Chapter Text
Jack Abbot dragged himself to his front door, the last fourteen hours weighing him down. The shift had been brutal, filled with more blood and death than usual. Two STEMIs, a multicar pile up and a knife fight had been just the highlights of his night. His leg was killing him, chafing uncomfortably. His sock was sweat soaked and he’d forgotten to replace the backup in his bag after he’d washed it so he hadn’t been able to switch it out. All he wanted was silence, a shower and his bed in that exact order.
He fumbled his keys, dropping them to the hardwood as he opened the door. Bending to retrieve them had an uncomfortable jolt of pain shooting up his spine. He huffed a tired sigh. He hadn’t even been able to sit for more than a five minute stretch and was utterly wiped. Usually the post-shift adrenaline would carry him through getting some food and a shower but even that seemed to have abandoned him leaving him with only a bone deep fatigue.
Soft yellow light spilling from his kitchen made him pause. He hadn’t left any lights on, he was sure of it. It was the last thing he always checked when leaving the house.
“Jack?” your soft voice called from the kitchen.
He closed his eyes briefly. Not now. Please, not now.
You appeared in the kitchen doorway with a soft smile. “Hey. Go get cleaned up. I made you some breakfast so you could get some food in you before you crashed.”
Jack closed the door, wincing as his prosthesis pinched when he shifted his weight. “What are you doing here?” The words came out harsher than he’d intended but he couldn’t summon the effort to soften them.
Your small smile faded but didn’t disappear completely. “I just wanted to take care of you. I know it was a tough night so I—”
“So, I can’t give you the attention you’re always begging for because I’m having a shit night so you show up here to get it in person?” Jack cut you off, watching your face fall with a detached sort of awareness. He knew he was being cruel. He knew he would regret it, but he couldn’t seem to stop the words from tumbling out. “I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now.”
Your shoulders climbed up around your ears as if you were trying to shield yourself from his words. “I wasn’t…I just wanted to help.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.” The devastation on your face should have stopped him. Instead, it spurred him on, as if your pain would somehow alleviate his own. “You can’t just show up here whenever you want. I need space. Quiet. Neither of which you are capable of giving me.”
You took a step back, your gaze falling to the floor. “I’m sorry, Jack. I just thought—”
“That’s the fucking problem. You’re always thinking about what you want. What you need. What about what I need?” Even as he said the words, he knew they weren’t true. You were nothing but considerate, always careful not to push too hard, always willing to give him space when he needed solitude. The guilt began to seep in but exhaustion kept it at bay. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
He brushed past you, catching a glimpse of your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. For a split second, he nearly turned back. Nearly apologized. Nearly pulled you into his arms and admitted he was being an asshole that he didn’t mean any of it. Instead, he kept walking. The bedroom door closed behind him with a click, leaving you alone in the hallway.
***
“Yeah, of course,” you whispered to the empty hallway. The sound of the shower soon provided a steady backdrop to your pain. You pressed a palm against your mouth, forcing back the sob that threatened to escape, and blinked rapidly to clear the blur of tears. It was happening again. You’d fucked it up again by being too needy, too clingy. What the fuck was wrong with you. One tear escaped despite your best efforts, trailing down your cheek before you angrily wiped it away with the back of your hand.
Your mother’s voice echoed in your head. You’re suffocating him. Men don’t like clingy women. Your father chimed in. Give the poor guy some breathing room. Then your sister. This is why your relationships never last. You’re just too much.
Too much. The words had followed you most of your life no matter how small you tried to make yourself. You glanced at the plate of bacon and eggs you’d made, hoping to get some protein into Jack’s stomach before he slept. You’d thought it a loving gesture, one full of concern but now you saw it for the invasion it was.
The shower continued to run in the background as you moved through the apartment gathering your things. There wasn’t much. You’d been so careful not to leave too many things at his place, not wanting to encroach on his space. But things had accumulated over the months just the same.
You pulled your overnight bag from the closet and began methodically collecting your things, as quickly and as quietly as you could. The spare clothes from the drawer he’d given you. The items from the nightstand on your side of the bed. Your gaze flicked briefly to the bathroom door, deciding to leave your belongings there so you didn’t disturb Jack any more than you already had.
In the living room you grabbed a couple of books before moving to the kitchen to grab your mug and the book on phantom limb pain you’d been reading while you waited for him to come home. You’d been so eager to help with his discomfort, to show you could be useful, that you’d spent hours researching. Just another example of you pushing yourself into spaces where you weren’t wanted.
You considered leaving a note. The pen hovered over the notepad on the counter. What should you write exactly?
I’m sorry for bothering you?
I didn’t mean to love you too much?
I’ll try to be less needy?
Each message seemed more pathetic than last. A further burden on someone who had already made it clear they didn’t have the energy for you. In the end, you sat the pen down without writing a word. A note would be just another demand for his attention.
You glanced around one more time, memories flashing through your head as you did so. Jack pulling you into his lap as you brought him coffee, his sleepy smile against your neck. The two of you lounging on the couch, legs tangled together under a blanket. When he’d given you his key, telling you to use it whenever you wanted. That he liked having you here. That he wanted you to feel safe, comfortable.
Perhaps you’d imagined the affection in all of those moments. Saw something you wanted to be there rather than the reality that Jack tolerated you more than he wanted you. Maybe you were overreacting. You knew his shift had been shit. Maybe he was just lashing out due to exhaustion and stress. Maybe you should stay, talk it through when he emerged calmer from his shower.
Then you remembered his words. I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now. Deal with. As if you were a chore, something to be managed or handled. You swallowed hard. Your family was right. You were too much. Too needy, too eager, too clingy. And now Jack had seen it too, just as you’d always known he would.
The shower was still running when you shouldered your bag and slipped out the door. You closed it gently behind you, careful not to make a sound. Your final act of consideration was to leave without disturbing him. To give him the space and silence he so desperately needed and you were apparently incapable of giving him. You locked the door with the key then slipped it into the mail slot, knowing he’d find it later, sure he’d be relieved he didn’t have to deal with you anymore.
***
Hot water pounded against Jack’s shoulders as he sat slumped on the shower seat. It did nothing to wash away that expression on your face when he’d snapped at you. Steam filled the bathroom, making it hard to breathe, yet he couldn’t bring himself to turn down the temperature. He deserved the discomfort. A minor penance for the words he’d hurled at you when all you’d done was try to take care of him.
“Fuck,” he muttered as he squeezed his eyes shut, but your face appeared in the darkness behind his eyelids. The way your smile had crumbled as you tried to make yourself smaller as if trying to disappear. You hadn’t even fought back. That was the worst part. You’d just accepted his cruelty as if you’d deserved it.
He'd been a fucking asshole of the first order. Exhaustion and pain had loosened his tongue but the words had been his own. He couldn’t blame them on anything but his own stupid embarrassment. He’d been embarrassed you’d seen him at his lowest, limping and exhausted. Embarrassed he couldn’t be strong for you. Embarrassed by his need for the comfort you were offering. And in his embarrassment, he’d lashed out.
You’d just wanted to help and he’d thrown it back in your face like your care was an imposition rather than the gift it was. As he rinsed the shampoo from his hair, his mind ran back over his outburst. I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now. Christ. As if your presence wasn’t the very thing that restored him during horrible shifts. Your smile, your humor, the way you seemed to understand when to talk and when to let him be silent.
He shut off the water and reached for a towel. He’d apologize. Make it right. You’d understand. You always did. Sometimes he wondered if you forgave his moods too easily. He wrapped the towel around his waist and used his crutches to maneuver to the door and opened it.
“Baby,” he called, his voice softer now. “I’m sorry about before. I was a dick.”
Silence answered.
He frowned, as he moved into the bedroom calling your name, louder now. “Are you still here?”
His eyes landed on the bed, taking in the details he’d missed when he’d passed through to take his shower. The bed was made with fresh sheets, the super soft gray ones you’d bought him. Lounge clothes were laid out on the bed and everything he needed to take care of his leg was arranged neatly on the nightstand.
He closed his eyes briefly before getting dressed as quickly as he could. He headed toward the kitchen, calling out for you again but knowing you were already gone. The breakfast you’d prepared remained on the table, covered with plastic wrap. A note should have been next to his plate. You always left messages whether they be funny or sweet or practical. But there was no note. His stomach sank.
He sat in the chair, staring at the food that had gone cold. His stomach rumbled reminding him he hadn’t eaten since a hasty protein bar somewhere mid-shift. Mechanically, he pulled the plate toward him and took a bite. Then another. He was certain the food was good, you’d always been an excellent cook, but it all tasted like ashes on his tongue. With each bite, his guilt intensified. You’d come over here on your night off to take care of him and he’d treated your sacrifice with contempt.
After finishing half the plate, he returned to the bedroom where he’d left his phone. He scrolled past notifications desperately hoping you’d sent him something. Anything. Finding nothing, he typed out a text to you.
I’m sorry.
It was woefully inadequate. There should be more but his brain was foggy with exhaustion and the right words wouldn’t come. He hit send. After a beat, he sent another.
Please call me when you can.
As he slid between the sheets, he checked his phone one more time. No response. Not that he was surprised, he’d hurt you badly.
Tomorrow, he promised himself as his eyelids grew heavy. He’d find you and make this right. He’d explain, apologize properly and beg if necessary. The thought of losing you, made his chest tighten with panic. But exhaustion won out. His last conscious thought was of your face.
***
Jack jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs. For a moment, he couldn’t place what had woken him. He couldn’t recall a dream and no alarm was going off. Then the memory of that morning rushed back.
He fumbled for his phone, knocking over a bottle of moisturizer. The screen showed it was just after 15:00. More importantly, there were no missed calls or texts from you. “Shit,” he muttered, pushing himself up.
He dialed your number, pressing the phone to his ear as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. It rang four times before going to voicemail. Your warm voice asking him to leave a message made his stomach clench.
“Hey, it’s me,” he said after the tone. “I…Listen, about this morning, I was a total asshole. Please call me back. I need to talk to you.” He paused, then added, “I’m sorry,” before hanging up.
Jack put on his sleeve and secured his prosthesis with practiced movements despite the slight tremor in his hands. Standing, his gaze swept the room only to pause when he noticed that your nightstand was empty. No book, no charger, nothing.
He yanked open the drawer he’d cleared for you in his dresser to find it empty. A glance in the closet showed your overnight bag missing as well. An uneasy feeling crept up his spine as he moved through the house, checking spaces where you’d left pieces of yourself over the months. The books you’d had on the living room bookcase were gone. That stupid mug with the cartoon dog that he pretended to hate but secretly loved was gone as well.
The only place there was any trace of you was the bathroom where he’d been showering when you left. “No, no, no, no,” he muttered, his movements becoming more frantic as he searched. This wasn’t you giving him space, this was you removing yourself from his life entirely.
He called again and again it went to voicemail. “Please pick up,” he said this time, not trying to hide the desperation in his voice. “I know I don’t deserve it, but please just let me know you’re okay.”
Jack ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots. “Shit, shit. Fuck,” he hissed as he paced the living room. You hadn’t just left, you’d erased yourself from his space. He needed to find you. His stomach growled reminding him he hadn’t eaten.
He wrenched open the refrigerator door to grab a protein shake and froze. Neatly stacked containers lined the shelves, each labeled in your handwriting. ‘Tuesday lunch,’ ‘Wednesday dinner,’ etc. Enough meals to last him through the week. He stared at these tangible reminders of your care. Several of the notes had small hearts or smiley faces drawn on them.
“God, what the fuck is wrong with me?” he whispered, closing the refrigerator door and resting his head against the cool surface. He’d been tired and in pain but nothing excused what he’d done. Nothing excused making you feel like a burden when you were anything but.
He needed to find you. Needed to explain. To make you understand. Jack dressed in cargos and a t-shirt, shoving a scrub top into his bag in case he didn’t have time to come home before his shift. The apartment you shared with Samira was a short walk away but his body still ached from yesterday’s shift so the truck it was.
Securing his keys and wallet, he headed for the door, freezing as the light caught something lying on the floor. A lump formed in his throat as he bent over to pick your key up from the floor. His hand fisted around it and a guttural yell escaped his lips. He almost threw it before stopping himself and putting it into his pocket instead. He’d need to give it back to you after all.
Twenty minutes later, Jack stood outside your apartment door. He knocked sharply, then again more gently, not wanting to piss off your neighbors.
No answer.
He knocked again, calling your name. The hallway remained silent except for the sound of a TV in another unit. He tried the doorknob. Locked, of course. He pressed his ear to the door but heard no movement from within. He stepped back, rubbing his hand over his jaw, the stubble rasping against his palm.
Where were you? At work maybe but you weren’t scheduled. Your family lived hours away (thank fuck for that). You could possibly be with friends, but he wouldn’t know how to start tracking you down.
Jack pulled out his phone again, thumb hovering over Samira’s contact. She would know where you were. She might even be with you right now. But if he called her, he’d have to explain why he was looking for you, would have to admit how badly he’d fucked up.
Pride warred briefly with necessity before he hit dial. The call went straight to voicemail. She was either working or had her phone off while sleeping.
He sent one more text to you.
I’m at your place. Please let me know where you are. I need to see you.
He slumped against the wall opposite your door. Neither you nor Samira were home and he had no idea where else to look.
He glanced at his watch. It was after 16:00. He had to be back at the Pitt for his sift at 19:00. The thought of working twelve hours not knowing where you were or if you were okay made his stomach turn.
Jack sat in his truck outside your apartment building staring at his phone as if it might suddenly reveal your whereabouts. His thumb hovered over Robby’s contact. He was expecting Jack to relieve him for the night shift but the thought of working tonight was impossible. He couldn’t focus on patients when his mind was filled with you, with the need to find you and fix what he’d broken.
He hit dial, pressing the phone to his ear. Robby answered on the third ring. “Brother, tell me you’re calling to say you’re coming in early,” Robby said in lieu of a greeting. “I’s a zoo here today.”
Jack closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat. “Actually, I’m calling to say I can’t work tonight. I’ll need to find someone to cover.”
A beat of silence. “Are you sick?” Robby asked, concern coloring his voice.
Jack gripped the steering wheel with this free hand. “I fucked up, Robby. I need to find my girl.”
There was another pause, filled with the background noise of the ED. Then Robby said, “She’s here.”
Jack’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
“She’s been here since noon. We had three call out with the flu.”
“She’s there right now?” he asked for confirmation, already turning the key in the ignition and putting the phone on speaker.
“Yes, I’m looking at her right now.” There was a shuffling sound then Robby’s voice became clearer as if he’d moved to a quieter area. “What the fuck did you do, Jack? She’s been acting weird all day.”
Jack winced, backing out of the parking space with more speed than caution. “I was an asshole after my shift. Said things I didn’t mean.”
“Must have been some horrible shit, Jack,” Robby remarked. “She’s doing this fake smile thing. And she called me Dr. Robinavitch. Twice.” He sighed. “Mohan’s been hovering as much as she can, but they’re on different cases, of course.”
So Samira was there too. That explained while neither of you had been at the apartment. “Don’t let her leave,” Jack said.
“She’s working her shift. I don’t think she’s just suddenly going to leave,” Robby grumbled, but his tone had softened. For all his gruff exterior, Robby had a soft spot for you. “Just get here and fix whatever you broke, Abbot. I hate seeing her like this.”
Jack ended the call and focused on getting to the hospital as quickly as possible without breaking any major traffic laws. His mind raced trying to decide what he’d say when he saw you. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t going to cut it. Not when you’d taken all your belongings from his place and returned his key.
Twenty minutes later, Jack strode through the ambulance bay doors, scanning the ED for any sign of you. He found Robby first who motioned down one of the corridors.
Jack moved past the hub where Samira stood reviewing a chart. She glanced up, her expression hardening when she saw him. Whatever you’d told her about what had happened, had clearly painted him in the light he deserved. “I know,” he said as he passed without stopping.
He found you in the quiet corridor at the far end of the ED, your back to him as you studied a chart. Your shoulders curled forward like you were trying to hide when he said your name. You didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge him.
“Baby, please look at me,” Jack begged, his voice low but urgent.
Your body went completely still but you didn’t turn around. “Please don’t call me that, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack made a sound low in his throat. Part protest, part pain. “Please,” he said moving closer but not touching you. “I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry.”
Slowly, you turned to face him. The sight of your eyes, usually so warm and expressive, now dulled, made his chest constrict. You’d been crying, though he doubted anyone else could tell.
“You don’t have to be sorry, Jack,” you said, voice unsettlingly calm. “I know I’m a lot. I told you when you asked me out that I wasn’t worth the effort. I’m too pushy, too clingy, too needy. I’m too much.”
Each word sounded like an accusation, though they were directed at yourself rather than him. Jack reached for your hand, relieved when you didn’t pull away even though you didn’t return his grip.
“You’re not,” he insisted, ducking his head to try to meet your gaze. “You’re not too much. I was an asshole. I was tired and in pain and I took it out on you. There is no excuse for that. It’s not enough, but I am so fucking sorry.”
Your lips curved into a smile though there was no warmth in it. “It’s okay. I get it. I’ll be fine.” You gently pulled your hand from his. “I need to get back to work. Make sure you eat something before—” You cut yourself off abruptly. “I’m sorry. That was pushy. You know when you need to eat.”
“No,” he said firmly. “No. That is not pushy. That is you caring about me and I threw that back in your face like an ungrateful bastard.”
But you were already stepping away, creating distance between the two of you. “I really need to finish this chart,” you said, not meeting his eyes.
Jack watched helplessly as you walked away, catching the whispered “stupid” you directed at yourself. That single word told him everything he needed to know about how deeply his words had wounded you. Not just because they were cruel but because they’d confirmed your worst fears about yourself.
How was he going to fix this? He ran a hand through his hair remembering the only time he’d met your family. Your father’s barely concealed surprise that you were dating someone he clearly thought was out of your league. Your mother’s whispered warning that he’d heard anyway. “Don’t get too attached, sweetheart. Once he finds out how you really are, how much work you are…well, men like that have options.”
He hadn’t said anything then, though he should have. He’d been afraid of embarrassing you. You’d laughed it off at the time, but Jack saw now that you’d believed it on some level. You’d been waiting for him to realize that you were ‘too much’ and this morning he’d confirmed that fear in the cruelest possible way.
He spotted Samira watching him, her expression a mix of disapproval and concern. If anyone knew you better than Jack did, it was Samira. She’d know how to help him fix this. Or at least understand the depth of the damage he’d done. Jack took a deep breath and headed toward her. He might have screwed this up spectacularly, but he wasn’t giving up. Not on you.