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You can’t read your soulmate’s name.
It’s not for lack of trying, but his signature can really only generously be called a squiggle. When you were little, kids used to make fun of you for it.
“A worm, you’ve got a worm for a soulmate.” Peter Thompson used to yell during recess after your shirt had ridden up and exposed the signature. He’d laughed until you punched him in the face.
That had gotten you in some trouble, but it was definitely worth it.
Your parents, ever so sympathetic, only took away your TV privileges for a week.
Sulking in your room, and in an act of defiance only a six year old could contrive, you decide that your signature would be an equally inscrutable squiggle. You wonder if it matters that you are forcing your signature a certain way and decide that it must not matter, because Brittany Denvers in Mrs. Matheny’s class practices her signature every day to make it loopy and cursive and signs it with a little heart in the hopes that it’ll be what’s on her soulmate’s body. Yours, you vow, will be a squiggle.
When you were older you were tempted to upload it to one of those signature claiming websites where people can identify soulmark signatures, but the thought of something so private, so personal, uploaded for everyone to see, seems wrong.
So, you resign yourself to not knowing. That was fine. Not everybody met their soulmate, and meeting one wasn’t a guarantee for happiness.
Years later, that little squiggly worm resting on your lower waist hovering just where your appendix sits, becomes nothing more than a funny quirk of your existence. You give up trying to decipher the frantic, messy loops of ink a long time ago. If your soulmate is meant to find you, you figure they would have to be the one to recognize their own terrible handwriting.
In the meantime, you have a life to live. Specifically, your grueling, full-time career as a 911 dispatcher.
You don’t do it for the money, and you definitely don't do it for the glamour. Your daily reality consists of three blinding monitors, a headset that permanently ruins whatever you tried to do with your hair that morning, and a permanently suspiciously sticky keyboard.
If you are being completely honest, there are days you hate it. You hate the stress, the fluorescent lights that give you a perpetual midday migraine, and the exhausting volume of human stupidity piped directly into your ear for hours on end.
But those are the easy calls. The days where you just have to deal with adults calling in with theft complaints because their DoorDasher forgot their drink. The days when elderly women call about home invaders, when it turns out it’s their grandkids trying to surprise her for her birthday.
The worst calls are the ones where you are tense the entire time. The ones that make you sit up straighter and lean forward to be closer to your monitor, even though that wouldn’t help.
Those are the calls where the plastic headset becomes a literal lifeline. It’s the terrified teenager hiding in her bedroom closet while glass shatters downstairs, her breath hitching as you softly, steadily promise her that patrol cars are less than a minute out. It’s the frantic husband screaming that his wife just collapsed and isn't breathing, forcing you to count out the chest compressions with him over the line—one, two, three, four, hearing him sob as paramedics burst through the door.
When you clock out after a shift like that, your hands usually shake and your chest aches from holding onto everyone else's trauma. But on those days especially, you feel the quiet pride in what you do, because you are damned good at your job.
There are…other perks of the job.
“Hey you,” Jack Abbot’s voice is deep, assured, so different from the panicked shouts that you are used to hearing. “Couldn’t resist calling me, huh?”
“You got me. That and the drug bust gone wrong.” You say drily into your headset, “Glad you could finally join us, Dr. Abbot.”
“Aw, you know I can never say no to you, darling.” Jack says, and a chorus of hoots and hollers sound over the radiowave.
“Stay off the comms.” The SWAT captain growls, “This is a high-risk operation.”
You duck your head, but even through the earpiece you can hear Jack chuckle. “Just trying to get my heart-rate up a bit, cap.” He says.
You stay on the call with them through the entire bust. Breathless as they breach the doors, heart pounding as you hear gunfire and shouting.
Then, screaming, shouts of pain, yells for a medic.
“You’re ok. It’s ok.” You hear Jack’s voice in your ear, “Just a flesh wound, ok? Didn’t hit anything important. It’s fine. I’m gonna give you something for the pain and they’ll patch you up at the hospital, okay?”
“You think it’ll leave a cool scar, doc?”
“Only if you get a shitty nurse suturing you.” Jack says, “Alright, administering fifty mics of fentanyl.” Jack’s voice comes through, all business now. “Dispatch, I’m going to need a bus at our location please. Patient is stable, non-critical.”
You log the timestamp and the drug administration into your CAD system, your fingers flying across the sticky keyboard. “Copy that, Dr. Abbot. Medic 44 is en route. ETA is four minutes.”
“Thanks, darling.” The teasing lilt is back, just for a second. “Knew I could count on you.”
“Only the best for our best,” you reply, perfectly deadpan, though a traitorous flush creeps up the back of your neck.
The operation officially wraps twenty minutes later. The suspects are in custody, the injured officer is comfortably en route to the hospital, and the adrenaline that had been keeping your spine rigid finally starts to bleed out of your system. You slump back into your horribly unergonomic chair, rubbing the heels of your hands against your tired eyes.
By the time your shift ends, you are running on nothing but the fumes of a stale breakroom coffee. You untangle yourself from the headset, smoothing down the static-frizzed mess of your hair, and grab your jacket.
Two ambulances scream past you on your walk back to your apartment, and you pause in your walk to watch them tear down the street. Jack Abbot is a nighttime attending at the Pitt, and you wonder if he’s going to be seeing either of those patients.
When you get home and shower, you stare at yourself in the mirror for an extra ten seconds, lingering on the squiggle on your waist. Was that a J at the beginning? Was there a T at the end?
But as always, it is impossible to tell.
You hate having to do ride-alongs.
It’s not that you don’t like the patrol officers. You do. But spending eight hours trapped in a rolling tin can that smells faintly of old sweat and stale fast food while wearing an ill-fitting Kevlar vest is not your idea of a good time.
You are paired with Officers Miller and Miller today, twenty-year veteran brothers who are two years out from retirement and just want a quiet shift. For the first four hours, it is exactly that. You cruise through sleepy residential neighborhoods, handle a noise complaint about a barking dog, and eat lukewarm deli sandwiches in a grocery store parking lot.
"See? Nothing to it," Ken Miller says, taking a bite of his turkey club. "You guys catch more terrifying shit than we do. Down here on the street, it's ninety percent boredom."
Ten minutes later, the radio cracks to life. A report of a suspicious vehicle idling behind an abandoned strip mall. It’s a low-priority call, and Bobby Miller explains that these types of calls are usually handled in two minutes by flashing his lights and telling some loitering teenagers to scram.
Ken Miller pulls the cruiser into the cracked asphalt lot, positioning the car at an angle. He flashes his lights, and the parked car does nothing. He waits for another ten seconds, then sighs."Sit tight," he tells you, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Fucking drunk teenagers. They think they can pretend the car’s empty and we’ll just move along."
You hum, leaning back in the stiff back seat, and watch him approach the idling sedan.
You don't even hear the first shot.
The side window of the sedan rolls down, and before Ken can even clear his holster, the windshield of your cruiser erupts into a spiderweb of shattered glass. Bobby is bailing out of the car in a hurry, drawing his weapon and returning fire from the passenger side.
Deafening, staccato pops fill the air.
Adrenaline floods your veins. You’ve heard gunshots before through the headset. Though in person, they are so much louder. You dive sideways, throwing yourself toward the floorboards as bullets tear through the cruiser’s chassis, shredding the upholstery where your head had just been.
Outside, Miller is shouting, but you can’t make out his words. You reach blindly for the radio mic dangling from the dash, your hand shaking violently.
"Dispatch, 10-33, 10-78!" you yell into the mic, using your best dispatcher voice to stay calm. It’s just like any other call, except of course, you’re on the other side. "Shots fired at the old strip mall on 4th! Officer under fire, need immediate backup!"
You don’t hear the response. You know there is one, something coming over the radio. But you can’t make out the words between the ringing in your ears and the rapid shot fire cackling outside.
Then, a metallic thunk echoes. It feels like someone has taken a red-hot sledgehammer to your right leg.
You gasp. The pain doesn't register as a bullet right away; it’s just a blinding, agonizing pressure radiating from your calf. Your first thought is, shit, I’m going to lose my leg.
Then, you look down and see that no, your leg is fine, despite the darkening redness seeping through your jeans.
"Fuck -" you choke out, clutching your leg. Your fingers come away slick and warm with dark blood. You look up, and neither of the two Millers are paying any attention to you. The sirens arrive in seconds, though it feels like hours. The suspect vehicle peels out, tires screeching, and the quiet that settles over the lot as other cruisers blow past to chase it down is almost blissful.
You take a deep breath, your whole body is shaking. You’re in shock, you realize. You’ve had to talk people down from that before while working dispatch. You’re in shock. Try to breathe. It’s going to be ok.
Then, hands are grabbing you, pulling you out of the car.
"Civilian down! I need a bus right now!" Bobby yells. You cry out, your vision spotting with black edges.
“Wh- where’s Ken?” You ask, your voice trembling.
“He’s fine. Old bastard.” Bobby says, grimacing as he looks at your calf. “He caught a stray in the shoulder. Medic has him.”
The next few minutes are a blur. You are lifted onto a stretcher, strapped down, and shoved into the back of an ambulance. The medic, a guy you recognize from the breakroom, is shouting blood pressures and tearing your pant leg open.
"We're five minutes out from The Pitt. You're going to be fine."the medic says, wrapping a tourniquet high above your knee and cranking it tight. You scream, your hands gripping the side rails of the gurney until your knuckles turn white.
“I want drugs.” You half-sob as the ambulance jostles. “Please.”
"Yes, ma'am," he says, and injects you with something that immediately turns the harsh edges of your reality fuzzy, melting the blinding pain into a heavy, floating warmth as the ambulance speeds toward the hospital.
"Thirty-two-year-old female, GSW to the right lower leg! Bleeding controlled with a tourniquet, BP is 100 over 60, heart rate 120!" the medic shouts as they roll you through the sliding doors of the emergency room.
You’re brought out of your blissful drug-induced haze by the harsh lights and loud shouting. Nurses and techs swarm the gurney, transferring you to a hospital bed on the count of three. Bright fluorescent lights sting your eyes, giving you that familiar midday migraine, but multiplied by a thousand.
Somebody is cutting your jeans away. Somebody else is putting an IV in your arm. You answer a few questions, not sure you’re processing anything they’re saying. At some point, you think you ask if you are allowed to sleep.
You’re not quite sure if somebody says yes, but you close your eyes anyways.
When you next wake up, you’re in a room inside the hospital. The lights are still terribly bright, but the noise-level is somewhat muted by the closed door.
You blink away the hazy edges of your vision, looking up.
There’s an older man standing at the foot of your bed. He’s wearing dark blue scrubs, a stethoscope around his neck, his hands already snapping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. He’s talking to a younger woman while simultaneously checking over your calf.
“Hey, I’m Dr. Abbot.” He says with an easy smile when he notices you’re awake. “This is Dr. Ellis, we’re gonna be taking care of you. How we doing?”
He moves to your side, his gloved hands gentle as they probe the area above the wound. The pain flares, sharp and breathless, and you let out a shaky, strangled hiss.
"I know, I know. I'm sorry.," Jack says softly, his eyes finally moving up to look at your face. He offers a reassuring smile. "You're in good hands. What's your name?"
You swallow hard, your mouth bone-dry. The cocktail of adrenaline, pain, and whatever painkiller the paramedics pushed is making your head spin.
"You..." you wheeze, your voice cracking. You clear your throat, trying to find your usual dry cadence. "You’re Jack Abbot."
Jack freezes and gives you a perplexed look. He smiles uncertainly at you and nods. “Sorry, have we met?” He studies you for a moment, then shakes his head, “I’m sure I would remember you.”
The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background. “No, we haven’t met.” You say, your voice cracks once again and one of the nurses hands you a cup of water which you gratefully gulp down.
Jack tilts his head curiosity, his brows furrowed like a hunting dog that’s caught the scent of something he can’t quite identify. “You - you sure?” He asks again.
“Mhm,” You hum an affirmative. “Not in person.”
Jack’s hands stop as he purses his lips for a moment, then his eyes widen. “Did you come in with Miller?” He asks. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head.
“Yeah,” You sigh, “How is he?”
“He’s fine.” Jack says. He turns his head a bit, “You were on a ride-along with them.” He says it like a statement.
“I was.” You try to keep a neutral expression, but you find that you can’t help the corners of your lips turning upward. “Mandatory ride-along every nine months for field experience.”
"No way," Jack breathes. A slow, incredulous smile breaks across his face. "Dispatch?"
You grin, “Hey you.” You murmur.
Jack scoffs, his face lit up with a grin. “Well shit, you -” he pauses, like he’s considering his words. “You don’t look how I pictured you.”
You raise an eyebrow. From the periphery of your vision, you can see Dr. Ellis raise her eyebrow, too.
"Sorry, I meant that in a good way—" Jack hastily adds, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "Uh—no, what I mean is—"
"Okay, boss," Dr. Ellis interrupts, stepping closer to the bed. "Gonna put you out of your misery."
"Yup." Jack takes a quick step back from your bed, raising his hands like he’s surrendering. "All yours, Dr. Ellis."
You can’t help that your gaze follows him as he shuffles to be next to your head. “How’d you picture me?” You ask.
“Less pretty.” He says, and you hear a small scoff from Dr. Ellis. “How’d you picture me?”
“Oh my god.” You hear Dr. Ellis mutter. But you can’t really be bothered by it now.
You give him a slow once-over, enjoying the way he shuffles a little on his feet. You smirk, ready to say the first thing on your mind when your eyes catch his hands.
“Less … married.” You say, your brows furrow slightly at the sight of the ring on his fingers.
Jesus, have you been flirting with a married man this whole time? What the fuck have you been thinking.
“Uh -” Jack’s hand immediately goes to the ring. You watch as he twists it around his finger. Then, he abruptly stops twisting the ring and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his scrubs, breaking eye contact. He stares very intensely at the blood pressure monitor on the wall behind you. "I'm not. Married. She - she passed a couple years back.”
"Oh shit,," you breathe. Then you immediately cover your mouth with your hand. That was not the appropriate response to a confession of a deceased wife.
Both Ellis and Jack laugh. "It's fine," he says quickly, finally looking back at you. He pulls his hands out of his pockets. "It was…a while ago. You couldn't have known.."
You shake your head, hand still pressed over your mouth for fear of blurting out something else embarrassing or wildly inappropriate. Jack chuckles. He reaches out and gently takes your wrist in his hand, tugging it away from your face. “It’s fine. Really.”
His thumb rests lightly against your pulse point. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, or if he just assumes it’s the lingering adrenaline from being shot at.
"I -," you murmur, your voice dropping softer, muffled slightly by the hazy fog of the painkillers. "I'm sorry. For making it weird."
"You didn't make it weird," Jack promises, his thumb brushing a small, soothing circle against your skin.
"Okay, ma’am,," Dr. Ellis announces loudly, “you’re doing well. The wound is clean and the bleeding is completely controlled. No major vascular damage. I'm going to get you stitched up, we'll run a quick set of x-rays just to be absolutely sure your ribs are intact from that dive you took, and then you should be good to go home on crutches with a script for some decent painkillers."
You let out a shaky breath you didn't realize you were holding. The relief is dizzying. "Great, thank you so much."
“Anybody you want us to call?” She asks, though she’s mostly staring at Jack. “Husband? Boyfriend?”
“Uh -” You stutter for a moment, “No. No. I don’t have -” You stop yourself from the rest of the sentence, suddenly embarrassed.
Jack smiles, leaning back against the counter and opening his mouth to speak, but before he can get a word out, a nurse pokes her head through the glass doors.
"Multi-vehicle pile-up on the interstate just rolled in. They need you in Trauma Bay One right now, Dr. Abbot."
Jack grimaces. He looks down at you, "Duty calls," he says, his voice thick with what might be regret.
"Go ahead, Dr. Abbot." you say, “I’ll be back in your ear in no time.”
You are, in fact, back to work in no time. It’s a wound to your leg not your throat, and the painkillers don’t really affect you enough for you to take more than two weeks off.
“You left without saying goodbye.” Is the first thing Jack Abbot says to you when he hears your voice.
There’s a loud “oooooh” in the background, and someone whistles. You think it’s maybe Peter.
“I was heavily medicated and in a wheelchair, Dr. Abbot," you reply smoothly, adjusting your headset and completely ignoring the chorus of immature giggling from the tactical channel. "I didn't exactly 'leave' so much as I was forcibly rolled out the front doors by a nurse looking for an empty bed."
"Still," Jack's voice rumbles through the earpiece, warm and more distracting now that you know what he looks like. "Broke my heart, darling."
"Keep comms clear," The captain barks over the radio, though he doesn't sound nearly as angry as he usually does. "We are two minutes out from the target."
"Just doing some patient follow-up, cap. It's my medical duty." Jack fires back without missing a beat.
You snort, your fingers flying across your sticky keyboard to log their coordinates into the CAD system. "Well, my leg is healing beautifully, since you're so concerned. The stitches come out on Thursday."
"Glad to hear it. If you come in after 6 I can do it for you myself."
"Are you offering me a private consult, Dr. Abbot?"
"Anytime, darling," Jack murmurs, "Just say the word."
"Alright, that's enough, cut the chatter," the Captain interrupts, his tone shifting into all-business. "Target building is in sight. Going tactical."
"Medic 32 is on standby at the perimeter," you say, leaning back in your chair and ignoring the heat pooling in your stomach. You sit up a little straighter. "Stay safe out there, gentlemen."
The radio clicks as the officers acknowledge, the channel going quiet as they prepare to breach.
The air in the Brown Bear is thick with the smell of cheap draft beer, fried food, and the distinct buzzy energy of off-duty cops and paramedics. You are leaning against the sticky mahogany of the bar, trying to catch the bartender's attention, shifting your weight slightly to take the pressure off your healing right leg.
When the bartender finally comes around, you open your mouth, ready to order, when somebody slides in right next to you. "Put hers on mine," a familiar, gravelly voice says. "And I'll take a bourbon, neat."
You turn your head. Jack Abbot is standing close enough that you can actually feel the heat radiating off him. He’s wearing dark denim and a fitted, short-sleeved henley, and looks like he could be on the cover of those hot first responders calendar that you pretend to scoff at when they come out every year.
"Dr. Abbot," you say after ordering a Guinness. "You’re not normally here."
"Not usually," Jack murmurs, picking up his bourbon. He turns to fully face you, smoothly invading your personal space just a fraction. He leans his forearm against the bar, boxing you in slightly. "But I had a rare night off. Figured it was worth it if there was a chance I'd run into you."
You take a slow sip of your drink, fighting the flip of your stomach. "Is that right?"
"Well, you didn’t come see me for the stitches." he says, his lips curling slowly into a rueful smile, “Hurt my feelings.”
"Had a long call," you admit. You had wanted to go during his shift, if only to see if you could work up the courage to ask for his number. But your shift went long, and by the time it was over there was no way you were dragging yourself to the Pitt. You’d gone the next day instead. “I met your colleague, Dr. Robby.” You give him a long look, “Funny, he said he was on the lookout for me when I showed up.”
“I might have mentioned something.” Jack says.His gaze drops to your mouth, lingering there for a long, heavy second before dragging back up to your eyes.
“He was very interested in how we knew each other.” You say.
“Mhm, he’s nosy.” Jack sighs, “What’d you tell him?”
“Told him I work at a sexline.” You say, “And you’re my best customer.”
Jack laughs, “I would be, if you worked at one.” He murmurs after a moment of amusement. He sets his half-full glass of bourbon down on the bar and steps into your space so entirely that your knees brush against his jeans. You have to tilt your head back to look up at him. "I have to admit, getting pretty tired of talking to you over a radio. I'm tired of making up excuses to find you. And frankly, I am incredibly tired of behaving myself." He doesn't break eye contact."Can I take you home?" he asks.
It is so blunt, so direct, that for a split second, you just stare at him, your pulse hammering frantically against your ribs.
Then, you look down at your beer. You raise the glass, down the entire remaining liquid, and set the empty glass back onto the sticky mahogany with a sharp clack.
You look back up at him. "Yes."
He barely manages to get his front door unlocked and shoved closed behind you before his hands are in your hair.
The kiss is all-consuming. He kisses the way he sounds over the radio, commanding, assured, and lights a fire inside you. You let out a breathless sound as he backs you against the wall, his mouth hot and hungry against yours.
You stumble backward together, a messy tangle of limbs. You hiss when your leg bumps against a piece of furniture, and he swears.
“Sorry.” He mutters, but then goes back to kissing you with fervor. You forget the pain.
Somehow he does manage to guide you into his bedroom. The mattress catches the back of your knees, and you fall backward onto the unmade bed. Jack follows you down immediately, his heavy weight settling perfectly over you. The heat between you is almost blistering. Every touch feels electric. His lips trail down your jaw, biting lightly at the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch into him.
"God damn it," he murmurs roughly against your collarbone, his voice sending a violent shiver down your spine. “Fucking finally.”
You moan as his hands slide down your body, his palms rough and warm as they slip under the hem of your shirt. His fingers splay across the bare skin of your waist, his thumbs tracing the line of your ribs.
"This needs to come off," he mumbles, tugging at your shirt.
“Is that your professional opinion?” You manage to gasp, but you sit up enough to let him grip the hem and pull it off of you, leaving you in nothing but your bra and your jeans.
Jack leans back on his knees, his chest heaving slightly. The room is bright enough that you can see the way his pupils are blown wide with desire as he takes you in.
He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he just licks his lips and dips his head back down for another kiss. You giggle as he growls into your neck, trailing kisses down your body, down the center of your chest, the heat of his breath seeping through the lace of your bra. He is slow and agonizingly deliberate, pressing open-mouthed kisses over the curve of your ribs.
Your fingers tangle in his messy hair, holding him against you. Every scrape of his beard against your bare skin sends a jolt straight to your core. The anticipation is maddening; your mind is already racing ahead, imagining the slide of his mouth dragging lower, mapping out every inch of you. You arch into his touch, a desperate moan escaping you as his hands hook into the waistband of your jeans.
He kisses the soft skin of your stomach, his lips trailing toward your right hip, brushing right against the edge of your denim.
And then, he freezes.
"Jack?" you whisper, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You reach out, your fingers brushing his arm, thrown by the sudden loss of him. "Hey - what’s wrong?"
He is staring at your lower right waist. His gaze is locked onto the patch of skin hovering just where your appendix would be.
"You - " Jack croaks, “That’s - that’s your soulmark?”
You blink up at him, the lust from before making your brain slow to catch up. You hadn’t taken him for somebody who would care for such things, considering he had been married. You had guessed that he would be like the handful of others you’d dated in the past, down for a good time until …whenever.
“Um, yeah," you say, “Haven’t met anybody with a signature that bad yet. It’s -” you laugh, trying for nonchalant. “- I mean, I can’t even read the name. I think there might be a R in there?”
Jack stares at you for a long moment. Then he shakes his head. “No, there’s no R.” He murmurs. He traces something with his fingertip on your stomach, just next to your soulmark. It takes a moment, but you realize that he’s copied it.
Except, no. He hasn’t copied it. The movement was too fluid, too smooth for a copy.
“I - uh -” He laughs, it sounds just on the borderline of being hysterical. “I’ve got my driver’s license that’s got my signature on it. If you want to -”
Jack Abbot. That’s what your squiggle says.
You sit up on your bed, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you -” You kick him gently, and he laughs again. “Holy fuck, why didn’t you say something - You’ve known my name for -”
"Because," Jack chokes out, letting out a ragged breath that is half-disbelief, half-laugh. He drags his gaze back to yours, his eyes shining in the dim light of the bedroom. "It’s not like you made it easy to read your signature either, darling.”
He pulls off his shirt, and you see it. The completely nonsensical squiggle you’d been practicing since you were six, sitting quietly just under his left pec.
“Well, it serves you right.” You mumble, feeling like you’re going into shock all over again. “This is payback for having terrible handwriting.”
"Dispatch, this is Abbot. Scene is secure. Headwound on Miller has been treated, need a bus for transport." Jack’s voice rumbles through your earpiece. Even through the radio static, you can hear the smile in his voice.
Your fingers fly across the keyboard, closing out his unit's timestamp on your CAD system. "Copy that. Medic 37 is on the way, ETA 5 minutes."
"Thanks, darling," Jack says. Then, despite multiple warnings from the captain that the channel is for official communications only, he adds, "I love you. See you soon"
Before you can hit your mic to reply, another radio key clicks open.
"Hey dispatch, I love you too," It’s Dr. Davies, a new doctor assigned to the secondary SWAT only a week ago. "Can I get an ETA on the bus too?"
You don't miss a beat. "Copy that, Unit 12. The bus is on the way. ETA is eight minutes."
A split second later, Jack's mic keys open again. The warm, teasing lilt is gone, replaced by a territorial growl that you know for a fact he is playing up for the audience. "Hey. Are you flirting with my soulmate, Davies?"
A chorus of stifled laughter immediately erupts over the tactical channel.
"Uh, shit -" Davies stammers. "Uh - n-no? I just - I thought it was just - sorry, I didn’t realize -"
"Leave the rookie alone, Abbot," Captain’s exhausted voice finally cuts through the chatter, though you can clearly hear the amusement behind his sigh. "And for the love of God, get off the comms. All of you. Some of us are trying to work."
"Just establishing a clear chain of command, Cap," Jack fires back cheerfully.
You duck your head, hiding a grin behind your hand as you turn on your mic. "Dr. Davies, ignore Jack please, he’s just being an idiot.”
“You wound me, darling.” Jack croons. You hear the captain shout something at him in the background, and giggle as you hear him sigh. “I gotta clear comms. See you at home, dispatch?”
“You got it.”