddenly, you transform back into the calm and collected social worker he was used to seeing. Back straightened, skirt dusted off and sleeves rolled back down to your wrist.
‘I’m not sure why that would be necessary Dr. Robinavitch,’ you voice oozes charm and you look between both men, ‘Dr. Abbot, I would recommend you find a new psychiatrist… It was nice seeing you both, I have work to get back to.’
And with that, you glide out the room as if nothing had ever happened. Robby spins around, trying to regain the little grip he had on what was going on. Abbot slowly eases himself off the bed.
‘Do I dare ask?’ Robby flounders. Jack pouts his lip in pretend thought then shakes his head. He attempts to reach for his shedded jacket before his friend catches his wincing and beats him to it. As they both rise up again, Robby catches the hidden damage on Abbot’s shoulder and lets out a low whistle.
‘You just can’t stay out of trouble, brother,’ he manhandles Abbot to inspect the dressed wound, ‘nice work on the dressing though…’
Robby pauses, a thought flickering through his head, his eyes tracking from the door you just exited, the trolley and the perfect dressing before him.
‘Did… did she do this?’ Robby ponders.
‘Yep,’ Abbot admits.
‘Did you show her how to?’ Robby pries further.
‘Nope,’ Abbot says with a pop.
‘Mohan told me she nearly bit her head off before shoving her out the door?’
Abbot snorts, the image of you springing into action replaying in his head. The way you had ordered him around like a sergeant. The way something once forgotten took over you, knowing exactly how to treat him. The way your hands had touched him like he might shatter beneath your fingertips.
Jack knew it would be foolish to pretend he wouldn’t replay this again once day breaks and his head finally hits his pillow.