Chapter Text
Jack clocked in at 6:38pm, sliding his ID through the reader and tucking it back into his badge holder without looking up. The evening shift was just beginning to trickle in, and the ER smelled of antiseptic and coffee, faint and familiar. Monitors beeped in uneven rhythms, ventilators hissed, and someone muttered about lab results down the hall. The transition between day and night was usually like this - alive enough to feel urgent, quiet enough to notice every detail. Over the years, Jack had trained himself to let the background hum fill his senses like white noise, settling him into the calm familiarity of work.
Ahmad, perched in the security room just beside the med bay doors, scanned the camera feeds with one elbow propped casually on the desk. The betting board hung on the wall above his head, black marker forming grids filled with scribbles of money and names. Apparently they'd started a new bet during day shift he wasn't in on yet. Jack gave it a quick glance, then decided against it. He'd lost too much money to Dana lately, and just the thought brought back a quiet, nagging memory from the back of his mind. He'd promised, no more betting, at least this month. Remembering the conversation that led up to that promise almost pulled a smile from him. But Dr. Jack Abbot didn't usually smile. Not in the Pitt, at least.
“Evening,” he said, voice low.
“Evening, Doc. You’re early.” Ahmad didn’t sound surprised.
“Traffic was light,” Jack replied, without slowing his step.
Robby was at the central desk, sleeves rolled, reading glasses perched low on his nose, looking like he hadn’t slept since 2009. The expression suited him, perfectly exasperated, yet still in control of whatever chaos the med bay could throw at him.
“You’re clocked in?” Robby asked, glancing up briefly.
“Just did.”
“GSW to the shoulder in north 2. Stable. McKay’s suturing in 4. Ellis can take over for her once she's here. Shen’s already running around somewhere, reviewing labs for our concussion in south 15, we got her stable for now but keep an eye out.”
Jack set his bag down under the desk, scanning the tracking board.
His friend studied him for a moment, clearly something on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason holding back. After a beat, Jack relieved them of both their misery, not bothering to look away from the board.
"Spit it out."
Robby chuckled. "Just wanted to say that you look... Good. You good? Sleep well?"
Jack gave him a lazy smirk.
“Just the magical powers of melatonin, and exhaustion so total even the nightmares are taking the night off. Therapist would be proud.”
He thought about the plate of chili waiting in the fridge, the little note telling him to eat before the shift. That had certainly helped. He almost mentioned it to Robby, but… no, not yet. Even after a year, it felt too raw, too personal and quiet to just say out loud. It was fact, not announcement; for now, that was enough - and exactly what he wanted.
Would Robby be surprised? Maybe. Upset Jack hadn’t said anything sooner? Hard to tell.
His friend just shrugged, a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And that’s it for my one good deed today. Can’t do much more than ask, brother. Whenever you’re ready to tell, I’m here.”
Jack just shook his head in mock indignation before turning away, picking up a tablet as he went to start reviewing the patient files. Each piece of information fit into the mental map he’d already started constructing of what his ER was going to look like this evening.
He made it a good ten feet into the north tract when Shen practically materialised beside him, large Dunkin' coffee in one hand, his own tablet with labs in the other. He sipped on his drink while waiting for Jack to say something.
“You got the labs for south 15?”
Shen glanced down at the chart.
“From what I can see, GFAP and UCH-L1 levels are dropping, Tau is stabilising, they're looking good so far.”
~~~
The next twenty minutes fell into a quiet rhythm. Jack looked over McKay’s sutures, guiding her fingers with gentle precision, praising her diligent work quietly. “Nice pressure on that. Doing good.” The waiting room was emptying a bit, there for once seemed to be almost enough seats that people didn't have to lean against every empty square inch of wall. That in itself was a miracle, but he knew it wouldn't be true for long, especially once the day shift finished handover, so he worked efficiently with both shifts to clear as many beds as they possibly could before the inevitable nighttime rush hit them. He rechecked the GSW himself, confirming what Robby had told him, and then joined his friend when another trauma hit med bay. Routine, controlled.
Jack’s eyes flicked to the monitors, taking in the pulse rates, oxygen saturations, and blood pressures like a second language.
He observed how his team moved, the ever calm, quiet observer in the back of the trauma bay, letting Robby take the lead on this last patient. It was a good teaching case for the not so bright eyed anymore, not so bushy tailed med students from the day shift, after all. Jack had to quietly admit that Robby had done a good job with them so far. He would never say it so directly, so openly, but after Pitt fest, after the fact all four of them had gone through all of that on their first day and came back the next, he knew they were gonna make fine doctors. Bulletproof.
He was looking forward to the day they'd have to do their rotation on the night shift. There were still a few tricks up his sleeve he knew even Robby couldn't teach them.
In that quiet moment, observing Robby and the interns efficiently work on the trauma patient, his mind wandered. Just for a second, he caught himself immediately, but he couldn't help but think about the time (6:53pm) and wonder if you'd made it home by now. Usually you'd text him, but the phone in his pocket hadn't vibrated at the usual time. He decided to text you once the patient was stable.
He forgot to when a nurse ran in to get his help on a sudden cardiac arrest.
~~~***~~~
Not too far away, you had just locked up and were now walking home, bag heavy with leftover markers and rolled-up sketches. You should have left the community center on time, 6pm on the dot. Usually, 6pm turned into 6:30 at the latest. Today, even that hadn't been enough.
The mural committee had run long (twelve-year-olds arguing over whether dragons were "emotionally complex.” and if that could be expressed with purple or if green would work better.) You had mediated, hands streaked in paint, trying not to laugh, and collected their scraps of paper full of ideas and notes once you'd decided that it was now officially getting too late. You always hated cutting passionate kids off due to time constraints, so you'd pinky promised them they could continue their discussion next week exactly where they'd left of.
The street was quiet. Streetlights flickered on, yellowish light washing over the cracked pavement. A television murmured from an open window somewhere above. A car door slammed in the distance. The faint scent of fried food drifted from a corner diner, and made your stomach grumble with suddenly remembered hunger. You hummed to yourself, a soft tune, thinking about dinner, about Jack, about how you hoped he remembered to eat the chilli for dinner and take the container with yesterdays lasagna to work.
Halfway down the block, probably 8 minutes from home if you hurried, someone stepped out from between two parked cars.
Suddenly, the hooded frame of a man, a bit taller than you, filled most of your field of view.
You froze. The hairs on the back of your neck stood. He was too close. Dangerous. The bitter taste of panic tried to climb up your throat. You swallowed heavily.
“Phone. Wallet,” he said, voice low but firm. A flash of metal in the pocket of his hoodie.
Your pulse spiked.
You raised your hands slightly.
Deflect, distract, distance. Defend.
Instead of your own panicked, racing thoughts, your head was suddenly filled with Jack's calm, firm voice. And oh, how that sharpened your focus.
The man made to step closer.
And you didn't need your own thoughts. All you needed was the memory of his steadying touch, his soft instructions in your ear as you repeated the same motion over and over again until it became reflex.
You pivoted, relaxed your stance, weight on your back foot, tightening your core, and swung. Knuckles met jaw with precision, wrist locked, elbow tucked.
He stumbled back, off balance, heel catching the curb.
There was a sickening sound when his head hit the pavement.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The faint hum of the street felt impossibly loud. Your own pulse suddenly sounded like thunder in your ears.
Then the first threads of panic returned, sharp and bitter, coiling in your stomach. You murmured, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” to no-one but yourself as you knelt beside him, checking for a pulse with one hand, dialing 911 with the other, trying your best to keep your voice calm and steady as you relayed the situation to the kind woman on the line.
Before you knew it, sirens appeared in the distance, red and blue flashing. With a startled giggle you realized that they were so quick because you were only a 5 minute ride from PTMC. You pressed a sleeve to your swelling knuckles, marveling quietly at the absurdity. You secretly hoped Jack would be proud of your form when you told him about this later. Your phone lit up - 7:08pm. He’d definitely be at the ER when they'd bring you in with the man you’d just floored.
~~~***~~~
The trauma pager went off at 7:12pm. Dana picked it up, confirmed, before repeating it out loud for everyone in her vicinity to hear.
“ETA four minutes. Male, mid-thirties, assault-related head injury, unconscious. Secondary adult with possible hand trauma. Police en route.”
Jack didn’t flinch.
“Trauma 2, and the hand in south 17” he said.
Robby, just stepping out of trauma 1, taking off his gloves and gown, gave a quick nod.
They sprang into action easily.
Tools ready. New gowns and gloves on. Another head injury, another night, another routine. Robby gave some last orders for the now steady trauma in bay 1, Jack adjusted his stride, weaving through the ER to take mental stock of the remaining day-shift staff. Looping back towards the hub, he let the interns gathered there know they should be getting out of here soon, but if one of them wanted to observe the possible hand fracture, they were welcome to stay a little longer.
Outside, the ambulance turned toward PTMC. In security, Ahmad stood, leaning against the door frame, watching the lights flashing on the doors. Nothing unusual. The EMTs were quick unloading the patient, wheeling in the gurney before Robby, Ellis, and McKay on his heels, could reach the doors to meet them outside. They quickly started rattling off details, handing the unconscious man over while Robby already started examining him.
Jack stayed at the hub for a moment longer, waiting to see if the hand fracture would walk in on their own, or if a second ambulance was going to arrive with them. His eyes followed Robby towards trauma 2. He only looked back towards the doors when he heard the signature hissing as they opened.
The hand fracture walked in.
Jack barely registered Whitaker’s startled yelp as he shoved him aside to bolt toward you.