The Lovely Moons Masterlist

The Mandalorian: The Lovely Moons Series

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bitter/sweet

a Dr. Jack Abbot one-shot (The Pitt)

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

summary: when a stubbornly charming chef keeps showing up in his ER, Dr. Jack Abbot finds it harder and harder to ignore the pull toward something—or someone—he didn't plan for…

warnings/tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine, food as a love language, age gap, fainting/medical emergency, mild language

word count: 5.5k

a/n: my new hyperfixation i guess ???

“Fuck,” you grumbled, clutching your thumb in a blood-soaked kitchen towel, the fibers more crimson than cotton. The pain throbbed in pulses, each step sending a sharp reminder up your arm. You kept your eyes on the linoleum floors, following the resident as he led you deeper into the chaos of the emergency department and into an exam room.

“Oh,” the resident, Student Doctor Whittaker, said, his voice pitchy as he glanced at the kitchen towel. He quickly averted his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yeah, maybe we should keep that wrapped.”

You arched a brow at him, settling onto the exam table as the paper crinkled beneath you. The air in the room smelled sterile – alcohol wipes, latex gloves, and that faint antiseptic sting. “You’re not afraid of a little blood, are you? Because hate to be the one to tell you – you might be in the wrong profession.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “No, no – just… been a rough day,” he said, the humor dropping from his voice. “Can’t really handle another loss.”

You paused, tone softening. “Oh. Well, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” You glanced down at the towel, now visibly seeping. “Did you get a hold of my sister?”

He shook his head, eyes already shifting toward the door. “I tried, but she’s in the OR; still scrubbed in. But, don’t worry; Dr. Abbot is the attending on call tonight. He’s one of the best – ”

You frowned. “Abbot? Where’s Robby?”

Before he could answer, the door opened and a tall man entered the room, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves with a practiced snap. His scrubs were black, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his expression was carved from stone. His salt-and-pepper hair was short but wavy; he easily had fifteen or twenty years on you… Still, he was cute.

“Well,” he began, his voice low and even, “It’s almost nine, and contrary to popular belief, even Robby needs to go home and rest. So, lucky you – you get me.”

You blinked. “Wow, smart and pretty. Lucky me indeed.”

He gave a subtle eye roll before his gaze met yours – steady, unreadable, deeply hazel. “So, what’ve we got?”

Whittaker stumbled to present. “Uh – female, 27. Has a deep laceration on her thumb. Cut it open on a grater – ”

“Mandoline slicer,” you corrected,

Abbot moved toward you, taking a seat on the wheeled stool. As he unwrapped your hand, you couldn’t help but ask, “Careful – you’re not gonna get queasy, too, are you?”

Without missing a beat, he stoically answered, “Only if this turns into something worse than a hand injury… like small talk.”

You let out a surprised laugh, half from the pain, half from how dryly he delivered the line.

“You’re funny,” you grinned. “I like you.”

He said nothing in response, merely peeled the cloth away, sticky and crimson, revealing the deep gash across the side of your thumb. Cold air kissed the open skin, and you hissed. He examined it without a flinch, gently turning your hand between his fingers.

“So, what were you doing with the mandoline slicer?”

“I’m a chef,” you answered. “The prep rush was insane today – guess my hand just slipped.”

He pressed carefully at the space between your thumb and index finger. You flinched, instinctively pulling back, but his other hand caught yours firmly, anchoring it.

“What?” you asked, watching his expression shift as he looked up.

“Stitches,” he decided.

“Fuck that.”

He arched his brow. “It’s a deep cut; can’t just put a bandaid on it and kiss it better.”

“Well, that’s because you haven’t tried,” you flirted, finding it to be an easy distraction from the pain. Still, his face remained unchanged. “Come on, are you serious? You really can’t just wrap it up and call it a day? I have to get back before the dinner rush.”

“It’s not optional,” he informed. “It’s not gonna heal if it’s not stitched up.”

“Don’t worry,” Whittaker piped up again, voice chipper. “Dr. Abbot could do this in his sleep.”

“I could,” Abbot said, already reaching for gauze. “But Whittaker’s going to do it instead.”

“What?” You both asked, heads whipping to him.

“It’s a good learning opportunity,” he replied casually. “And Robby’s always goin’ on about how we’re a teaching hospital. Besides, it’s just a few stitches – a teenager could do it.”

“A teenager is about to do it,” you muttered.

“He’s older than you,” Abbot pointed out, making your frown set on him.

“I want you to do it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he got queasy just looking at the kitchen towel,” you explained. You and Abbot both turned to Whittaker, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “It’s either you, or I wait for my sister to finish surgery,” you stubbornly gave him an ultimatum. “And she told me about those patient satisfaction scores.” You let out a low whistle.

Abbot stared at you for a beat, then turned to the student doctor. “Whittaker.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Go get me the lidocaine.”

You grinned in victory before offering your hand back out to Abbot.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” he muttered, arms crossing.

“You and my sister should start a support group,” you shot back.

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, maybe we will.”

When Whittaker returned, Abbot explained the procedure before getting to work: numbing first, then the sutures, probably six or seven. His voice was calm, precise. You clenched your other hand into a fist, eyes fixed anywhere but the needle. The sting of the lidocaine made your jaw tense.

“Ready?” Abbot asked. You nodded silently, lips pressed tight.

His hands were rough but skilled, careful – you could sense it.

As your eyes gazed over the room, they settled on the chain tucked beneath the neck of Abbot’s scrubs.

“Military?” you asked, voice quieter now as your free hand reached out to pull at the dog tags.

Without looking up, Abbot momentarily halted his work to swat your hand away. When your hand settled back by your side, he replied, “Used to be a medic. Liked the chaos so much, I went to med school for emergency medicine.”

You winced as one of the stitches tugged. “You good?” he asked, glancing up.

You gave him a wry look. “If I cry, will you hold my hand?”

“I’m already holding your hand,” he deadpanned.

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Then, buy me dinner? Or, let me buy you dinner, at Francesca.”

“Francesca?” Whittaker perked up. “Wait – you work there?” You nodded, smiling. “That’s cool. I’ve heard some of the other residents talking about it. They really love the food.”

You turned back to Abbot with a pointed smile. “See? Good food, good company – what more could you ask for?”

“Probably some peace and quiet,” he muttered. But, before you could press, he was already tying off the sutures and wrapping your hand with fresh gauze.

“So,” you said eventually, “what’s the damage?”

“You’re a rightie?” he asked; you nodded. “It’s your dominant hand. That, and the fact that restaurants have a high risk of infection – wet, hot, high-contact. It’s gonna take a minute to heal. Probably five days off work to initially heal and reduce strain; another five until you’re back to full-duty – and when you are, make sure you wear some sort of splint or gloves. Come back then and I’ll take ‘em out. Sound good?”

A week off work.

You already knew you weren’t waiting that long.

Still, you grinned up at him. “Whatever you say, handsome.”

Two weeks later––four days after you were meant to get your stitches out––you finally found yourself back in the hospital. You couldn’t say you missed the bright fluorescent lights or the constant beeping of machines – you weren’t sure how your sister did it every day.

You did, however, miss Dr. Tall, Dark, and Broody.

That’s what you’d started calling Dr. Abbot in all your conversations with your sister. She’d blinked at you, been less amused, and professionally corrected you every time you brought him up.

“You mean ‘Jack’?” She’d say, and you’d grinned at that, ready to use this ammunition against him.

And, even though you had every intention to return earlier so you could see Jack sooner, work at the restaurant had gotten busy. Between a busted oven and two line cooks calling out, you’d been elbow-deep in chaos. You’d barely been convinced by Eleni, your sous, to come back even now. She had to practically push you out the front door.

Taylor, the charge nurse who brought you in, gave a smile as she informed you, “Dr. Whittaker will be in in just a few minutes.”

Your spine straightened immediately. “Actually, can you get Dr. Abbot? Tall one with the storm cloud for a personality. You know the one.”

Taylor nearly dropped her tablet laughing. “Oh, I like you,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Let me see what I can do.”

Luckily, it seemed like a slow night in the ED––well, slower than usual––and in a few minutes, your request had been granted.

“You know,” Abbot said by way of greeting when he entered the room, “you don’t get to request a specific doctor in the ED. That’s not how it works.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah? Then how come you showed up?”

He ignored that. “Why didn’t you let Whittaker take them out?” He already sounded annoyed, and it brought you much more glee than it should’ve. “You know he’s perfectly capable of removing stitches. And putting them in.”

“And pass up another moment of your stellar bedside manner? Now, why would I do that… Jack?” You smiled sweetly.

His eyes flicked up fast at the sound of his first name. “I hate your sister,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“She’s the best and you know it.”

Instead of arguing, Jack gently pulled the wrap from your hand. His fingertips were warm through the gloves, deliberate in their movements as he examined the injury.

“You didn’t wait the five days before going back to work,” he said flatly, frown setting in.

Your brows furrowed. “What are you talking about? Of course I did – In fact I – ”

You cut yourself off when you saw the look he gave you. All stern disapproval and low-simmering frustration – hot. And in a moment, you crumbled.

“Okay, okay, fine – but I took three days off! That has to count for something! I was going stir-crazy in my apartment, Jack.” You squirmed under his gaze.

He let out a deep sigh, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he grumbled, brows pinched slightly as he prepped the suture scissors in that deliberate, quiet way of his.

You couldn’t watch as he moved with steady practiced precision. Instead, your eyes settled back on his dog tags and after a moment of silence, you asked in a soft voice, “How could you tell? That I went back to work early?”

He met your eyes then, frowning. After a beat, he answered. “The skin around is red, irritated. The inflammation just started going down. You should’ve come in early if you were gonna go back to work. I said day 10.”

“I know.”

Dryly, he continued, “This is day fourteen.”

“I know, Jack.” You frowned now too. “You know, if you keep on like this, you’re not getting your present.”

That was when he noticed the light pink bag that sat on the chair by the exam table.

“I brought you something. As a thank you for stitching me up.”

Jack tilted his head to the side. “Not a bribe to soften the blow because you knew I’d know you went back to work early?”

You smiled up at him, this time in a way that asked for his forgiveness. “Why can’t it be both?”

Jack rolled his eyes, then began removing your stitches. “It’s healing,” he noted, “but slower than it should be. You pushed it too hard.”

“I was careful,” you defended. “I let Eleni do all the chopping and lifting heavy pans – I just ran the line… and plated.”

Jack hummed, observing. “You’re holding tension through your whole arm. That’s not careful.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but just then, he snipped one of the sutures and you flinched with a hiss of discomfort. His hands paused immediately, and his expression shifted – not annoyed this time, but concerned.

“Still hurts?” he asked, quieter.

You tried to play it off, half-laughing. “Hurts less than not being in the kitchen.”

Jack sighed again, shaking his head. “You think I’m impressed by your stubbornness?”

You gave a crooked grin. “No, but I think you like it.”

He didn’t answer, just focused on removing the next stitch. Silence stretched between you, the only sound the soft snip of scissors. When he finally leaned back, he said, “Okay, that’s the last one. Take it easy, okay? I mean it. Just plating for now – carefully.”

You lifted your head. “And if I don’t? You going to come hold my hand through the dinner rush?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I’ll come by the kitchen if I have to.”

You watched him, smile growing. “Still thinking about saying yes to that dinner I offered?”

Just as quick, he quipped, “I’m thinking about you not landing in my ER again.”

Your brow rose. “Keep it up and you’re not getting the tiramisu.”

As he was wrapping your hand in new gauze, his gaze flickered up to meet yours. “Tiramisu?”

“My sister said you wouldn’t stop talking about it a few days ago. Got a craving.”

“Yeah, for DiAnoia’s,” Jack corrected.

When he was done wrapping your hand, you hopped off the exam table and offered him the light pink bag, with a tiramisu boxed inside.

“It’s better than DiAnoia’s,” you promised, already halfway to the door.

He snorted at that, not believing you. “But, be careful, it's sweet. Might clash with the whole brooding thing you’ve got going on.”

“I don’t brood,” he called after you.

You turned at the doorway, walking backward as you smirked. “Yeah? Tell that to your face.”

Then, you spun on your heel, feeling his gaze on you as you let the door swing closed behind you.

You couldn’t tell if the emergency room was changing or if you were just getting used to it. The fluorescent lights felt ambient now, the loud chatter muffled, and the beep of vital machines now felt distant.

“Miss me?” You grinned up at Jack as he strolled towards the nurse’s station. You leaned casually against the counter, trying not to let your excitement show too much.

Without looking up from the chart in his hands, he replied, “Still haven’t recovered from the last time.”

You glanced over at Taylor, who sat typing behind the station, and dropped her a wink. “That’s not a no,” you stage-whispered, giggling.

Jack finally looked at you then, eyes tired but alert, like your voice had stirred him awake. “What are you doing here?” he asked, handing off the chart to Taylor.

“What, can’t a girl visit her local cute, broody doctor?”

“I already told you I’m not that,” he frowned.

You tilted your head. “Cute?” you asked, pretending to be confused.

He narrowed his eyes on you. “Broody.”

“Right,” you nodded solemnly. “Of course not.”

The silence between you lingered a second longer than expected – long enough for you to catch the faint circles under his eyes, the crease between his brows. His scrubs looked wrinkled, like he’d been running nonstop since the start of shift. Your smile softened.

“I’m dropping some food off.”

His brows furrowed now. “For me?”

Your smile only widened, but faltered just a touch as you took in just how off he looked, a little out of rhythm. That bone-deep kind of tired. You wondered if he’d eaten at all tonight.

“For my sister,” you said lightly, though your feet were already carrying you toward the break room. You grabbed a paper plate and plastic fork, and returned just as quickly. You set the plate down and began undoing the takeaway box you’d packed.

“Wait,” Jack started, a note of warning in his voice – he already knew where this was going. You ignored him, and scooped a generous portion of pasta onto the plate before sliding it his way. The steam curled up toward Jack’s face.

“Try some.”

He sighed, saying your name like it was both a complaint and a surrender.

“Come on,” you coaxed. “Just a bite. And if you hate it, I’ll leave you alone.”

He gave you a long-suffering look – but brought the fork to his mouth anyway. The first bite had his eyes fluttering closed, just for a second. A soft sound escaped him – barely audible, but unmistakable. You caught it.

“That was a compliment,” you accused, pointing at him with a victorious grin. “I heard it! Everyone heard it!” You turned dramatically to Taylor, who watched with a dry amusement before shuffling over to a patient’s room.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Ok, hotshot, relax. It’s just pasta. Hard to mess it up.”

You scoffed. “You’d be surprised.” He shrugged, and you took it as a challenge. “Okay, then what? What can I make to convince you it’s not just luck – it’s these magic hands.” To make a point, you wiggled your fingers.

To your surprise, he actually gave it some thought. A flicker of memory seemed to pass through him. His voice was quieter when he spoke.

“There was this dish we used to get when I was in the military – in this little town outside Kabul. Locals made it in the market stalls. It was kind of like a lamb stew, over some flatbread. Spicy. Kinda messy to eat. But damn good.”

You blinked, surprised he’d offered to share something so personal. You cleared your throat, softly asking, “You were stationed in Afghanistan?”

Realizing the slip-up, Jack shrugged it off like he regretted saying anything. His eyes drifted to a fixed point behind you.

“Jack,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand over his, which rested on the counter of the nurse’s station. The gentle tone of your voice kept him from pulling his hand out from underneath yours. If anything, that, alongside the glint in your big eyes, made him want to spill everything.

“It was the 68W program – for combat medics,” he revealed, using his free hand to pull the dog tags from under his scrub top. “Standard issue accessory.”

“I disagree,” you murmured, playful but sincere. “I’ve heard medics are some of the toughest ones in the room.”

Jack let out a tiny almost-smile. “We were just the ones who didn’t get to shoot back.”

You paused, then asked, “What was it called? The dish.”

He thought for a second. “I don’t remember. I think maybe – palau something – or – I don’t know. Doesn't matter.”

You shook your head, heart melting. “If it stuck with you… it matters.”

Jack didn’t say anything to that, but his gaze found yours again – direct. You caught him staring. He didn’t look away.

“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to think you like me,” you teased, tone light.

He didn’t even deny it, just shook his head – either in denial or disbelief, you couldn’t tell.

“That’s okay. I like you enough for the both of us.”

That brought a pink tinge to his cheeks.

Instead of bringing attention to it, you simply offered a half-smile. “Okay. Challenge accepted. One mystery lamb dish, coming up.”

At that, Jack raised a skeptical brow. “You’re gonna recreate something I haven’t eaten in ten years, from a place you’ve never been, with no recipe?”

You shrugged. “Maybe it’ll finally convince you to come to the restaurant.”

And there it was – just for a second. The edge of a smile. Maybe even the beginning of a laugh. You nudged his side with your elbow.

“Admit it. You’re rooting for me.”

Jack just shook his head, but didn’t speak. Didn’t stop smiling either. Didn’t even say no.

The next time Jack saw you in the hospital, the occasion was less momentous. You didn’t have a light pink box with the Francesca logo on it and a sweet treat––or Afghani dish––inside. You weren’t your happy, bubbly self jumping around the place. Forget jumping, you weren’t even on your feet.

You were in a hospital bed, fluids pumping steadily through an IV line taped to your arm. into your veins through IVs. Your sister, elbows resting on the edge of the bed, was scrolling through her phone with the ease of someone used to hospitals – until Jack stumbled in.

His eyes immediately found yours, and whatever breath he’d been holding on the way in came out sharp.

“Every day you’re here – you come and find me. Every day,” he said, voice low and urgent. “So, what changed today? Why was Robby the one to tell me you fainted?”

You and your sister exchanged a glance. She was already putting her phone down, her expression turning serious.

“Because it literally happened an hour ago…?” you offered, wincing a little. “And that’s still day shift.”

Jack raked a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every sharp movement.

“Robby had it covered,” your sister said, trying to calm Jack.

It didn’t help.

“Did he do an ECG?”

“Yes.”

“Echocardiogram?”

“Yes, Jack,” she sighed.

“What about a head CT?

You frowned. “Why would he do a CT?”

“Because you probably hit your head when you fell.”

You let out a breath, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t hit my head.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Eleni caught me.”

Jack’s eyes bounced between you and your sister. “This happened at work?” You nodded, slowly. “Did this happen because of work?”

Suddenly, you were having a hard time meeting his eye.

To make matters worse, your sister answered for you. “She was covering for one of the other line chefs, stressed about a critic visit – Eleni said she was barely sleeping – ”

“The critic’s a big deal!” you defended, “and Luca was getting burnt out. He needed a break.”

“No, babe,” your sister cut in, not unkindly, “You need a break.”

Jack stepped closer to the bed, scanning the IV bag. His fingers brushed against your arm, checking the line, then pressing gently against your wrist. “Did Robby hook her up to saline?”

Your sister nodded.

“What about electrolytes? She’s dehydrated.”

“He – ” Your sister paused, then asked, a little surprised, “How did you know that?”

“Her lips are dry,” Jack responded, as if it was obvious. “She squints every time she looks up at the lights. And her leg is tense – probably cramping earlier.”

You and your sister shared another look, then you grinned up at him, pushing his hand away from your arm to grab it in yours, warm and steady. “What?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“You were worried about me,” you grinned, all grin and no apology.

He exhaled deeply, rubbing his free hand defeatedly over his face. “Oh, my God. You fainted and this is what you’re focused on?”

You gave him a small shrug. “I’m fine.”

And, truthfully, you were starting to feel better. Color was returning to your cheeks, and the constant throb behind your eyes had dulled to a whisper. The IVs were helping; the rest, too.

A voice crackled over the intercom, paging your sister to OR 3. She stood, hesitating.

“Go,” you said, waving her off. “I’ll be fine. Go back to work.”

“Fine, but tell someone to page me when they discharge you. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”

You rolled your eyes but nevertheless nodded. As she stepped out, Jack moved to sit on the edge of the chair beside your bed, one hand running along the railing.

“How mad do you think she’s gonna be when I tell her you’re not going anywhere? I’m keeping you overnight.”

Your head whipped toward him. “What? Why?”

“For observation. I want to make sure it really was stress-related and not some underlying medical condition.”

You groaned, tilting your head back against your pillow. “Jack,” you groaned, frustrated by this decision.

“Oh, I know,” he mocked gently. “How could I do this to you? Keeping you overnight to make sure you’re healthy? I’m the worst.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as dramatically as you could manage while tethered to an IV.

“Don’t be like that,” he tried, his hand uncrossing yours. Then, the same hand lifted to gently cup your cheek. “You know, you didn’t have to faint just to get my attention. Could’ve just called.”

The blush that crept to your cheeks was immediate, and you cleared your throat, looking away. “Dr. Abbot with the jokes – never thought the day would come.”

“What can I say?” he replied with a shrug. “I’m a complex guy.”

He tugged your blanket higher, gently tucking it around you like it was second nature. “Now, get some sleep. I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

You nodded, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settle behind your eyes. As Jack slipped out, he left the curtain half-open so he could keep an eye on you from the nurse’s station or while he was passing by to other patient rooms.

Instead, you found your eyes drifting to him. Even through the haze of sleep, you watched him move through the ED like a controlled current – swift, focused, unshakable. He was in full command, teaching, managing, healing. Something about how intense yet calm he was eventually lulled you to sleep.

When you woke again, sunlight was peeking through the slats of the blinds, and Jack was beside your bed, carefully unhooking the IV line.

“Morning,” he greeted, voice soft as it pulled you from your deep slumber. “How are you feeling?”

You rubbed at the sleep in your eyes and let out a groggy sigh “Wow, thought I died and went to broody heaven.”

“I’ll take that as ‘fine,’” he said dryly, grabbing a paper cup of water he’d filled for you and maneuvering the straw toward your lips like it was muscle memory.

“Can I go home now?”

He nodded, his eyes still scanning your vitals, “Soon. Just gotta fill out your discharge paperwork and then shift’s over. I’ll drive you home.”

“Drive me home? I’m wearing you down, old man,” you grinned sleepily up at him.

He rolled his eyes, raising a hand to press the back of it to your forehead. “You feel okay? No headache? Dizziness? Nausea?”

“Good as new,” you promised, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “Must be these magic hands.”

He smiled at that, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles before letting go.

“So,” you began as he signed off on your chart, “does being injured get me privileges?”

He arched a brow. “What kind of privileges?”

“Favors,” you said with a shrug. “Like you finally coming to the restaurant.”

Jack let out a low groan, head shaking. “It’s too early for this – you’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Not till you say yes. And, as you know, I’m very persistent.”

“Oh, I do know,” he said, then held his hand out. “Let me see your thumb.”

You blinked. “Why?”

Still, you offered it up. He examined it gently, brushing his fingers over the healing skin.

“When this heals completely, I’ll come to Francesca.”

You beamed. “In that case, let’s speed up the process…” You wiggled your thumb closer to his face. “Never did try that technique of kissing it better, huh?”

He gave you a look – but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. Then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb.

When he set it back down in your lap, your stomach fluttered.

“Now, can I take you home or are you going to make me do a blood oath first?”

“You’ve been burying the lede, Abbot,” you teased, making your presence known as you walked across the hospital rooftop and joined him on the concrete ledge. Your shoes scraped lightly against the gravel as you sat, legs swinging just off the edge.

He glanced over, brows furrowed in confusion. No one but Robby ever came up here.

“Taylor told me where you were,” you informed. “How many conversations have we had – and you never mentioned this place? Or the crazy views it has?”

The city was sprawled out below you, glittering the dark earth. A breeze tugged at your jacket, crisp with late night chill.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, checking his watch. 2:56am glowed dimly in the moonlight.

You shrugged, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His concern was immediate, instinctual. “Is it the stitches? Are you feeling dehydrated?” He was already reaching for you, fingertips brushing your wrist as if searching for a pulse.

“No, Jack,” you laughed, pushing his hands away. “I’m fine. I just… woke up with a thought.”

He stilled, waiting for you to explain what thought could’ve roused you out of bed in the middle of the night and forced you here.

You reached behind you and retrieved a familiar pink Francesca bag, the paper crinkling softly in your hands. In thick Sharpie ink, you’d scrawled his name with a lopsided heart beside it. His brows lifted in disbelief.

“No fucking way,” he murmured, greedy fingers snatching the food container out of the bag and tossing the lid aside like it might disappear if he wasn’t fast enough.

Inside sat the Afghani dish Jack had told you about that one day at the nurse’s station. The rich, spiced aroma was carried through the night air – saffron, cumin, caramelized carrots.

“It’s called qabili palau,” you offered, watching him tear a piece of naan, scoop up a mouthful, and take a bite. The moment the flavors hit his tongue, his eyes immediately rolled to the back of his head and he exhaled a quiet sound that was half-groan, half-moan.

“If you’re making those kinds of noises at my cooking, just imagine my skill in the bedroom,” you teased, flashing him a grin.

That earned you a look – but not one you expected. Quiet, intense. His mouth twitched at the corner like he was trying not to smile, and then he went back for another bite. And another. You watched him eat in silence, the wind occasionally rustling his curls, and you couldn’t help but feel the intimacy of the moment, on this quiet rooftop, and this ridiculous hour.

He quietly finished the food, sharing it with you. And, when the food was gone, his eyes drifted out across the skyline. He looked… lighter somehow. And it reminded you why you loved being a chef – because food had the power to take people home, even when they were miles and years away.

You nudged him. “Oh – I almost forgot!” You excitedly held your hand up like a prize, thumb out. The skin had healed cleanly, leaving not even a scar behind. “All better.”

His eyes found yours, amusement dancing in them. “I’m pretty sure I said when it’s healed, not the exact moment it is.”

You scooted closer to him, shoulders brushing, as you accused, “Oh, no. You’re not gonna get out of this.”

He shook his head at you, like he had countless times before, but this time… this time the look in his eyes changed. Slowed. Softened. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, sitting here, choosing him.

His smile faded as he lifted a hand to your face, brushing a windblown strand of hair behind your ear. “I wouldn’t want to,” he said softly.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed – not some messy, passionate crush. It was slow, intentional. The kind of kiss that people waited a long, long time for. His lips were warm, and soft, and they fit perfectly against yours.

You melted into it, one hand curling around the front of his scrubs as the city disappeared beneath your closed eyelids. The hospital lights, the stars, the hum of distant traffic – it all faded until it was just the two of you. Just Jack.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far – just rested his forehead against yours, his breath brushing across your skin as he murmured, “You know, you scare the hell out of me. Make it hard to stay behind the lines I drew.”

You smiled softly at that, brushing your thumb over the edge of his jaw. “Good. Means it’s real.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then, he gently took your hand again, turning it over to inspect your healed thumb. You rested your head against his shoulder, grinning – you both knew exactly what this meant.

He sighed dramatically, mocking defeat. “What’s the dress code?”

“No scrubs,” you teased.

“Button-up?”

“Only if it’s black. Very broody.”

“Deal,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.

A/N: this was just supposed to be a oneshot but why do I wanna write a part 2 😩

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mackycat11

2 years ago

New WIP: Season 7 bodygloves for your off-duty clones

I was rewatching The Bad Batch pilot and realized they were wearing these bodygloves right after Order 66, so I'm considering them to be canon-compliant standard issue from some point after Umbara until the end of the war.

I thought it would add some realism to have an upper bodyglove option to wear with lower body armor, so I've been handpainting these bodygloves for your clones to wear.

Sometimes the MCCC mod let's you down and you can't get Fox to put his blasters down for yoga class. Other times it's because he insists that if you can't do yoga fully armed and in gear, you can't do yoga.

They'll also come in black, even though our favorite never-nude prefers swimming in full armor.

You can follow the squid's cc tag for updates :)

349 notes View Post

mackycat11

4 years ago

ZEMOS ACCENT

658 notes View Post

mackycat11

3 years ago

Purple Tulips

Word Count: 2647 | No context warnings other than fluff | Guys this fic is actually beta'd! My work won't suck as much now lmao ⁂

Love, and even more so in marriage, was complicated.

You had witnessed countless divorces and separations around you, from family friends to your own parents. From a young age, you had sworn you wouldn’t end up like them. You’d have a happy marriage and be one of those couples that would have their 70th anniversary announced on the news like some sort of prestigious award. High school came with summer flings and off again- on again boyfriends, almost to the point where you thought it was your fault. Something was wrong with you. Still, you were determined to make every relationship work. College came with serious relationships that fizzled out with stress and time, experimenting with various genders and sexualities, dramatic announcements on facebook stating that you had ‘sworn off dating and would remain single for the rest of your life’.

And then you met Marc.

Marc was one of the sweetest, kindest men you had met. He went the extra mile to go out of his way to show you how much he cared about you. An added bonus was how incredibly handsome he was, so naturally, you fell for him. You fell hard for him. A year of dating and suddenly you were engaged and married to him. Every hope and fear of relationships you had once had were out in the open and on the table, shared with him and confided in him. Both of you were determined to make it work. He had passion and adventure coursing through his veins.

Then he disappeared. He came back eventually, changed, but still alive. He was tenser, snappier, more stressed than normal. Suddenly, the picture perfect marriage you had for a little while didn’t seem so perfect. Suddenly, you could see your worst nightmare coming true- a failed marriage. Just another statistic. Marc was colder than before, shaking off your touches and keeping himself distant. For a while, it worked; it was painful and heartbreaking, but it worked.

And then you met Steven.

Which was odd. The whole situation was odd and delicate, even after all this time. It was still Marc, but it wasn’t. At first you thought he was joking, maybe Marc had snapped and this was his way of coping; after a while, you couldn’t think like that anymore.

In fact, you even grew to like Steven. Where Marc had turned sour and prickly, Steven was caring and gentle, nervous and unsure. It was refreshing, even a little thrilling. Being around Steven brought up the feelings of being newly married to Marc, the same love and care seeping through the air. It also brought heartache, knowing full well that it was just too complicated and confusing to really act on the feelings you had deep in your heart. No matter what happened, however, you still loved both Marc and Steven.

A therapist had once told you to take every morning slowly. Assess the situation and take it one stride at a time. Which, that morning, you were. It was no different to any other morning, the smells of fresh bacon cooking on the stove, hashbrowns heating up in the oven, and fresh coffee brewing filling the air. Work would start in an hour, but you gave yourself enough time to ease yourself into the day.

“Mornin’” A voice, thick with a posh British accent, made you jump, a strip of bacon nearly flying out of the pan as he scared you mid- flip. Steven’s voice was normally very comforting (if a little goofy upon first hearing it); however, it was still unnerving to hear at times. Every morning went like this, it seemed: a good morning to tell you who was fronting that day.

“Oh, Good morning, Steven.” You replied, watching Steven out of the corner of your eye as you tended to the bacon. He moved to make himself a cup of tea, a small smile curling up at the corner of your lips. Marc would never make himself tea, but Steven loved the stuff. It was one of the first signs you really knew that Marc wasn’t playing with you.

“Sleep well then, yeah?” He asked, dunking his tea bag in and out of the boiling water. You both slept in the same bed, but Steven wouldn’t know how last night went. You fished the bacon out of the pan, setting it on a paper towel before cracking some eggs to cook. Steven had fetched a bowl of cereal out, content with his sugary breakfast foods. Marc hardly ever ate breakfast.

“Yeah I did, did you…I mean.. How long have you been,” You paused. How do you ask someone how long they’ve been hidden away for? “Asleep?”

Steven chewed his food for a second, thinking. “What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

“Ah,” He beamed, as if this answer was good. “Only a few days then, the last I remember was Thursday.” You grinned, putting a lid over the eggs to let them cook. The kitchen was filled with just the sounds of eggs popping and Steven chewing. Your thoughts for the day overtook you for a moment, a list of stuff you’d need to do at work playing in your head. You didn’t know what to say to him. Everything was still working out for the three of you, still in the awkward phases.

“What’s your favourite flower?” Steven asked suddenly, setting his bowl on the kitchen table and bringing the mug of tea to his lips. Surprised, you wracked your brain- not expecting to talk much to him. In all honesty, you had expected Marc’s gruff morning voice to greet you.

“Why?” You didn’t mean to sound like you were accusing, but the question took you off guard. Steven did a nervous little shrug, setting his tea down.

“Dunno..just feel like.. We know nothing ‘bout each other, despite everything. Start with the basic questions. What’s your favourite flower, favourite colour, ya know?” He paused, watching you. “It’s a dumb question…I’m-I’m sor-”

“Tulips. And purple.” You said, cutting him off. The memory of the flower in question and its significance flooded every inch of your body, sparking every nerve ending in the process. It was almost like you could smell that day, the aisle covered in tulip petals and lilac bouquets. You could feel the white silk dress beneath your fingers…and then suddenly you could smell eggs cooking and coffee finishing brewing.

Steven looked curious, as if he knew you had a whole drawn out answer, but was too scared to ask what it was. He put his empty cereal bowl in the sink before slowly sitting down at the kitchen table, his long fingers trailing the handle of the tea mug.

“W-why? Can I ask why?” His voice was soft and delicate. Gods, you just melted at that stupid accent, you thought. You used to hate it, mock it, despise it- until you grew to love it. You thought for a moment. You didn’t know if Steven was ready to hear details about Marc’s life- about where his own body might have been without him knowing. You wouldn’t want to know, you thought. It’d be too weird. Changing the subject, your voice faltered a bit as you loaded up your various breakfast foods and a cup of black coffee, bringing it to the table to sit down next to him.

“What about you? Favorite color at least?” You could see his face get nervously paler, a pang of guilt shooting through your own stomach as you started eating. Did you just scare the poor guy? Did he think he insulted you? You were about to open your mouth to reassure him when he let out a nervous laugh, rubbing his face and taking a sip of tea.

“I suppose uh.. I suppose orange, I guess. For a goldfish I had back at my flat in London. Though, I suppose he wasn’t really gold- don’t know why they call them that really…” He rambled for a moment, his nervousness making his words speed up and his accent got the tiniest bit thicker. You nodded, taking a sip of coffee and winced at the bitter taste. He looked at you, his melted chocolate eyes wide and innocent. “If I at all offended you, I’m terribly, terribly sorry I just..” You shook your head, cutting him off.

“It’s fine, I can tell you. I just…didn’t want you to be upset. It’s a Marc memory, after all.” You could see him wince the tiniest bit. You had to remember that this whole world was just as new to him as it was to you. He nodded anyway, taking another drink and swallowing hard. You felt bad in a way, despite how strange this all was.

“It was uh,” It was your turn to fiddle with the handle of the coffee mug. “It was our wedding. We had tulips at our wedding.” Steven nodded, casting his eyes down a bit before glancing back up to you.

“Was it a nice memory? The wedding?”

You paused for a moment, letting every memory of that day fill your brain. After such a rocky start to your dating life, that day was perfect. It was stressful, sure, but what wedding wasn’t? It all felt surreal talking about this to the man you married. Not really the same man, you reminded yourself. Same body, different person. You smiled, the same smile you wore as you walked down the aisle, walking towards Marc as he waited for you.

“It was. Yeah. I uh…” You took one last bite of your breakfast, getting up and putting the dishes in the sink and striding over to the bookcase in the living room. Steven just watched you, finishing his tea and fiddling with the cold cup. The photo album was inconspicuous, just a plain photo album that was gifted to you a couple of weeks after your wedding. You had hardly looked at it since Marc vanished suddenly. You set it down in front of Steven, flipping it open to the first page. Photos of the empty wedding venue, dolled up and decorated in preparation, yet missing its guests.

“You got photos then, yeah?” You nodded, sitting back across from him. Steven gently flipped through the photos, bringing a hand to his face and rubbing at it gently. He let out a breathy laugh, running his hands over the pages. His own face stared back at him in a suit, standing next to you in a white satin dress.

“Bit weird, innit?” He asked out loud, more to himself than you. “All these memories that Marc has…that I don’t.” He let his words go quiet. You watched him carefully, his eyes wide and scanning each photo.

“Is it what you would have wanted? If you could get married?” It was an odd question for you to be bringing up. Eventually you’d have to wrap your mind around it all. Steven shrugged.

“Don’t know, really. Never had much luck with the whole dating scene. Missed a couple of dates flat out thanks to ol’ Marc there. I’m just too…nervous. Too Steven.You know,” He gestured to his head, flipping another page in the photo album. “I hadn’t even had a proper kiss. I mean. Obviously this body has, with Marc and you. But me? Not a thing. It seems like it was nice though, nice and…flower-y.” You smiled, leaning on your elbow as you watched him. You brushed aside the thought of him going on a date, again, it was a learning curve for yourself and Marc and Steven.

“Well I think being too “Steven” has its charms. You’re very sweet, for instance. You listen. That alone could be a selling point.” You pointed out. Steven looked up at you, his eyes wide and his head shaking.

“No, no I wouldn’t consider myself a selling point. Marc would have a field day if he knew you were complimenting me.” You could almost see him blushing just the slightest bit as he averted his eyes back down to the pictures. He stopped, staring at a photo of you alone in your wedding dress. You could see his eyes wandering up and down the photo.

“You just.. You look really…beautiful,” He murmured. “I mean here. You look really beautiful here.” You couldn’t help but laugh, your own turn to blush now.

“Nice save.” You chuckled, leaning back in your chair. Steven was positively beet red now, though his eyes still stayed on the same photo of you. As if he could tell you were watching him, he averted his eyes, glancing around the kitchen before landing on the clock on the microwave.

“Oh blimey, would you look at the time!” He rushed up, taking the photo album and closing it. “Half past eight O’clock…you’re gonna be late for work if you keep chattering on to little ol’ me.” He practically helped you out of your chair, gathering your purse and jacket and helping you get them on.

“Steven, really, it’s fine, I enjoy talking to you..” You insisted, still getting your jacket on and fishing your car keys out of your purse. Steven always walked you to the door every morning when he was around; one of the many things you seemed to overlook, until now. Now, it was one of the sweetest gestures - one Marc hadn’t done for you.

You stopped just outside of the door, turning around to face Steven. He looked adorable in the morning light, bed head and all. Your heart raced as your brain seemed to get the message of what you were about to do across to the rest of your body. Gently you leaned up on the balls of your feet, the flats of your shoes slapping back down to the ground, as you learned up and gently placed your lips to his. Kissing him was like coming home; his lips familiar, his scruff brushing against your chin the way it did on that same wedding night. He still smelled the same, Marc probably had put on his cologne last night before bed. To Steven, however, it must have felt foreign and wrong. Kissing Marc’s wife. Even still, he put his hands gently on your waist, keeping his hands still as he relaxed a bit. You rested your head against his forehead for a moment before pulling away, smiling up at him gently. You could taste the tea on his lips.

“It’s not the same, I guess, but I hope that crosses one thing off your list of ‘haven’t hads’.” You turned away, giving him one last smile as you took in his gobsmacked expression.

“I uh yeah. Yep. Y-you have a good day at work, yeah? You..I uh.. Th-thank you!” He called out, watching you as you got into your car.

⁂

Work had drawn out longer than you had expected. You were sore, tired, and in desperate need of a shower. The house was dark when you got home, and you had presumed that either Marc had gone out to do whatever he did when you weren’t around, or he was asleep. Or Steven was asleep. Either way, it seemed you were alone for the night. Sighing, you put your purse on the side table and locked the door behind you, running your hands over your face as you could practically feel the grime of the day settling on you. A hot bath and a long sleep was in order, you thought.

Making your way to the kitchen, you struggled to find the light switch on the wall, taking a few seconds to pat around the wall blindly before snapping on the light. When it turned on, it revealed both a sticky note, telling you that your dinner was in the microwave- signed by Marc- and a vase of flowers, with a sticky note signed by Steven on the edge of it.

A vase of tulips, to be exact. Purple ones.

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mackycat11

1 month ago

jack abbot, cynical, suicidal, war veteran who listens to police scanners and barely cracks a smile. whose name is spelt with one ‘t’ not two. who writes letters for family members of deceased veterans. who will low ball a teenagers measurements so, she can have the abortion. who does his job while donating blood with the bag strapped to his leg. who’s a great doctor and equally great teacher that will absolutely go to bat for his team but, quietly scold you if you did something you shouldn’t have but, praise you because you did it right. who is kind, compassionate and caring. who has seen the worst but still chooses to believe in the best. who’s the type of friend to say ‘you’re in my spot’ when you’re standing at the edge of a roof. who makes food delivery jokes and bug analogies and says ‘so what?’ because everyone hesitates sometimes. who’s a certified yapper and hype-girl and wants you to know that you’re doing an amazing job and you’re appreciated when you’re going through a particularly tough time. who speaks openly about being in therapy and recommends said therapist if you need someone to talk to because ‘i haven’t jumped off the roof, have i?’. jack abbot who was perceived as one way at the beginning of the season and turned out to be entirely different at the end.

442 notes View Post

mackycat11

5 years ago

*curtesys*