Chapter Text
It takes a moment for the ripples to reach the entire Pitt.
Robby comes in like he always does: too fast on the motorcycle, no helmet, hair messy from his hands running through it. He's explosive in the way a grenade is when the pin is pulled, just before the release. Between Langdon's return (he still won't speak to you for turning him in), the new attending taking over for him, losing Louie, and the chaos of the holiday, you're barely keeping it together. It doesn't help that Robby's being so flippant about if he comes back, if he'll be careful. The words start to bleed, from casual, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, to downright scary.
You snap in the ambulance bay, after the ambulance clips his bike, and he finally loses it. After he all but screamed at Dana, moving her to tears. After an endless shift in the technical dark ages, barely hanging on to your sanity.
The conversation isn't calm, not after the worst words leave your lips. He gets defensive, like a dog backed into the corner. He's a dirty bomb, throwing shrapnel, sharp edges ready to cut. You're just caught in the crossfire.
Better you than Samira, than Santos. You can take a hit. You're tough.
But you're losing him, and it terrifies you. Discretion has been the bedrock of this little tryst of yours, except now it's all coming to a head. You're raising your voice, and you don't care. "What am I supposed to do, Michael? Sit around like a war widow collecting postcards? Hoping you might come back?"
"War widow? That's fucking dramatic—"
"You keep talking like you're going to kill yourself—"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm scared for you, Robby." Your voice is thin, reedy almost, like it's about to break open. "Please just—"
"What do you want from me?" He grunts out your name like an accusation, without any warmth or affection. It's the first time you've ever heard it sound like that off his lips. "Huh? What do you want? Because you're acting like a clingy little girl."
You flinch. "Little girl, huh? And yet you slept with me anyway."
He barks out a mirthless laugh. "Little Miss Perfect. Doctorpedia, the genius. You think just because you're smart, you know everything? Just because I fucked you, I owe you something?"
Your lip trembles. You bite down hard enough to draw blood. "I... Just thought..."
"Well, you thought wrong, because the last time I checked, I didn't make you any promises," he spits. "This conversation is over. I am your boss, and you're out of line, and those charts need scanning."
He might as well have punched you in the gut. A tear slides down your cheek, but you don't break. You clench your jaw defiantly and salute him with a middle finger. "Yes, boss."
You crash back into the ER, collapsing in a chair with a stack of pages in front of you, the screen where you've been dictating now blurry from unshed tears. You blink, swiping the tears away with your sleeve when another escapes.
"You good?" Santos asks, nudging you with her foot.
You nod. "I'm perfect."
"I need an extra set of hands in here!" Dr. Abbot's voice reverberates through the ER as an alarm beside a patient in Trauma One starts to scream. You make a break for it, eager to distract yourself with work.
And you run the procedure flawlessly. Your execution, your pace, your technique. You narrate what you're doing before Abbot can ask, and by the end of it, your hands are shaking. But it's not from adrenaline, it's from the grief and love festering inside you, about to split you open. You live a life guided by rules and missed the biggest one of all: don't fall in love with your boss.
Too bad you did just that.
"Maybe you should scrub into the OR," Robby suggests, his voice cold. It's an indirect order to get out of his sight, out of his ER. You have a background in surgery. Trauma surgery, pediatric specialty. He doesn't want you in an OR for your skills, though. He wants to remind you he's in charge, and the final nail in the coffin of your relationship has been hammered in.
"No, we need her down here," says Abbot.
Robby scoffs. "Whatever, man."
He gets called away by Dr. Al-Hashimi, and you breathe a sigh of relief. The breath comes out shaky, almost broken.
"You did good, kid." Abbot clasps your shoulder, meeting your eyes. "You okay?"
"Long day," you reply. You give him a watery smile.
He sighs. "He doesn't mean it."
"He does, though," you say.
You wonder if he knows about you, how close you and Robby actually are. Jack is Robby's best friend, his emergency contact. He's also smart enough to see when something is going on, and you and Robby, however subtle you try to be, don't slip past him unnoticed.
"Hey," Jack murmurs, a little softer. "I'll talk to him, okay?"
You shrug. "It's okay."
"It's not," he says. "But he'll come around, okay?"
"I'm sorry for bringing my personal crap into work, Dr. Abbot." Your voice trembles with shame. "It won't happen again."
"Call me Jack," he tells you, so gentle it aches.
"Jack," you try again.
"Atta girl."
As much as Robby would like to pretend the boundaries of the arrangement have always been clear, it was him who broke the rules first.
The first time, it's an emotional disaster. All blurred lines, jagged edges that don't quite fit. You're doctors who don't know how to be clean. All you know is the chaos, the mess that drives you.
It's right after PittFest. You found him curled up in pedes, reciting a prayer to an unhearing god, tears in his eyes, breath shuddering like a broken door rattling on fragile hinges. You knelt down, finished the prayer for him, took his hand, helped him up, and never said a word about it.
Two days later, two shifts later, he catches you outside in the ambulance bay, smoking a cigarette.
He narrows his eyes at your smoke. "Those'll kill you."
"Dana gave it to me," you reply, like that justifies it. "I came in at three because they needed help. Pedes traumas. Three kids."
It's now almost ten o'clock at night. This fact doesn't escape his notice.
"The cigarette is waking me up enough to drive home," you add.
He shakes his head, snatching it out of your hand. Without preamble, he drops it to the ground and stamps it out.
"Hey!"
"What kind of doctor would I be if I let you drive home like this?" he asks. "No way in hell. Give me your keys."
"No!" you exclaim.
"I'll drive you home. Uber back. Give me your keys," he says again, more firmly. "You're not safe behind the wheel after nineteen fuckin' hours. I mean, Jesus, do you even sleep?"
"Occasionally," you answer briskly.
"Keys." He adds your name, a little softer. "Please."
You reluctantly hand them over, and he walks you to the passenger side of your own damn car, helping you into it with a hand between your shoulder blades. You want to snap at him, tell him he's being ridiculous, but the words catch in your throat. All your life, you've been caring for everyone else. Now, suddenly, you're at a loss. The compassion you never afford yourself is coming from your attending. Your rock-solid attending, who's too old for you to crush on, and yet you want him anyway.
Music plays softly as he drives you home, following your directions. The only time you speak is to tell him to turn. When he pulls into the parking garage under your apartment complex, you're almost sad he'll have to go.
"Want to wait for your Uber upstairs?" you ask, trying to prolong the night. To avoid the goodbye a second or two longer.
He pauses, and your face pinches scarlet with embarrassment. What were you thinking? What are you doing?
"Sure," he says, nodding. "I can do that."
He follows you to the third floor, where your tiny unit sits. Your hands shake when you unlock the door: a catastrophic mix of low blood sugar, exhaustion, and nerves. You haven't had a man in your apartment before, not since you moved to Pittsburgh when your last relationship crashed and burned back in Seattle.
Your tiny one-bedroom is full of books, and your cat, Emily Brontë, or EB for short, rules over the domain. You've always loved Wuthering Heights. When you're not reading medical journals or studying surgical techniques, you read classics for fun. You double-majored in undergrad, pre-med and comparative literature, which is why you named EB after a writer.
EB approaches Robby instantly, rubbing along his shins. He scratches her behind the ears, and she poises her paws on his knee, all but climbing his leg. He takes the cue to pick her up, holding her against his chest and petting her with a chuckle. "And who is this pretty girl?"
"EB," you answer.
"EB? As in Phoebe?" he asks, drawing out the sounds with obvious confusion.
"As in Emily Brontë."
"Most people name their cats Mittens or something."
"Does she look like a Mittens?" As if on cue, she narrows her eyes before hopping down and skittering away. "She doesn't normally like strangers."
"I'm honored, then." He glances around.
"Sorry about the mess," you say quickly. "You want coffee or something? I have leftover pizza."
He shrugs. "I'm not really all that hungry."
"Hasn't hit you yet. I doubt you've taken a break all day."
"Pot-kettle," he retorts.
"I'll eat if you do," you offer.
Robby's laugh lines crinkle when he smiles a little deeper. "How could I say no to that?"
So, that's how you wind up watching Jeopardy! on the couch, folded next to him, munching on cold pizza. You answer nearly all of the questions quietly, and he raises an eyebrow.
"I should take you out for some bar trivia. You'd win the pot," Robby says casually. His arm is stretched across the back of the loveseat, fingers brushing the curve of your shoulder when you lean back.
Take you out whirls around in your head, tilting until it doesn't seem like English anymore. "I'd like that," you say, a bit shy.
He leans in a little, his touch ghosting across your cheek. "I..."
You kiss him.
He's surprised for a moment, but before you can pull away and apologize, embarrassed, certain you read the moment wrong, he grabs your chin and whispers, "Where are you going, honey?" against your mouth. When he kisses you again, it's hard, certain. Consuming.
He hauls you onto his lap, knocking your glasses off your face. His tongue is in your mouth, and the space between your bodies is almost non-existent. You can feel his cock beneath his scrubs, hardening slowly, and grind your hips against him, seeking relief.
He groans, and you whimper as his deft fingers reach under your scrub top and unhook your bra with one hand. Your brain shuts down, then reboots, and his beard scratches against your neck as he sucks a little mark into your collarbone.
He unties your pants, lifting you just enough to fit his hand down the front of them, and when he finds your cotton panties sticky with need, he groans. "That all for me?" he asks. "Fuck, sweetheart."
He rubs your sensitive nub gently with his thumb, teasing you over the fabric, and you whimper, chasing his touch. When you think you're about to go insane, he pulls the fabric to the side and curls two fingers inside your aching hole. You try to say his name, but all that comes out is a desperate, needy sound as he pumps his thick digits in and out of your cunt, hitting every delicate, perfect spot to undo you. You're tightening around him, a fluttery, floaty feeling pulling you out of your skin, and then you come, hard.
Robby coaches you through it. "That's it. That's my girl."
He teases your clit a few seconds longer before he pulls his fingers out of you, now slick with your release. Even though you're sensitive and working through the aftershocks, you want more. You want him.
He lifts his fingers to his mouth, and you watch him suck the taste of you like it's sweet nectar.
Yeah, you need him inside of you. Now.
If you can take it. Because the hard length of him pressing into your thigh is daunting. Long and thick. He twitches as you slide your hands under his shirt, skimming the soft skin of his tummy.
"My bedroom is down the hall," you say.
"Yes, ma'am," he replies. He scoops you up, like you weigh nothing at all, and he carries you into your bedroom before dropping you on the bed. EB, annoyed at you for waking her, trots out of the room, and Robby kicks the door shut before he's on you again.
You rip off your shirt, letting your unclasped bra hit the carpet. He pulls his over his head, the golden Star of David on the chain resting against his broad chest. He works off his pants, then yours. And then he whistles at the sight of your tits before taking one of your nipples between his teeth and tugging just so. He spreads your knees as he worships your breasts, and you palm him over his boxers, whining sweet nothings and pleas for more.
"I don't have—"
"I'm clean. IUD. Robby, please—"
He groans. "Are you sure?"
You yank his boxers down as his answer. He hisses out a breath, rubbing his shaft through the slick folds of your pussy. When his thick head catches on your clit, you whine. You feel better than you ever have in your life. It's never been like this, so perfect. He knows exactly how to touch you, with all the confidence of a man who's been having sex since before you were born. It should be daunting, but it isn't.
Finally, he slides the first inch in. Just the thick tip to start, just enough to start spreading you. It's not enough, the delicious pressure of him, so you hook your heels around his hips and pull him in. He slips all the way inside of you in one thrust, as if his self-control has fallen out the window. As he crashes into you, buried all the way to your cervix, balls slapping against your ass with each thrust, you kiss him sloppily, desperately.
He lasts a long time, too. Enough time to make you come two more times with his cock, and when he finally paints your plush walls white with ropes of his cum, you're too blissed out and fucked stupid to realize the gravity of what you've done.
You left Seattle, running from an ill-fated relationship with another surgeon, and now, your fresh start is ruined by the same mistake. Worse, even, given his position as the head of the department.
The problem is, you can't be bothered to care.
He cleans you up and then holds you until you fall asleep. But the rules of the game are set when your eyes open, only to find EB in your bed and cold sheets where he used to lie.
At first, it's easy. Infrequent sexual encounters where neither of you talks about what it means. You keep it casual, simple. Scratching an itch. It starts to bleed into work when it happens once in the on-call room, another time in your backseat in the parking lot. Then, it becomes sleepovers, shower sex, and morning orgasms when he eats his breakfast between your thighs.
He takes you to the biker bar for trivia, and doesn't correct Duke when he refers to you as Robby's girl. Like you belong to him permanently, and aren't just a borrowed thing. You don't realize you're falling in love with him because it's something that just happens so easily, so gradually, it's practically a law of physics, like gravity.
You know the score. At least, you should. That doesn't stop you from loving him, from smiling at your phone when he texts, or when he calls at night because he can't sleep.
Then, slowly, he starts to pull away. Until he's not even with you during sex, not mentally, and then the phone calls stop, the shifts become rigid, uncertain dances, and he stops looking at you from across the room.
You find out Robby's going away on a sabbatical for three months from Dr. Abbot, when he announces it to the night shift one evening you're working late, after Ellis asks you to cover for her. You call, and he doesn't answer. Your texts are left on read.
Just when you're all but begging him to talk to you, he starts lashing out, and then all you do on shift is argue. It's unprofessional, it's messy. It's heart break in slow motion. An unavoidable collision.
You're not surprised when the final fight plays out the way it does. You just wish the fact that you saw it coming made it any easier to stomach. And somehow, after he shatters your soul, you catch sight of him swaddling baby Jane Doe, holding her so tenderly it makes you wonder how he lost that gentleness for you.
You cry the whole way home.
You switch to nights to accommodate the schedule changes. Shen moves to days, and slowly, the ED finds its rhythm again. You live off the crumbs of information Jack gives Dana during hand-offs, pretending not to be eavesdropping.
You shouldn't care where Robby is, or what he's doing. But you do.
Meanwhile, you end up thriving on the night shift. Something about the other doctors and nurses makes you feel appreciated, like a working cog in a machine. Patient satisfaction and morale are up, and Gloria is floating the idea of tenure to you when you return to the day shift. Turns out, you're a great mentor, and Jack is there, telling you how well you're doing, how much the team values you.
He doesn't make a move until your last night shift, when everyone throws you a little party with donuts and your favorite coffee. You pretend to be annoyed, acting like it's not a big deal, just a shift change, not death, but you accept all the hugs they give you.
Jack's lasts the longest of all.
And after, when the shift is over, he glances at you across the ambulance bay and says, "You wanna get breakfast?"
"Oh, I wasn't planning on going anywhere. I mean, I'm a mess."
"You're beautiful," he tells you. "So breakfast? It's a low-stakes date."
"You're asking me out?"
He leans over into the rose bush, plucking one stem, careful around the thorns. Then he passes it to you, like an offering. "Romantic enough for you, yet?"
You nod, your face lighting up like the golden hour sun. He grins, kisses the top of your head, and the two of you walk to the diner together, hand in hand.
Unsurprisingly, Jack Abbot is a gentleman. One date becomes two, becomes three, and it never goes past kissing. He doesn't push for more or ask, and if you're honest with yourself, you want more. Want him.
His resolve finally breaks when date number four rolls around. He cooks for you, and you wind up making out in the kitchen, wine glasses forgotten. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, ass pressing against the cold countertop. His hand is in your hair, his cock straining against his jeans as you grind against him.
"Jack," you plead. "Jack, please."
"Are you sure?" he asks.
You nod.
He carries you to his bedroom, but you can see the way his bad leg is dragging. Long hours on the prosthetic are hard on him, and even when he's taking it easy at home, he pushes too hard. You guide him down to the bed, peeling away his jeans. His cock is tenting the fabric of his boxer briefs, and you're nervous. He's girthy, thicker all the way around than anyone else you've been with. Where Robby's long, Jack is beefy. You try not to compare them as you mouth the tip of his length, then slowly, take off his prosthetic.
You gently massage the stump, and he yanks you up to kiss him. His hands yank your t-shirt over your head, and when he catches sight of your thin, lacy bralette, he lets out an unbridled moan. "Fuck, baby. Look at you."
You blush. He slides the strap of your bra down, the cup pooling around your ribs. His mouth closes around your nipple, and you whimper, grinding against the hard ridge of his cock. Your panties are soaked, and your leggings, however thin, are still too much fabric between you. You moan his name, a breathy gasp, and he pulls you down hard over his thigh.
"Show me how bad you want it," he orders. "Use me."
And oh, do you. You grind against him, trembling as you drag your clit across his hardness. The pressure from the ridges of his cock is just enough to make your head spin. Your wetness, sticky and coating your lacy panties, grows with each thrust of your hips to meet his. You come undone with his name in your mouth, and when you finally can't take anymore, he flips you over, puts you on your back, and tugs your panties and leggings off in one move. He makes short work of your bra, too, sucking your nipples into hard, wet peaks.
Then, without preamble, he kneels. He hauls you forward, wrapping your thighs around his head, and then his mouth is on your clit before you can process the fact you're naked in front of Jack Abbot, and he's looking at you like you're the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
When your eyes flutter shut, he pinches your nipple, raising his brows. Whatever he says as he laps at your folds is muffled, but it almost sounds like eyes on me. You whimper, but obey him, digging your hands in his salt and pepper curls for leverage. You're grinding against his stubbled chin, his lips applying the perfect pressure to your sensitive bundle of nerves. Then, just when you're almost there, he pushes a finger inside you and curls it just so.
This time, you come with a rush of liquid too. Under any other circumstances, you'd be embarrassed, since squirting rarely happens for you, but Jack laps it all up greedily.
"Gonna make you do that again," he decides, and when he kisses you, you taste it on his tongue.
"I need to ride you," you tell him.
He nods. "Fuck, baby, I wouldn't have you any other way."
He reaches into the nightstand for a condom, opening it with his teeth. You help him roll it down on his cock, feeling your hands around him properly. His size is daunting, but you need him too badly to slow down now.
Jack sits propped against his headboard, pupils blown, hazel eyes wild with want. He nibbles your bottom lip, dragging it between his teeth as he devours you with his tongue. Hands on your hips, he holds you over him, sliding his cock through your slick folds.
You lower yourself down slowly, one inch at a time. When he's fully seated inside you, he's deep enough to kiss your cervix, and your belly is bulging with each movement as he slides home. You drop up and down on his cock, slowly at first, and then harder. Your tits bounce as you ride him, and your mind is blank, wiped clean. All you can think about is Jack, about how this feels, and then you can't think of anything at all.
When you come again, he follows behind you, cursing under his breath as he spills hot ropes of his seed into the condom. You're overwhelmed with sensations, but above all else, you feel loved.
And you feel it for him, too.
Which terrifies you.
Because you love Robby, too.
After, Jack just holds you. Arms wrapped around you, his shirt on your body, borrowed boxers on your hips.
You wait until his breaths even out to let yourself cry silently into the pillow. Happy tears, sad ones, everything all at once.
When you wake up the next morning, he's still there. He even makes you breakfast and coffee the way you like it.
After that, you're officially Jack's.
It's a rainy October day, just around the corner from Halloween, when Robby comes back to PTMC.
You and Jack are coming off the night shift, one fraught with stomach pumps and drunk drivers. Halloweekend came early, and the Pitt never rests. He comes through the door without ceremony, his bag slung over his shoulder, badge pinned to his scrubs.
"Robby!" Dana says, beaming. "As I live and breathe."
Robby hugs her first, and then Jack. Immediately, Santos and Whittaker offer him handshakes, and even Dr. Al-Hashimi seems pleased to see him. You stand by the nurse's station, unsure of what to do.
You left things on a bad note. More than a bad note. After the fight, the sex, the history, you know, there's a fifty-fifty shot this blows up in your face. And yet, naive hope keeps you hesitant. You don't run, rocking forward on your heels and bracing yourself for impending disaster.
Jack slides a hand around your waist, his hand falling against your hip as his lips press into your hair. The claim, staked.
Robby's eyes shift between you, hurt flickering in them.
"You're here," you whisper.
He nods. "And you're..."
"Lot's changed since you left, brother," Jack cuts in. "Good to have you back."
The understanding hits Robby, tearing his heart—and yours—into pieces. For reasons you don't quite understand, it's hit you like a freight train. A sucker punch to the guts.
When you and Jack finally leave the ER, it takes everything in you not to look back.
But just because you don't look doesn't mean it's over.