#Wit McKay

[funstealer]

Untitled #1093 (Buddha Boy), 2001 - 03 by Petah Coyne

Specially-formulated wax, cast-wax statuary figure, pigment, silk flowers, synthetic feathers, acetate ribbon, tassels, white pearl-headed hat pins, artificial pearl strands, horse hair, chicken-wire fencing, wire, acrylic primer, plywood, metal hardware, aluminum 52 x 51 1/8 x 52 inches. Photograph: Wit McKay

[seefaofthemist]

I watched all of Atlantis twice before watching Sg1 and this is arguably the funniest and most interesting order to watch things in. One of the first things I noticed is that the Pegasus Galaxy is so much more unhinged than our galaxy.

Sg1 goes to make an alliance with the Tokra and they're like "we shall now convene the council and debate for the next several hours the possibility of an alliance in this great war." And then there's Atlantis trying to make alliances and everyone they talk to is just like "we made nuclear bombs!", "we cobbled together a hyperdrive out of parts we scavenged or bartered for. It occasionally lights on fire and there's a small amount of deadly radiation, but it's super fast!", and "I won't talk to you unless you let me eat someone."

The Goa'uld would not last a day in pegasus. They would rock up to the galaxy and try to do their whole we are gods thing and the Satedans would just be standing there, covered in blood, surrounded by the mutilated bodies of wraith, going, "Really? Cause we carved out the internal organs of the last guy who said that."

Hell, if the wraith met the Goa'uld they would think it's great, because, "Wow! Human and symbiote! That's two life forces to eat! A two for one deal!" In a Wraith vs Goa'uld fight the wraith would win. The Goa'uld wouldn't stand a chance.

Atlantis commits more war crimes in their first year than sg1 does in a decade. And it's not just that. The sgc as a whole is so orderly and clean. They wear their uniforms. They're semi-well trained. They're military. The Atlantis crew is so much messier. Their hair is disheveled and their uniforms wrinkled. They're sleep deprived and drenched in sweat. They're running on massive amounts of caffeine and need so much therapy. Atlantis and Pegasus in general is just so much more bloody and dirty. Their hands are soaked in blood, their face is covered in mud and they're getting up for another round.

In short, I love sg1 so far but there is something so raw and desperate about Atlantis that is so fascinating.

[mycenaae]

santos is 100% morally right for threatening this man especially when robby refused to do anything and lashed out at her for being clearly upset about it and his inaction (the second potentially dangerous man he's refused to do anything about this season!) but i do NOT necessarily think on a pragmatic level that it's ultimately going to make things better at home for his daughter or his wife because abusers will abuse no matter what. :( and also robby is pissing me off sooooo bad with his refusal to acknowledge the threats that several men he's let off the hook today are posing

[yakshxiao]

FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME ; JACK ABBOT

wc; 9.3k synopsis; You and Jack only ever see each other for five minutes at a time — the tail end of day shift and the start of night shift. But those five minutes? They’ve become the best part of both of your days. Everyone else in the ER has noticed it. The way you both lean in just a little too close during handoff. The way both of you leave a drink and a protein bar next to the chart rack. The way neither of you ever miss a single shift — until one day, one of you doesn’t show up. And everything shifts.

contents; Jack Abbot/nurse!reader, gn!reader, medical inaccuracies, hospital setting, mentions of injury and death, slow burn, found family, mutual pinning, mild jealousy, age gap (like 10-15 years, reader is aged around late 20s/early 30s but you can do any age), can you tell this man is consuming my every thought? tempted to write a follow-up fic lemme know what u guys think.

You only see him at 7 p.m. — well, 6:55 p.m., if you’re being exact.

You’re already at the nurse’s station, chart pulled up, pen poised, pretending you’re more focused than you are — just waiting for that familiar figure to walk in. The ER is barely holding itself together, seams straining under the weight of another long, unsparing shift. 

You’ve witnessed Mckay go through two scrub changes — both stained, both discarded like paper towels. Dana’s been shouted at by too many angry patients to count, each new confrontation carving deeper lines into her already exhausted face. And if you see Gloria trailing behind Robby one more time, arms crossed, mouth already mid-complaint, you’re sure you’ll have front-row seats to the implosion of Robby’s self-restraint.

The end-of-shift exhaustion hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. It seeps into the walls, the floor, your bones. The scent of bleach, sweat, and cold coffee hangs over everything, a cocktail that clings to your skin long after you clock out. The vending machine’s been emptied of anything worth eating. Your stomach gave up asking hours ago. 

The sun is still trying to claw its way down, its last rays pressing uselessly against frosted windows, too far removed to touch. The ER isn’t made for soft light. It lives under fluorescents, bright and unfeeling, leeching color and kindness from the world, one hour at a time.

It’s then, right on time, he arrives.

Jack Abbot.

Always the same. Dark scrubs, military backpack slung over his shoulder, the strap worn and fraying. His stethoscope loops around his neck like it belongs there and his hair is a little unkempt, like the day’s already dragged its hands through him before the night even starts.

He walks the same unhurried pace every time — not slow, not fast — like a man who’s learned the ER’s tempo can’t be outrun or outpaced. It’ll still be here, bleeding and burning, whether he sprints or crawls. And every day, like clockwork, he arrives at your station at 6:55 p.m., eyes just sharp enough to remind you he hasn’t completely handed himself over to exhaustion.

The handoff always starts the same. Clean. Professional. Efficient. Vitals. Labs. Status updates on the regulars and the barely-holding-ons. Names are exchanged like currency, chart numbers folded into the cadence of clipped sentences, shorthand that both of you learned the hard way. The rhythm of it is steady, like the low, constant beep of monitors in the background.

But tonight, the silence stretches just a little longer before either of you speaks. His eyes skim the board, lingering for half a second too long on South 2. You catch it. You always do.

“She’s still here,” you say, tapping your pen against the chart. “Outlived the odds and half the staff’s patience.”

Jack huffs a quiet sound that’s almost — almost — a laugh. The sound is low and dry, like it hasn’t been used much lately, “Figures.”

His attention shifts, following the slow, inevitable exit of Gloria, her unmistakable white coat vanishing around the corner, Robby sagging against the wall in her wake like a man aging in real-time, “I leave for twelve hours and Gloria’s still haunting the halls. She got squatters’ rights yet?”

You smirk, shaking your head and turning to look in the same direction, “I think Robby’s about five minutes away from filing for witness protection.”

That earns you a real smile — small, fleeting, but it’s there. The kind that only shows up in this place during the quiet moments between shift changes, the ones too short to hold onto and too rare to take for granted. The kind that makes you wonder how often he uses it when he’s not here.

Jack glances at the clock, then back at you, his voice low and dry. “Guess I better go save what’s left of his sanity, huh?”

You shrug, sliding the last of your notes toward him, the pages worn thin at the corners from too many hands, too many days like this. “Too late for that. You’re just here to do damage control.”

His smile lingers a little longer, but his eyes settle on you, the weight of the shift pressing into the space between you both — familiar, constant, unspoken. The clock ticks forward, the moment folding neatly back into the rush of the ER, the five-minute bubble of quiet already closing like it always does.

And then — 7 p.m. — the night begins.

The next few weeks worth of handoffs play out the same way.

The same rhythm. The same quiet trade of names, numbers, and near-misses. The same half-conversations, broken by pagers, interrupted by overhead calls. The same looks, the same five minutes stretched thin between shifts, like the ER itself holds its breath for you both.

But today is different. 

This time, Jack arrives at 6:50 p.m. 

Five minutes earlier than usual — early even for him. 

You glance up from the nurse’s station when you catch the sound of his footsteps long before the clock gives you permission to expect him. Still the same dark scrubs, the military backpack and stethoscope around his neck. 

But it’s not just the arrival time that’s different.

It’s the tea. Balanced carefully in one hand, lid still steaming, sleeve creased from the walk in. Tea — not coffee. Jack Abbot doesn’t do tea. At least, not in all the months you’ve been on this rotation. He’s a coffee-or-nothing type. Strong, bitter, the kind of brew that tastes like the end of the world.

He sets it down in front of you without fanfare, as if it’s just another piece of the shift — like vitals, like the board, like the handoff that always waits for both of you. But the corner of his mouth lifts when he catches the confused tilt of your head.

“Either I’m hallucinating,” you say, “or you’re early and bringing offerings.”

“You sounded like hell on the scanner today,” he says, voice dry but easy. “Figured you’d be better off with tea when you leave.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Your fingers curl around the warmth. The smell hits you before the sip does — honey, ginger, something gentler than the day you’ve had.

“Consider it hazard pay,” Jack’s mouth quirks, eyes flicking toward the whiteboard behind you. “The board looks worse than usual.”

You huff a dry laugh, glancing at the mess of names and numbers — half of them marked awaiting test results and the rest marked with waiting.

“Yeah,” you say. “One of those days.”

You huff a laugh, the sound pulling the sting from your throat even before the tea does. The day’s been a long one. Endless patient turnover, backlogged labs, and the kind of non-stop tension that winds itself into your muscles and stays there, even when you clock out.

Jack leans his hip against the edge of the counter, and lets the quiet settle there for a moment. No handoff yet. No rush. The world is still turning, but for a brief second it feels like the clock’s hands have stalled, stuck in that thin stretch of stillness before the next wave breaks.

“You trying to throw off the universe?” you ask, half teasing, lifting the cup in mock salute. “Next thing I know, Gloria will come in here smiling.”

Jack huffs, “Let’s not be that ambitious.”

The moment hangs between you, the conversation drifting comfortably into the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. Just the weight of the day, and the knowledge that the night will be heavier.

But then, as always, duty calls. A sharp crackle from his pager splits the stillness like a stone through glass. He straightens, his expression shifting back to business without missing a beat.

You slide the last chart across the desk toward him, your hand brushing the edge of his as you let go. The handoff starts, the ritual resumes. Vitals. Labs. Critical patients flagged in red ink. Familiar, steady, practiced. A dance you both know too well.

But even as the conversation folds back into clinical shorthand, the tea sits between you, cooling slowly, marking the space where the ritual has quietly shifted into something else entirely.

And when the handoff’s done — when the last name leaves your mouth — the clock ticks past 7:05 p.m.

You linger. Just long enough for Jack to glance back your way.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks. The question light, but not casual.

You nod once, the answer already written.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After that, the handoff’s change. Tea was only the beginning.

It’s always there first — sometimes waiting on the desk before you’ve even finished logging out. The cup’s always right, too. No questions asked, no orders repeated. Jack learns the little details: how you like it, when it's too hot or too cold. When the shift’s been particularly cruel and the hours stretch too thin, he starts adding the occasional muffin or protein bar to the offering, wordlessly placed on the desk beside your notes.

In return, you start doing the same. Only you give him coffee. Black, bitter — too bitter for you — but it's how he likes it and you’ve never had the heart to tell him there’s better tasting coffee out there. Sometimes you give him tea on the calmer nights. A granola bar and an apple join soon after so you know he has something to eat when the food he brings in becomes a ghost of a meal at the back of the staff fridge. A post-it with a doodle and the words “I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes” gets stuck to his coffee after an especially tough day shift, knowing it’ll bleed into the night.

It’s quiet, easy. Half-finished conversations that start at one handoff and end in the next.

You talk about everything but yourselves.

About the regulars — which patient is faking, which one’s hanging on by more than sheer luck. About the shows you both pretend you don’t have time for but always end up watching, somehow. About staff gossip, bets on how long the new hire will last, debates over whose turn it is to replace the break room coffee filter (spoiler: no one ever volunteers).

But never about what you two have. Never about what any of it means.

You pretend the lines are clear. That it’s all part of the handoff. That it’s just routine.

But the team notices.

Mckay starts hanging around the station longer than necessary at 6:55 p.m., her eyes flicking between the clock and the doorway like she’s waiting for a cue. Dana starts asking loaded questions in passing — light, but pointed. “So, Jack’s shift starting soon?” she’ll say with a knowing tilt of her head.

The worst offenders, though, are Princess and Perlah.

They start a betting pool. Subtle at first — a folded scrap of paper passed around, tucked in their pockets like an afterthought. Before long, half the ER staff’s names are scribbled under columns like ‘Next week’, ‘Next Month’ or ‘Never happening’.

And then one day, you open your locker after a twelve-hour shift, hands still shaking slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and there it is:

A post-it, bright yellow and impossible to miss.

“JUST KISS ALREADY.”

No name. No signature. Just the collective voice of the entire ER condensed into three impatient words.

You stand there longer than you should, staring at it, your chest tightening in that quiet, unfamiliar way that’s got nothing to do with the shift and everything to do with him.

When you finally peel the note off and stuff it deep into your pocket, you find Jack already waiting at the nurse’s station. 6:55 p.m. Early, as always. Tea in hand. Same dark scrubs. Same unhurried stride. Same steady presence.

And when you settle in beside him, brushing just close enough for your shoulder to graze his sleeve, he doesn’t say anything about the flush still warm in your cheeks.

You don’t say anything either.

The handoff begins like it always does. The names. The numbers. The rhythm. The world still spinning the same broken way it always has.

But the note is still in your pocket. And the weight of it lingers longer than it should.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe never.

The handoff tonight starts like any other.

The same exchange of vitals, the same clipped sentences folding neatly into the rhythm both of you know by heart. The ER hums and flickers around you, always on the edge of chaos but never quite tipping over. Jack’s there, 6:55 p.m., tea in one hand, muffin in the other — that small tired look in place like a badge he never bothers to take off.

But tonight, the air feels heavier. The space between you, thinner.

There’s no reason for it — at least, none you could name. Just a quiet shift in gravity, subtle enough to pretend away, sharp enough to notice. A conversation that drifts lazily off course, no talk of patients, no staff gossip, no television shows. Just silence. Comfortable, but expectant.

And then his hand — reaching past you to grab a chart — brushes yours.

Not the accidental kind. Not the casual, workplace kind. The kind that lingers. Warm, steady, the weight of his palm light against the back of your fingers like the pause before a sentence you’re too scared to finish.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world outside the nurse’s station slows. The monitors still beep, the overhead paging system still hums, the hallway still bustles — but you don’t hear any of it.

There’s just his hand. Your hand. The breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

And then the trauma alert hits.

“MVA — multiple injuries. Incoming ETA two minutes.”

The spell shatters. The moment folds back in on itself like it was never there at all. Jack pulls away first, but not fast. His hand brushes yours one last time as if reluctant, as if the shift might grant you one more second before it demands him back.

But the ER has no patience for almosts.

You both move — the way you always do when the alarms go off, efficient and wordless, sliding back into your roles like armor. He’s already at the doors, gloves snapped on, voice low and level as the gurneys rush in. You’re right behind him, notes ready, vitals called out before the paramedics finish their sentences.

The night swallows the moment whole. The weight of the job fills the space where it had lived.

And when the trauma bay finally quiets, when the adrenaline starts to bleed out of your system and the hallways return to their usual background hum, Jack passes by you at the station, slowing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

Nothing said. Nothing needed.

Almost.

Weeks after the same routine, over and over, the change starts like most things do in your world — quietly, without fanfare.

A new name slips into conversation one morning over burnt coffee and half-finished charting. Someone you met outside the ER walls, outside the endless loop of vitals and crash carts and lives balanced on the edge. A friend of a friend, the kind of person who looks good on paper: steady job, easy smile, around your age, the kind of life that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or ring with the static of trauma alerts.

You don’t even mean to mention them. The words just tumble out between patients, light and careless. Jack barely reacts — just a flicker of his eyes, the barest pause in the way his pen scratches across the chart. He hums, noncommittal, and says, “Good for you.”

But after that, the air between you shifts.

The ritual stays the same — the teas and coffees still show up, the handoffs still slide smooth and clean — but the conversations dull. They're shallower. You talk about patients, the weather. But the inside jokes dry up, and the silences stretch longer, thicker, like neither of you can find the right words to fix the growing space between you.

The new person tries. Dinners that never quite feel right. Movies that blur together. Conversations that stall out halfway through, where you find yourself thinking about Jack’s voice instead of the one across the table. It’s not their fault — they do everything right. They ask about your day, they remember how you take your tea, they show up when they say they will.

But they aren’t him. They never will be.

And the truth of that sits heavy in your chest long before you let it go.

When the end finally comes, it’s as quiet as the beginning. No fight. No grand scene. Just a conversation that runs out of steam and a mutual, tired understanding: this was never going to be enough.

You don’t tell Jack. Not directly. But he knows.

Maybe it’s the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes that night, or the way your usual jokes come slower, dull around the edges. Or maybe it’s just that he knows you too well by now, the way you know him — a kind of understanding that doesn’t need translation.

He doesn’t push. He’s not the kind of man who asks questions he isn’t ready to hear the answers to, and you’ve never been the type to offer up more than what the job requires. But when you pass him the last of the handoff notes that night, his fingers brush yours, and for once, they linger. Just a second longer than they should. Long enough to say everything neither of you will.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Neutral. Studied, “You get any sleep lately?”

It’s not the question he wants to ask. Not even close. But it’s the one he can ask, the one that fits inside the safe little script you’ve both written for yourselves.

You lie — both of you know it — but he doesn’t call you on it. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, and when he stands, he leaves his coffee behind on the counter. Still hot. Barely touched.

And that’s how you know.

Because Jack never leaves coffee unfinished.

The next handoff, he’s already at the nurse’s station when you arrive — ten minutes early, a tea waiting for you, exactly how you like it. There’s no note, no smile, no pointed comment. Just the small, familiar weight of the cup in your hand and the warmth that spreads through your chest, sharper than it should be.

You settle into the routine, pulling the chart toward you, the silence stretching long and comfortable for the first time in weeks. Jack doesn’t ask, and you don’t offer. But when your fingers brush his as you pass him the logbook, you don’t pull away as quickly as you used to.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

The world around you moves the same way it always does — busy, breathless, unrelenting. But somewhere in the quiet, something unspoken hums between you both. Something that’s been waiting.

They weren’t him. And you weren’t surprised.

Neither was he.

It’s the handoff on a cold Wednesday evening that brings a quiet kind of news — the kind that doesn’t explode, just settles. Like dust.

Jack mentions it in passing, the way people mention the weather or the fact that the coffee machine’s finally given up the ghost. Mid-handoff, eyes on the chart, voice level. 

“Admin gave me an offer.”

Your pen stills, barely a beat, then keeps moving. “Oh yeah?” you ask, as if you hadn’t heard the shift in his tone. As if your chest didn’t tighten the moment the words left his mouth.

The department’s newer, quieter. Fewer traumas. More order. Less of the endless night shift churn that has worn him down to the bone these last few years. It would suit him. You know it. Everyone knows it.

And so you do what you’re supposed to do. What any friend — any coworker — would do. You offer the words, gift-wrapped in all the right tones.

“You’d be great at it.”

The smile you give him is steady, practiced. It reaches your lips. But not your eyes. Never your eyes.

Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

He just nods, the kind of slow, quiet nod that feels more like a goodbye than anything else. The conversation moves on. The night moves on.

You go home, and for him, the patients come and go, machines beep, the usual rhythm swallows the moment whole. But the shift feels different. Like the floor’s shifted under his feet and the walls don’t sit right in his peripherals anymore.

The offer lingers in the air for days. No one mentions it. But he notices things — the way you're quieter, the way you seem almost distant during handoffs. Like the weight of the outcome of the decision’s sitting on your shoulders, heavy and personal.

And then, just as quietly, the tension shifts. No announcement. No conversation. The offer just evaporates. You hear it from Robby two days later, his voice offhand as he scrolls through the department’s scheduling board.

“Abbot passed on the job.”

That’s all he says. That’s all you need.

When your shift ends that day, you linger a little longer than usual. Five minutes past the clock, then ten. Just enough time to catch him walking in. Same dark scrubs, same tired eyes. But this time, no talk of transfers. No talk of moving on.

You slide the handoff notes toward him, and when his fingers brush yours, neither of you let go right away.

“Long night ahead.” you say, your eyes lock onto his.

“Same as always,” he answers, soft but sure.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

But he stayed.

And so did you.

The holiday shift is a quiet one for once.

Not the kind of chaotic disaster you usually brace for — no code blues, no trauma alerts, no frantic scrambling. The ER hums at a lower frequency tonight, as if the whole department is holding its breath, waiting for the chaos to pass and the clock to turn over.

You’ve been working on autopilot for the last few hours. The patient load is manageable, the team is mostly intact, and the usual undercurrent of stress is more like a murmur than a shout. But there's something about the quiet, the softness of it, that makes you more aware of everything, every moment stretching a little longer than it should. It makes the weight of the day feel more pressing, more noticeable.

As the last patient leaves — nothing serious, just another sprain — you settle into your chair by the nurse’s station, the kind of exhausted calm that only comes when the worst is over. The clock inches toward the end of your shift — 6:50 p.m. — but you’re not in any hurry to leave, not yet.

As always, Jack walks in.

You look up just as he passes by the station. His usual tired look is softened tonight, the edges of his exhaustion blunted by something quieter, something a little more worn into his features. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, but there’s a kind of peace in him tonight — a rare thing for the man who’s always running on the edge of burnout.

He stops in front of you, and you can see the small, crumpled bag in his hand. It’s not much, just a bit of wrapping paper that’s a little too wrinkled, but something about it makes your heart give a funny, lopsided beat.

"Here," he says, low, voice a little rougher than usual.

You blink, surprised. “What’s this?”

He hesitates for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all. “For you.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing. "We don’t usually exchange gifts, Jack."

His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. "Thought we might make an exception today."

You take the gift from him, feeling the weight of it, simple but somehow significant. You glance down at it, and for a moment, the world feels like it falls away. He doesn't ask you to open it right then, and for a second, you think maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll leave it unopened, just like so many things left unsaid between you two.

But the curiosity wins out.

You peel back the paper slowly. It’s a leather-bound notebook, simple and unassuming. The kind of thing that makes you wonder how he knew.

“I... didn’t know what to get you," Jack says, his voice soft, almost sheepish. "But I figured you'd use it."

The gesture is simple — almost too simple. But it’s not. It’s too personal for just coworkers. Too thoughtful, too quiet. The weight of it sits between the two of you, unspoken, thick in the air.

You look up at him, your chest tight in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. "Thank you," you manage, and you can’t quite shake the feeling that this — this little notebook — means more than just a gift. It’s something that says everything neither of you has been able to put into words.

Jack nods, his smile barely there but real. He takes a step back, as if pulling himself away from something he doesn’t know how to navigate. The silence stretches. But it’s different this time. It’s not awkward. It’s soft. It feels like a bridge between the two of you, built in the quiet spaces you’ve shared and the ones you haven’t.

“I got you something too,” you say before you can stop yourself. When you reach into your pocket, your fingers brush against the small, folded package you had tucked away. 

His brow furrows slightly in surprise, but he takes it from you, and when he unwraps it, it’s just a small, hand-carved keychain you had spotted at a market — simple, not much, but it reminded you of Jack.

He laughs, a short, quiet sound that vibrates in the space between you, and the tension between you two feels almost manageable. “Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing over the little keychain.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The noise of the ER seems distant, muffled, as if it’s happening in another world altogether. The clock ticks, the final minutes of your shift inching by. But in that small, quiet space, it’s as if time has paused, holding its breath alongside the two of you.

“I guess it’s just... us then, huh?” he says finally, voice softer than before, quieter in a way that feels like more than just the end of a shift.

You nod, and for the first time in ages, the silence between you feels easy. Comfortable.

Just a few more minutes, and the shift will be over. But right now, this — this small, quiet exchange, these moments that don’t need words — is all that matters.

The day shift is winding down when Jack walks in, just before 7 p.m.

The usual rhythm of the ER is fading, the intensity of the day finally trailing off as the night shift prepares to take over. He arrives just as the last few nurses finish their rounds, their faces tired but steady as they begin to pass the baton.

But something feels off. The station is quieter than usual, the hum of conversation quieter, the buzz of the monitors almost unnaturally sharp in the sudden stillness. Jack glances around, noting the lack of a familiar face, the way the department feels a little emptier, more distant. He spots Dana and Robby at the nurse’s station, exchanging murmurs, and immediately knows something’s not right.

You’re not there.

He doesn’t immediately ask. Instead, he strides toward the counter, his mind racing to calculate the cause. A sick day? A last-minute emergency? Something’s happened, but he can’t quite place it. The thought that it’s anything serious doesn’t sit well in his chest, and yet, it presses down harder with every minute that passes.

It’s 6:55 p.m. now, and the clock keeps ticking forward.

By 7:00, Jack is halfway through his handoff, scanning the patient charts and mentally preparing for the usual chaos, but his focus keeps drifting.

Where are you?

He finally asks. Not loudly, not with urgency, but quietly enough that only Robby and Dana catch the edge in his voice. “Have they called in tonight?”

Before he even has a chance to follow up with your name, Dana looks up at him, a tired smirk on her face. “No. No word.”

Robby shakes his head, looking between Dana and Jack. “We haven’t heard anything. Thought you’d know.”

He nods, swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat. He tries not to show it — not to let it show in the way his shoulders stiffen or the slight furrow between his brows. He finishes up the handoff as usual, but his mind keeps returning to you, to the way the shift feels off without your presence, the absence weighing heavy on him.

By the time the rest of the night staff rolls in, Jack's focus is split. He’s still mentally running through the patient roster, but he’s half-waiting, half-hoping to see you come walking to the nurses station, just like always.

It doesn't happen.

And then, as if on cue, a message comes through — a notification from HR. You’d left for the day in a rush. Your parent had been hospitalised out of town, and you’d rushed off without a word. No call. No notice.

Jack stops in his tracks. The room feels suddenly too small, the quiet too loud. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he puts his phone back into his pocket, his eyes flicking over it again, like it will make more sense the second time.

His mind moves quickly, fast enough to keep up with the frantic pace of the ER around him, but his body is still, frozen for a heartbeat longer than it should be. He doesn’t know what to do with this — this sudden, heavy weight of worry and concern.

The team, in their usual way, rallies. They pull a care package together like clockwork — snacks, tissues, a soft blanket someone swears helps during long waits in hospital chairs. A card circulates, scrawled with signatures and the usual messages: thinking of you, hang in there, we’ve got you. It’s routine, something they’ve done for each other countless times in the past, a small gesture in the face of someone’s crisis.

But Jack doesn’t sign the card.

He sits quietly in the break room for a while, the weight of his concern simmering beneath the surface of his usual calm. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel — concern for you, for the situation, for how the ER feels without you there. The package is ready, and with it, so is a quiet, unsaid piece of himself.

When the others step away, he tucks something else inside, sliding it between the blanket and the box of cheap chocolates the team threw in at the last minute — an envelope, plain, unmarked, the handwriting inside careful but unsteady, like the words cost more than he expected.

Take care of them. The place isn’t the same without you.

Short. Simple. Honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. It isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be. You’d know.

The team doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they make no comment on it. The ER continues to move, steady in its rhythm, even as Jack’s world feels like it’s been thrown off balance. The package is sent. The shift carries on. And Jack waits. He waits, in the quiet space between you and him, in the absence of your presence, in the weight of things he can’t say.

The clock ticks on. And with it, Jack misses you a little more that night.

Two weeks.

That’s how long the space at the nurse’s station stayed empty. That’s how long the chair at the nurse’s station sat empty — the one you always claimed without thinking. Nobody touched it. Nobody had to say why. It just sat there — a quiet, hollow thing that marked your absence more clearly than any words could’ve.

Two weeks of missing the familiar scrape of your pen against the chart. Two weeks of shift changes stripped down to bare-bones handoffs, clipped and clinical, no space for the soft edges of inside jokes or the quiet pauses where your voice used to fit. Two weeks of coffee going cold, of tasting far more bitter than it did before. Two weeks of the ER feeling off-kilter, like the clock’s gears had ground themselves down and no one could quite put the pieces back.

When you walk back through the automatic doors, it’s like the air catches on itself — that split-second stall before everything moves forward again. You don’t announce yourself. No one really does. The place just swallows you back up, the way it does to anyone who leaves and dares to return.

You clock in that morning. The shift goes on as normal, as normal as the ER can be. The others greet you like they’ve been told to act normal. Quick nods, small smiles. Robby pats your shoulder, light and brief. Dana leaves an extra coffee by the monitors without a word.

When the clock hands swing toward 6:50 p.m., you’re already at the nurses station. Sitting at the desk like you’d never left. Like nothing’s changed, like no time has passed at all. Like the last two weeks were some other life. Scrubs pressed, badge clipped at the same off-center tilt it always is. But your hands hover just slightly, resting on the chart without writing, pen poised like your mind hasn’t quite caught up to your body being back.

The air feels different — not heavy, not light, just suspended. Stalled.

And then you hear them. Footsteps.

Steady. Familiar. The cadence you’ve known for months. 

Jack.

He stops a few feet from you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the faintest crease between his brow like he hasn’t quite convinced himself this isn’t some kind of trick.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

No patient names. No vitals. No shorthand. The handoff script that’s lived on your tongues for months goes untouched. Instead, you stand there, surrounded by the soft beep of monitors and the shuffle of overworked staff, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything words can’t.

It’s a strange sort of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

For a long moment, the chaos of the ER fades to the edges, the overhead pages and the low mechanical hums turning to static. You look at him, and it’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. The small lines around his eyes seem deeper. The tension at his shoulders, usually buried beneath practiced calm, sits plainly in view.

You wonder if it’s been there the whole time. You wonder if he noticed the same about you.

His eyes meet yours, steady, unguarded. The first thing that breaks the quiet isn’t a handoff or a patient update.

“I missed this.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into something that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. When he replies, it’s not rushed. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth.

“I missed you.”

Simple. Honest. No side steps. No softening the edges with humor. Just the truth. The words sit there between you, bare and uncomplicated. For a second, the world feels smaller — just the two of you, the hum of machines, and the weight of two weeks' worth of things unsaid.

His gaze shifts, softer now, searching your face for something, or maybe just memorizing it all over again.

“How are they?” he asks, voice low, careful. Not clinical, not casual — the way people ask when they mean it.

You swallow, the answer lingering behind your teeth. You hadn’t said much to anyone, not even now. But his question doesn’t pry, it just waits.

“They’re stable,” you say after a moment, the words simple but heavy. “Scared. Tired. I stayed until I couldn’t anymore.”

Jack nods once, slow and sure, as if that answer was all he needed. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like there’s more he wants to do, more he wants to say — but this is still the space between shifts, still the same ER where everything gets held back for later.

But his voice is steady when he replies.

“I’m glad you were with them.”

A pause. One of those long, silent stretches that says everything the words don’t.

“And I’m glad you came back.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to.

And then, the clock ticks forward. The night shift begins. The world presses on, the monitors start beeping their endless song, and the next patient is already waiting. But the weight of those words lingers, tucked just beneath the surface.

And this time — neither of you pretend it didn’t happen.

But it’s still not quite the right time.

Jack’s walls aren’t the obvious kind. They don’t come with sharp edges or cold shoulders. His are quieter, built from small hesitations — the steady, practiced way he keeps his distance, the careful deflection tucked behind dry humor and midnight coffee refills. And at the center of it, two stubborn truths: he’s older, and he’s widowed.

Being widowed is a quiet shadow that doesn’t lift, not really. It taught him how easily a future can disappear, how love doesn’t stop the world from taking what it wants. He doesn’t talk about her, not much — not unless the shift runs long and the coffee’s gone cold — but the space she left is always there, shaping the way he looks at you, at himself, at the idea of starting over. Jack tells himself it wouldn’t be fair. Not to you. Not when you’ve still got years ahead to figure out what you want. Not when he’s already stood graveside, watching the world shrink down to a headstone and a handful of fading memories. 

You’re younger. Less worn down. Less jaded. He tells himself — on the long drives home, when sleep refuses to come — that you deserve more time than he can offer. More time to figure out your world without him quietly shaping the edges of it. It’s the sort of difference people pretend doesn’t matter, until it does. Until he’s standing beside you, catching himself in the reflection of the trauma room glass, wondering how the years settled heavier on him than on you. Until he’s half a sentence deep into asking what you’re doing after shift, and pulling back before the words can leave his mouth.

Because no matter how much space he tries to give, the part of him that’s still grieving would always leave its mark. And you deserve more than the half-mended heart of a man who’s already learned how to live without the things he loves.

And you?

You’ve got your own reasons.

Not the ones anyone could spot at a glance, not the kind that leave scars or stories behind. Just a quiet, low-grade fear. The kind that hums beneath your skin, born from years of learning that getting too comfortable with people — letting yourself want too much — always ends the same way: doors closing, phones going silent, people walking away before you even notice they’ve started.

So you anchor yourself to the things that don’t shift. Your routine. Your steadiness. The hours that stretch long and hard but never ask you to be anything more than reliable. Because when you’re needed, you can’t be left behind. When you’re useful, it hurts less when people don’t stay.

Jack’s careful, and you’re cautious, and the space between you both stays exactly where it’s always been: not quite close enough.

So you both settle for the in-between. The ritual. The routine. Shared drinks at handoff. Inside jokes sharp enough to leave bruises. Half-finished conversations, always interrupted by codes and pages and the sharp ring of phones.

The ER runs like clockwork, except the clock’s always broken, and in the background the rest of the team watches the same loop play out — two people orbiting closer, always just out of reach.

The bets from Princess and Perlah are at the heaviest they’ve ever been, and so are their pockets. There are no more ‘Never happening’ — everyone’s now in the ‘Next week’ or ‘Next Month’. The others have stopped pretending they don’t see what’s happening. In fact, they’re practically counting the days, biding their time like a clock ticking in reverse, waiting for that moment when everything finally clicks into place.

At first, it’s subtle. 

One less handoff cut short by timing. One more overlapping hour “by accident.”

You and Jack work together more and more now, whether it's trauma cases, code blue alerts, or the quieter moments between chaotic shifts when the floor clears enough to breathe. The careful choreography of your daily dance is starting to wear thin around the edges, like a well-loved sweater that’s a little too threadbare to keep pretending it’s still holding together.

The soft exchanges in the middle of emergency rooms — the handoffs that are always clean and professional — have started to bleed into something else. You don’t mean for it to happen. Neither of you do.

But you find yourselves walking the same hallways just a bit more often. You swap shifts with an ease you hadn’t before. Jack’s voice lingers a little longer when he says, “Good night, see you tomorrow,” and the weight of that goodbye has started to feel a little like an unspoken promise.

But it’s still not enough to break the silence.

The team watches, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but neither of you says a word about it. You can’t, because the truth is, it’s easier to let things stay where they are. Safer, maybe. To just let the rhythm of the shifts carry you through without the sudden plunge of vulnerability that might shatter it all.

Still, they see it.

Dana, ever the romantic, gives you that knowing, almost conspiratorial look when she catches you making eye contact with Jack across the floor. “You two need a room,” she’ll joke, but it’s always followed by that soft exhale, like she’s waiting for the punchline you won’t give her.

Princess’ and Perlah’s bets are always louder, and always in a language neither of you understand. Every shift, they pass by the nurse’s station with sly grins, casting their predictions with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about.

“Next month, I’m telling you. It’s happening in the next month. Mark my words.”

Neither you or Jack respond to the teasing. But it’s not because you don’t hear it. It’s because, in the quietest corners of your mind, the thoughts are too sharp, too close, and there’s something terrifying about acknowledging them.

The room holds its breath for you both, watching the space between you become thinner with every passing minute. You can’t feel the ticking of time, but the team certainly can.

And so it goes. Days blend into each other. Hours pass in a blur of frantic beeps and calls, hands working together with that comfortable rhythm, but always keeping just a little distance — just a little bit too much space.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the truth of what everyone else already knows. You’re both circling something, something that neither of you is brave enough to catch yet. 

Almost.

Almost always. But never quite.

The shift is brutal.

The ER’s pulse is erratic, like a heart struggling to maintain rhythm. The trauma bays are full, the waiting room is overflowing, and the chaos — the relentless, grinding chaos — is a constant roar in your ears. Alarms bleed into each other. The phone rings off the hook. Machines chirp, beds squeak, someone shouts for help, and the scent of antiseptic is powerless against the metallic undertone of blood lingering in the air.

It’s the kind of shift that makes even seasoned hands tremble. The kind that swallows hours whole, leaves your back sore and your mind frayed, and still, the board never clears.

At some point, you’re not sure when, maybe after the fifth code blue or the eighth set of vitals skimming the edge of disaster, Robby mutters something sharp and low under his breath, peels his phone out of his pocket, and steps away from the desk.

“Calling Abbot,” he says, voice tight. “We’re underwater.”

Jack isn’t due for another two hours, but the call doesn’t surprise you. The ER doesn’t care about schedules. And Jack — he shows up twenty minutes later.

His eyes meet yours across the station, and there’s no need for words. Just a nod. Just the quiet understanding that this isn’t going to be easy, if such a thing even exists.

The clock ticks and skips, seconds folding into one another, meaningless, until finally, the worst of it comes.

Trauma alert.

A car accident. The usual chaos.

Rollover on the interstate, the kind that dispatch voices always sound too steady while reporting. The kind where the EMTs work in grim silence. Two patients this time. A married couple.

The usual chaos unfolds the second the gurneys crash through the double doors — shouting, gloves snapping on, IV lines threading, vitals barking out like a list of crimes.

But this time, it’s different.

You notice it before anyone says it aloud: the husband’s hand is tangled in his wife’s, their fingers blood-slick but still locked together, knuckles white with the sheer force of holding on. Their wedding rings glinted under the harsh fluorescents, a tiny, defiant flash of gold against the chaos.

Neither of them will let go. Even unconscious, the connection stays.

You’re already in motion. Jack too. The usual rhythm, muscle memory sharp as ever. But something in the air feels different. He glances once at the woman, blood matted in her hair, her left hand still clutching the man’s. The rings. The way their bodies lean toward each other even in a state of injury, as if muscle memory alone could keep them tethered

And for just a second, he falters.

You almost miss it, but you don’t.

Jack works the wife’s side, but her injuries speak for themselves. Her chart is a litany of injuries: internal bleeding, tension pneumothorax, skull fracture.

You watch Jack work the case like his hands are moving on instinct, but his face gives him away. It’s too quiet. Too closed off. You see it all in real-time — the silent war behind his eyes, the years catching up to him in the span of a heartbeat. The lines around his mouth tightening, the weight of something too personal rising behind the clinical routine.

You know who he’s thinking about. 

It’s her — it’s her face he sees.

Jack’s gloves are stained, jaw tight, voice steady but clipped as the monitor flatlines for the third time. You watch. You press hands to bleeding wounds that won’t stop. You call out numbers you barely register. But the inevitable creeps in anyway.

At 6:41 p.m., time of death is called.

No one speaks, not right away. The monitors fall silent, the room too. The husband, still unconscious, is wheeled away. His hand finally slips from hers, left empty on the gurney.

It’s Jack that calls it. He stands over the woman’s bed for a beat too long, the silence of it all thickening in the air. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, the weight of it settling in — the anger, the grief, the helplessness. There’s no denying it, the hours and hours of labor, of lives teetering between life and death, have begun to take their toll.

You watch him and know the exact moment it breaks him.

He doesn’t even need to say it. You can see it in the way he moves — stiff, distant, a bit lost. His hand hovers by his stethoscope, his fingers curling slightly before dropping. The tension in his face is the kind you’ve seen only when someone is holding themselves together by a thread.

He catches your eye briefly, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared grief between the two of you that’s settled like an old wound, reopened. He turns away before you can even ask, stepping out of the trauma bay and heading toward the on-call room, his pace a little slower than usual, weighed down by more than just the fatigue.

The shift drags on, but the tension, the heaviness, only grows. Finally, when it seems like it might never end, you make the decision. You leave your post, quietly slipping away from the chaos, and find your way to the on-call room where Jack is already sitting.

It’s dark in there but you don’t need to see him to know what’s there. His chest rises and falls with a weary sigh. There’s nothing to say at first. Nothing that would make this any easier, and you both know it.

You sit beside him in silence, the space between you both filled with the weight of the night, of the patient lost, of the things neither of you can change. You don’t push. You don’t ask. You simply exist in the same room, the same quiet, like two people who are too exhausted, too worn, to speak but too connected to stay apart.

Minutes pass. Long ones.

It’s Jack who breaks the silence, his voice a little rough, like it’s been buried too long.

“I kept thinking we’d have more time,” he says. It’s not addressed to you, not really — more confession than conversation, the kind of truth that’s spent too long locked behind his ribs.

You don’t answer right away, because you know the ache that lives under those words. You’ve felt it too. So you sit there, listening, the silence making room for him to say the rest.

And then, softer, barely above a breath —

“She looked like her. For a second — I thought it was her.”

The words hang in the dark, heavier than any silence.

You reach over, placing a hand gently on his. Your fingers brush his skin, warm, steady. You just sit there, the two of you, in the dark — the only light seeping in from under the door, pale and distant, like the world outside is somewhere neither of you belong right now.

Minutes pass, slow and shapeless, the kind of time that doesn’t measure in hours or shifts or chart updates. Just quiet. Just presence. Just the shared, unspoken ache of people who’ve both lost too much to say the words out loud.

When he finally exhales — long, steady, but still weighted — you feel the faintest shift in the air. Not fixed. Not fine. But breathing. Alive. Here.

When his gaze lifts, meeting yours — searching, fragile, waiting for something he can’t name — you finally offer it, soft but certain.

“We don’t get forever,” you whisper. “But we’ve still got now.”

And it’s enough. Maybe not to fix anything. Maybe not to make the night any less heavy. But enough to pull Jack through to the other side.

He exhales, slow and quiet, the tension in his chest loosening like it’s finally allowed to. The moment is small — no grand revelations, no dramatic declarations.

Just two people, breathing in the same quiet, carrying the same scars.

When the next shift change arrives, the rhythm of the ER doesn’t quite return to normal.

The pulse of the place still beats steady — monitors chiming, phones ringing, stretchers wheeling in and out — but the handoff feels different. Like the pattern has shifted beneath your feet.

The familiar routine plays out — the smooth exchange of patient reports, the clipped shorthand you both know by heart, the easy banter that’s always filled the spaces between — but now it lingers. The words sit heavier. The pauses stretch longer. The politeness that once held everything in place has softened, frayed at the edges by the weight of what’s left unsaid.

You stay five minutes later. Then ten.

Neither of you points it out. Neither of you needs to.

The silence isn’t awkward — it’s intentional. It hangs easy between you, unhurried and unforced. The kind of silence built on understanding rather than distance. Like the quiet knows something you both haven’t said out loud yet.

The rest of the team doesn’t call you on it. But they see it. And you catch the glances. 

You catch Dana’s raised eyebrow as she clocks out, her expression all knowing, no judgment — just quiet observation, like she’s been waiting for this to finally click into place. Robby doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup this time, his glance flicking from you to Jack and back again, as if he’s already tallying another win in the betting pool.

And still, no one says a word.

The ER lights flicker, humming softly against the early morning haze as the next shift trickles in, tired and rumpled, faces scrubbed clean and coffee cups refilled. The world moves on — patients, pages, paperwork — but Jack doesn’t.

His glance finds you, steady and certain, like an anchor after too many months of pretending there wasn’t a current pulling you both closer all along. There’s no question in it. No hesitation. Just quiet agreement.

And this time, neither of you heads for the door alone.

You fall into step beside him, the silence still stretched soft between you, your shoulder brushing his just slightly as you cross through the automatic doors and into the cool, early light. The air is crisp against your scrubs, the hum of the hospital fading behind you, replaced by the quiet sprawl of the parking lot and the slow stretch of a sky trying to shake off the dark.

The weight you’ve both carried for so long — all the almosts, the what-ifs, the walls and the fear — feels lighter now. Still there, but not crushing. Not anymore.

It isn’t just a handoff anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but now it’s undeniable.

You glance toward him as the quiet settles between you one last time before the day fully wakes up, and he meets your look with that same soft steadiness — the kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t rush, just holds. Like the space between you has finally exhaled, like the moment has finally caught up to the both of you after all this time skirting around it.

His hand finds yours, slow and certain, like it was always supposed to be there. No grand gesture, no sharp intake of breath, just the gentle slide of skin against skin — warm, grounding, steady. His thumb brushes the back of your hand once, absentminded and careful, like he’s memorizing the feel of this — of you — as if to make sure it’s real.

The world beyond hums back to life, ready for another day beginning. But here, in this sliver of space, between what you’ve always been and whatever comes next — everything stays still.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You don’t need to.

It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly tighter around yours, in the way the last of the shift’s exhaustion softens at the edges of his expression. In the way the air feels different now — less heavy, less waiting. Like the question that’s lived between you for months has finally answered itself.

The first thin blush of sunrise creeps over the parking lot, painting long soft shadows across the cracked pavement, and neither of you move. There’s no rush now, no clock chasing you forward, no unspoken rule pushing you apart. Just this. Just you and him, side by side, hand in hand, standing still while the world stumbles back into motion.

It’s the start of something else.

And you both know it. Without needing to say a thing.

©yakshxiao 2025.

[countbarov]

hans and masculinity

I don't like the femme Hans depictions. While I think it's cute how invested people are in Hans and Henry as a couple, I think trying to make them fit a mould where one is passive/submissive/innocent takes a lot of joy out of their dynamic

I can agree completely that Henry is a very masculine guy. He might not fit his society's standards for chivalrous masculinity, but you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who considers him less of a man -- in our and his time -- for his personality. This goes without saying

As for Hans, I think a lot of people are too quick to latch on to his most superficial traits, which easily translate to bottom, feminine, and dramatic for M/M pairings. But he's a lot more than that, even on the surface. We must not forget he is a nobleman: a politician. His charm, wit, charisma, and theatrics are very useful tools. He is well suited for the role of diplomat, which he excels at. But diplomacy is more than honeyed words and concessions; it's also demands, bargains, and deals. He's as active in that role as he is in his personal life

Hans is a flirt, and a romantic at heart, but he always takes the lead in his romantic pursuits. He is known for chasing women constantly, and has a reputation as a womanizer. Even with Henry he takes the initiative. He sits Henry down to confess his feelings (in his dramatic way), expresses a desire to protect and save Henry, and even initiates the kiss. He is not passive in any capacity. He is not waiting wistfully to be carried away. Hans is always the one who initiates

His damsel in distress reputation is well-earned, but must be taken as tongue-in-cheek. He is a nobleman, and the only real noble in Henry's company for much of their adventures, making him the perfect bargaining chip. That's why he's always getting kidnapped. He is worth a lot of money and favours, so naturally he'll be taken alive. It's a no-brainer. But Hans doesn't get captured from his tower after all his knights have been defeated. Hans fights, kills, and commands in the field

Additionally, as Tom McKay himself has said, Hans represents a side of Henry that doesn't get to flourish often. Everything said about Hans' feminine traits exist within Henry as well, and don't get to shine much -- except in Hans' company. Henry is also dramatic, witty, theatrical, and at times flamboyant. It just doesn't flourish with many people

The inverse is true, as well. Henry brings out the more rough and tough aspects of Hans. Let's recall how Hans has Henry drunkenly fight for his own honour in the first game, when Henry's influence on Hans was minimal; let's then compare it to Hans punching a guy in defence of Henry, when they've been together a while. The longer they're together, the more they resemble the other

All this to say that I am very sad at how Hans is being treated. As a queer couple, they exist outside traditional gender dynamics. There's no "woman" in the relationship, there's no passive damsel, and there's no doe-eyed ingénue. They're both active participants, and the reason they're into each other in the first place is precisely this fact

[group-dynamic]

Love how the Pitt keeps dropping little hints about the interns / student doctors' sad, messed up relationships with their families.

Whitaker being asked "Do you have a best friend?" by the pregnant farm wife and answering like: um. . . I have three older brothers. . . Does that count? (like he doesn't know!!) and then he goes " Actually they kind of tortured me growing up, so :( " Like, I know he means in an older sibling way, but ooh, lonely, isolated and different from the rest of the family, first to go to college in a third generation farm family Whittaker my beloved!

Santos who it goes without saying had a shitty unstable or traumatizing upbringing that she references through her rage at the potential abuser, struggle to make genuine connections, and self awareness that she deflects and snarks as a form of self defense. Santos who hates herself and lashes out so badly when she screws up only to immediately walk her words back because she was too mean to Whittaker and didn't like that. Santos who needs reassurance more than anyone. Santos who bullies the other interns but also tries to defend Mohan and take care of Whittaker's finger like a good sibling in an abusive household.

Mel aka "I hate to see families torn apart" who has visceral reactions to shouting and when parents fight and genuinely worries and asks questions about whether fighting adults are going to break up like she thinks she's witnessing a divorce before her eyes. Mel who seems to be the sole caretaker of her sister as a result of. . .?!

Mohan who for most of the show is a mysterious, wonderful angel who keeps getting reprimanded by the ED father Robbie for being the doctor she wishes hospital bureaucracy would allow her be, and then it turns out her father died when she was young!!?? And she's an only child??? And she was clearly her father's favorite, (but not in this ED!) and while she's handled that loss by now, she goes around being the big sibling to all the less experienced staff despite not being a sibling herself, like now she's got so many!!

And Javadi whose parents BOTH work for that hospital who is so young and feels so deprived of appreciation and love and support who is a "pressure cooker" child who has found the kind of understanding and support and chill vibes she's wanted from "actual cool yet responsible" mom McKay and that little connection she has with Dana who's so attentive to her with her Utah metaphor and wishes her many Utah's like "I hope you experience many things in life" to a kid who has been set on such a narrow and difficult path she hasn't been able to look up to see the sky!!!

aaaahhhhhuuuggghhh!

[princess-aziza]

Two things can both be true:

1. I love Dr. Robby. He's breaking my heart, he's at his wits' end, the man needs to go home, have a hug, a meltdown, and a burbon or chocolate, and get some SLEEP followed by about five years' worth of weekly therapy sessions

2. I want to PUNCH HIM for EVERY. SINGLE. THING. He put McKay through this season with David

(This was NOT her fault, and it is NOT her responsibility to fix it 😤)

[threeriver]

just need a win

jack abbot x samira mohan

7k | ao3

cw: explicit sex. dacryphilia. descriptions of trauma. MDNI

it's the blood on his shoes that does it, he thinks.

he's not well before that. (of course he's not, how could he be?) but he can keep himself in check when it's needed, when the team is falling apart and the closest thing they have to a leader is unraveling. so he holds himself together with copper sutures and staples, just as ad-hoc and reliable as the maneuvers he pulls throughout the night, results more important than his ability to justify them later. it works - on himself, on robby. on the fucking pelvic obliteration that should have never been.

it works until it doesn't really, blood on his shoe and robby's retreating back. he eyes the collection of young faces around him and sees that same hollow look he knows so well, the bravado that will only cover it for so long and the pallid resignation of those who've only now figured out the kind of lifetime they've signed themselves up for.

jack's in no better shape.

later, his therapist will tell him there's nothing wrong with this - that being of a level with day one residents just shows his humanity, means he's not grown calloused and immune to the endless suffering he's borne witness to. he knows this, truly, knows what a shit doctor he'd be without that reserve of sympathy he's taken with him his whole life - a baggage that felt too heavy in the aftermath of his tours, and his leg, and his everything.

that doesn't make it any easier when he's stuck on a park bench surrounded by people he's supposed to be some sort of mentor for and he can't even haul himself off the seat to have his breakdown somewhere private because they'll all see how his hands shake when he tries to reattach his prosthetic.

sometimes it's like this. often, it's worse. jack has the unique advantage of combat, of knowing where his career and his past overlap. he knows what it is, knows his therapist will disagree when he says the easiest ways around it are a fight or a fuck. (knows he almost had the prior when those fucking cops had tried to come for mckay, if only.) he knows when he sees it in others, too.

dr. mohan's eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused when she takes robby's vacated spot. she misses the beer when it's tossed her way, her fingers just as shaky as his. she's stiff in picking it up, hasty in opening. delayed in her laugh when it sprays across the chest of her sweatshirt. she's tired, undoubtedly; crashing from that last leg where she'd flit around the ED desperate to keep herself attached to the ground however she could - tied down by a tourniquet if need be.

she needs a rest, sure. and probably some food, too. she needs something else worse.

jack knocks his knee against hers when she goes three full minutes without so much as a sip from her fresh beer. she jumps before he can even get a word out, big dark eyes turning on him in some confusing mix of accusation and fear. more suds line the folds of her sweatshirt, fizzing out alongside her tension when he holds up a placating hand. "easy," he murmurs, low enough he's not sure she can even hear him, voice gone thin and ragged from years of tobacco use.

(he wishes he had a cigarette now, misses the way he could externalize his symptoms when the nicotine had him shaking and sweating worse than the trauma did.)

"can i -?"

help you, probably, pretty lips pursed in concern. he tells himself it's the aversion to making her help anyone else tonight that has his chest constricting. "how you holding up?"

it's like he's asked her what year it was, like he has reason to initiate concussion protocol and she's been left out of the loop. "how am i… holding up?"

jack nods, patient. dr. mohan drifts untethered for a moment as she considers his question. "i'm… okay."

his laugh is jagged, too abrupt even for his own ears; like it started in his finger tips and pulled all sensation with it as it rattled around his brittle costals and knocked some teeth loose on its way out. he swallows down the next batch, jaw flexing uncomfortably with the effort. he thinks, now, he's been on the edge of this ever since he first heard the call on the scanner - earlier, maybe, not quite slept off after robby found him on the roof.

he needs to get home.

"samira," he tries again, keeps his tone level like he's guiding her hands through another home brew angioplasty. she looks at him just the same, too; trusting, awed. it's the only thing that staves off the tic in his jaw he might be developing. "how are you holding up?"

she's pretty when she cries because of course she is, though words seem to get a bit difficult for her. she barely needs them, though, not when he knows. not when they all know, apparently, the group around them offering thin but appreciated platitudes. what she's got ain't nothing new, and she knows just as well as him that she'll be better come next shift, too brilliant and talented to be kept down for long.

that doesn't help tonight, not when she sits with him long enough for all the rest to fade away, quiet well wishes and 'sleep tight's offered in passing and all the while she shakesshakesshakes. she won't take his hoodie, not even when he points out she'll make herself sick sitting in that beer-soaked thing.

she just sniffles, tears finally drying, though he suspects that's more to do with dehydration than it is a genuine improvement in her mental state. "you're not cold?" she counters, and he shrugs.

"freezing."

she scoffs, rounds on him with that same manic intensity from earlier, if a little thinner; watered down by her own tears. "oh my god, robby was right, wasn't he? i do talk too much. oh, i'm so sorry! you must be exhausted! look how late i've kept -!"

he can't really feel her pulse when he manages to corral the arm that swings wildly toward his temple, a prospect that has his nerves frazzling ever further before he remembers how his extremities had been prickling earlier, that numbing itch that had left him clumsy and floundering. he's shushing her before he can think better of it, cringing because he knows in any other circumstances she'd rightfully hand him his head for doing so.

tonight, she just obliges, breath catching as she hangs on his every word. she knows what he'll say, clever thing. he tries not to think too much about what it does to him, knowing she wants to hear it. "you're okay, samira. you're fine," he mutters. (he might not want to think about it, but that doesn't mean he can stop himself doing it.) "you're not botherin' me."

"but, you -?"

jack shakes his head before she can even finish that thought, grip adjusting on her arm until he can feel it, that steady pulse hitched rapid and thready, running on fumes. "i'm right where i wanna be," he assures, watches her eyes track between his and the park bench with so much sudden clarity he'd be worried about his position come tomorrow if he wasn't also so tightly wound.

it's not what she deserves, but they both know the appeal of results over practice on nights like tonight.

"you want to be here?" she challenges, the first he's heard her voice so level since that last batch of wounded had been sorted.

he shrugs, palm scraping against his stubble. "guess i'd rather be home," he concedes, too many ways to tell her she's right tying his tongue.

"am i keeping you?"

she says it like a challenge, too confident to doubt her instincts, no matter how robby tries to ruin it. he'll make it up to her, piling on as he's about to. "your bag is on my leg."

it's strange how much he misses her eye contact, considering she only blinks away for a moment. there's a yelp and a quick shuffling. she springs from the bench with the sort of agility people train for their whole lives, graceful even here, at the end of her rope.

but not graceful enough to stop the clattering of his leg, carbon fiber clanging as it bounces off the pavement. her hands cover her mouth in shock, holding back the string of expletives like a dam, though it doesn't it apparently doesn't do much good as she can't seem to hear his laughter over her own embarrassment.

"i'm so sorry," she gushes again, bending to retrieve the appendage for him even as he leans to do the same. there's a small clambering of limbs, her fingers tangling in his as she continues to apologize, a litany of 'let me's.

there's a warm glow of streetlamps haloing her iridial ring, the fine curls around her face an untamed riot and yet still so soft, light enough to catch and pull in the night breeze, obscure her vision for a moment before being blown away with an impatient huff, as if she can't bare to keep her eyes off him another moment. he remembers how she'd held his gaze when walsh had been spouting off hesitations and the kind of stringent procedural processes that would have let their man die. he can practically feel her taking something from him, gives it to her just as freely now as he did then, and her lips part in wonder, just the same.

"samira," he tries, voice gone gritty and thin with the glass he's sure he's swallowed tonight. she blinks up at him slowly, and he wonders if she knows her fingers are tracing along his own. "you don't have to."

it puts her back in her body, at least, her brow pulling tight as her situation comes slamming back into reality. she seems to take a minute to collect herself, noting her position kneeling on the ground before him in the park just outside their place of mutual employment. there's problems with this, ethics and repercussions to consider above the mutual need for control and the lack of it. he doesn't bother outlining them for her, trusts she knows what she's doing here same as anywhere. everywhere.

and she does, of course she does; better than him, even, the strength of surety returning to her grip as she adjusts it, pulls his prosthetic fully from his own hands. he lets her, one hand falling to the bench beside himself as the other fists uselessly in front of him, the tic on beat with the agitated flexing of his jaw. dr. mohan knows better than to take it for apprehension, or worse. there's a bit of a learning curve to her fumbling, but he doesn't offer help. selfish, maybe, enjoying the feel of her dexterous fingers against the tight, dry scar tissue. mostly he just doesn't think she needs it.

"and risk my impeccable customer satisfaction score?" she quips, manhandling his leg into a position that suits her with the kind of strength and abruptness that makes the mark of any emergency care doctor. he's known practitioners who hand wring over things like this, sincerely believe patient autonomy trumps all else. it's a nice sentiment, but means little more than that when most of their patients cannot move themselves even if they wanted.

he'd be embarrassed by the snort it earns if they hadn't already seen each other at their absolute most basic functions tonight. "you're right. what would robby say?"

her smile is less manic as she pats his leg, encouraging him to inspect her work. her breath catches when he nods his approval and he does her the courtesy of pretending not to notice.

"excellent as always, mohan." a beat passes, another. even in the stillness, his skin feels stretched thin, drum-tight and trembling with each pulse. his jaw is flexing uncontrollably now, his fist following suit, but there's no amount of tremors that can stave off the numbness, his body confused about the cause.

"he's only just come around to my particular brand of care," mohan concedes. "wouldn't want to disappoint."

jack doesn't quite care for this train of conversation, though he struggles to articulate why. "i wouldn't worry about robby. he'll -."

"i don't think it's actually robby's opinion i'm worried about at the moment."

and brilliant doctor that she is, she sorts his twitchiness with enough ease. he watches her, while she patently avoids his gaze. it's not something he usually abides, but he won't ask her for more than she can give right now.

her own dark eyes draw across the skyline as if she's only just noticed that evening has come. "night shift," she comments blithely, the intensity of her glare cutting when she turns it back on him, well worth the wait. "in your hands now, isn't it?"

any other night and he'd make her say it, outline specifics and triple check their math before providing the assist. any other night, that type of studiousness would make a mass casualty event that much more massive.

his hands drive them back to his, white knuckles flexing the whole way. the steering wheel creaks under his grip, barely audible over the sound of the heater running. the weather's nice enough for an early summer evening in pittsburgh, but mohan's tremors rival his own, the adrenaline having eaten through every ounce of fuel her body could provide. if he were a better man he'd be thinking about how to get her restocked - what he could make her, where he could tuck her in. but that man, the one he's shaped himself into with meticulous care, pleached and inosculated, has been burnt away, too, the evening all-consuming.

(a controlled burn, his therapist will call it, probably. necessary for growth. he'll have to take notes to share with robby.)

and that might be true, but it doesn't help him tonight, roots exposed and sapped. he can make her cry so easily like this, monsoon in a drought, wants to see how far she can bend with all her bark stripped away; greenstick fracture, easily set.

there's an established flow to this, a give and take. check points they're skipping, but he trusts her. samirah mohan isn't in the habit of being rushed when she needs time; knows when to dig her heels in and is learning when to push when necessary. it means she trusts him, too, and that's -. that's…

she doesn't ask for a drink. she doesn't ask for anything. just stands there in his kitchen all wide-eyed and pretty, keeps his gaze as he deposits his keys in the tray, his bag and her sweatshirt onto the hooks next to the parka he really needs to store for the season. in his hands. his voice barely sounds human when he asks if she wants a shower, jumbled and thin from disuse, or too much use, or maybe just the fry of… everything, and perhaps she doesn't trust her voice either because she neglects to answer, simply tucks her fingers under the hem of her t-shirt and pulls it up over her head, expects him to get the message despite the sight of her taut belly rendering higher brain functions defunct. but it's little more than instinct to reach out, let his thumb follow the line of her iliac crest as he pulls her a half step closer. her shoes stumble over his own, the phantom pressure of her treading on toes which are no longer there. she knows better than to apologize, the words breaking off in a thready whisper, so close he can feel the shape of them against his lips.

she still hasn't looked away, eyes never once darting to catalog the jumping cords of his neck; that same undivided attention and devotion she'd given him when he'd held up a pigtail catheter and asked for her trust. jack thinks maybe they'd been doomed since the moment she nodded, crowded close so he could hook his jaw over her shoulder, all the better to guide you with, my dear.

he doesn't kiss her, takes a cruel sort of pleasure in the unmoored way her eyes widen when he tilts his chin up, lets his lips graze the soft skin between her brow as he tells her where she can find the restroom with a gentle push to her hip. "top of the stairs. on your left."

it's short-lived, as she's not someone often dismissed. "need one worse than me, old man," she counters, eyes flicking to the specks of blood he knows still mat the stubble under his jaw. it will take some adjusting to remember whatever control he might glean from her is only ever freely given. and he was going to see about that drink or maybe a snack, but he remembers how she'd ignored her beer so he jack takes her lead, more than earned, and hooks his thumbs into the back of his collar to pull it up and over his head. when he resurfaces, she's already moved on, hips swaying enticingly as she begins to climb the stairs he steadfastly refuses to have an aid installed into for another five years, at least, bum fucking knee be damned.

he stares too long, evidently, eyes darting up to meet hers when she turns to ask if he's coming.

with any luck.

samira isn't sure if she should be surprised by the quality product lining the tub or not. it's not that dr. abbot has ever appeared anything less than immaculately coiffed, she's just unused to men knowing anything other than five-in-one, let alone the secrets of proper curl maintenance. not that she expects she'll be doing a full routine tonight, but it's nice to know there are contingencies. she'd left the shower curtain open behind herself, expecting him to join, and can feel abbot watching her take it all in, unable to look away since she started stripping. before that, even.

he's… intense. the very model for that old school ER cowboy industry standard she's been working against her whole life. but that didn't stop him from being a damn good doctor, nor herself from being wrong about him. he's like robby, in that, though robby could stand to prove her wrong a few more times.

but she doesn't want to think about robby right now, finds she can't really when abbot's shirtless before her and staring at her like he wants to follow the line of runoff that flows down the valley of her chest with an oscillating saw, get to the core of her via entry points he himself would carve. it's strange, thinking she'd trust him to.

he needs a new water softener, the taste bitter on her tongue when she licks her lips and drops her gaze to his low slung waistband. he's a little hairier than she expected, a fine line of steel wool beginning just above his bellybutton and disappearing below his hem. his fingers thumb the button of his jeans, hesitant in a way she hasn't seen him all night and she shivers despite the warmth of the shower, scared he will simply leave her to it, drop a stack of linens on the couch and sleep away the rest of his off-shift holed up in his bedroom alone, resting easy with the knowledge his job will remain safe.

"fuck," he grunts when she shivers again, his pants pooling on the tile. he goes to step out and then sits on the toilet seat when he remembers his shoes, eyes still glued to her. she only remembers herself after he gets the first one off, bending to unclasp his prosthetic instead of bothering to unlace the shoe itself.

"let me-," she starts, water sloshing onto the tile as she goes to help him.

"stay," he commands, and following his direction has worked out well for her so far, so she does.

he's methodical as in all things. doesn't have a care for show or finesse. pants and sock (she braces herself for the inevitable double the milage joke she's sure she'll hear at some point if she's ever lucky enough to buy him a pack one day) shed, abbot stands and shucks his boxer briefs and doesn't give her so much as a second to appreciate him before he's leaning forward to grab the handles on either side of the stall, first one and then the other.

samira has no doubt he does not need the support, but she gives it anyway, appreciates the fact that he lets her. she helps guide him to the bench but he doesn't sit for another moment, lets himself sag slightly into her space and press his nose to her temple, the hand not currently anchoring him to the grab bar rising until he can cup the back of her head. she doesn't know what to do with the fact that he hasn't even kissed her yet; with the fact that he still doesn't. she's not sure if she's ever been wanted in this way.

his name feels strange on her tongue. it's a sharp name, all awkward, bludgeoning consonants; heavy with implication. she's too tired to care, just wants to know if it's okay to sink into him.

he doesn't respond in kind, simply falls away from her until he's properly seated, his hands staying rooted to her hips to pull her closer, position her between his spread legs. her hands fall to his hair when he rests his cheek against her diaphragm, the curls winding around her fingers without her conscious input, and time melts away a bit with the residue that clings to them - not wholly, still observable, but distant and diluted, a thin rainbow of disinfectant washing down the drain. it should be nice. should be a much needed moment of reprieve after one of the most trying days of samira's life. instead, she feels untethered without his eyes on her, without the rough edge of his voice reassuring her. samira shifts on her feet, trying to swallow back the panic that's been rolling like a tide in the pit of her stomach for hours now: here tame and low-level, revealing all the washed up debris for her careful inspection should she so choose; there overspilling the breakers, an endless well she's powerless to stave off herself.

it's building to the latter when abbot's palm slips up her side, presses firmly against her sternum. when she snaps back to focus, his eyes are heavy on hers again, protected from the spray of the shower by the curtain of her hair. she hadn't realized she'd bent herself so far over him. his hand slips higher, fingers framing her jaw, base of his thumb pressed flush against her carotid like a brand, somehow warmer than the water.

"i want to see you cry," he informs her simply, a depth to the request she can't quite plumb.

she thinks she might already be when she nods.

she thought she'd had enough of it, thought maybe she'd nothing left to give, even if the release had sounded appealing when he'd said it.

that was before jack abbot had her sprawled out on his bed with his fingers buried in her pussy, whispering a steady string of words against the crown of her head compounded specifically to take her apart.

it's not what she expects, though so few things about him are. he lets her take his weight as they stumble into the bedroom, his crutches not having made it to the bath with them. she straddles his thighs, her adductors trembling with the stretch and the stress, just to take stock of him, trail her fingers over the rolling dips of his impressive musculature until finally she plants her palms on either side of his head. he doesn't let her hover, forearms folding over her back to pull her fully onto him, bodies slotting together deliciously. he's only partially erect against her belly, though he seems in no great need to hurry things along.

one hand finds the side of his face, familiarizes itself with the stubble there. "can i -?" she manages before words fail her, and her finger slides over the ridge of his malar bone, down to brush feather light over his philtrum.

"of course, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips quirking like he's holding back a laugh - like the answer should have been obvious. "whatever you need, baby. you've earned it."

she may have miscalculated the nature of his request to see her cry, she realizes with a sudden, unfortunate lurch. raw, animal need for an outlet she can weather. intense, direct affection and praise -?

abbot gives her no time to reconsider, one hand skirting up her spine to grab her by the nape of her neck. she doesn't fight him and he rewards her with a sweet, chaste kiss, quiet approval leaking out the sides of his mouth whenever she tries to deepen it, desperate to distract him. did so good today. so fucking perfect. looked so pretty out there, in your element.

the swell of panic climbs up her throat, brackish water that chokes her, makes her gasp and sob before she even realizes it's upon her.

"that's it, baby," he whispers, his lips following the trail of tears with devastating care. "let it all out for me. i've got you."

and he does.

the worst (best) part is that he won't shut up, weak voice only made all the more jagged from the long night, and the quiet way he talks to her, trying to be gentle. she cuts herself on it anyway, words tearing at her softest spots - uneven sutures she'd applied long before she'd ever properly learned, reinforced with steri-strips and staples along the way. of course he finds the frayed edges, peels them back to check for infection. she's never been with another doctor. med students, yes, fellow fledglings who had been too distracted by their own make-shift care to notice her's. it's not that she believes for a second that abbot has sorted his own old wounds out completely, but she knows longevity starts with stability, and his hands are weathered enough to prove the effort he's put in.

samira watches them now, firm but careful on her sternum, between her breasts with his thumb framing the bottom of her left, as if supporting her heart. she wants to feel them pinching her nipples, but she likes how careful he is with her too much to stop him, especially when the things he says have her so..

"jack -."

"what do you need, baby? hm? tell me."

she needs him to shut up before she ruins the whole evening, breaks down worse than she did in the restroom earlier. "can i -? your mouth -?"

abbot's grin transforms his whole face, cheeks crinkling endearingly as his dark eyes bore holes into her. she realizes with a jolt of fear that he's still going to be able to see her - will probably keep staring at her the whole time with that unbearable intensity.

too late.

his hands turn insistent on her hips, pull her forward until her legs struggle to straddle the breadth of his chest. "you got it, honey," he grits, too much, too much, too much. "come here and take it. need me to kiss it better?"

and that's not something she can stand another word of, so she hauls herself the rest of the way with a strong grip on the headboard, and lowers herself unceremoniously onto his mouth.

and he moans like a whore.

in only seconds samira can tell she's never been with anyone who likes giving head as much as jack abbot. with his eyes closed she can almost stand it, the slight divot between his brows as he concentrates, his strong hands traveling up her back to keep her firmly in place. it's good - good - and she rocks her hips down, testing, and his eyes flick open to see - watch her move, check in, she doesn't know; doesn't matter when the effects the same - pinned in place for the hundredth him tonight by his unwavering gaze.

trusting, challenging. a dangerous cocktail designed specifically for her, has her drunk with it in record time.

"fuck," she hisses, and jack's mouth opens wide, sloppy, completely lost in it.

it's so different from how she's used to seeing him - intense, focused in a way that honestly intimidates her. here he's pliant, doesn't have much of a goal beyond making her feel good and enjoying himself as well, evidently. it's intense, in it's lack of intensity. she's unused to this languid speed, quick and easy trysts with partners she knew she wouldn't be keeping around never preparing her for this. it's a sobering amount of power to hold over a man like jack abbot.

(and not one he lets her keep for long.)

her hands land on his taut belly for leverage, hips working the firm line of his lips insistently. as she leans back, her fingers graze a familiar spot of stickiness and she cranes her neck to see, delighted to find him fully hard and twitching against his hip. it looks heavy, and samira takes advantage of her position to find out, lets her legs bear more weight as her fingertips skirt over the softened ledge of his inguinal ligament, flatten feather light over the heft of his cock. she hears him sigh into her cunt, breathy and unabashed, and she smiles in that way that only ever happens like this, stripped bare, the kind of openness that doesn't permit self-consciousness or smiles trained to hold the perfect amount of tooth-to-gum ratio. abbot's stomach twitches on her first stroke, and samira readjusts her grip, settling in.

it's an awkward angle, but worth it. like this, smothering him and working his cock, jack seems almost as lost as her. she revels in the change, watches down the long line of her own body to see his eyes go soft and unfocused, his tongue getting lazier and less coordinated until he gives up altogether, his grip changing to keep her locked in place just above him, her hips working against nothing as he stares - embarrassingly, reverently - up at her drooling cunt.

it gets worse when he remembers his mouth is no longer busy.

"samira." it shouldn't sound that good in his gravel-rough voice, lilting syllables turned clunky and grating. but dr. abbot's tone is soft as ever, private, something only for her to hear, and she knows - she knows - she shouldn't be thinking of anything but this moment, shouldn't be sinking herself further into that attending/resident cliche, but she remembers how he stepped between her and walsh earlier, close and broad enough to block out the whole room. just them and a man who desperately needed their help.

'you've got this,' when what he meant was, 'i've got you.'

it's not the first time she's heard it. not even the first time a partner has said it. but it is the first time she's believed it, and samira -.

of course he notices. the way he fucking stares, there's no way he'd miss it. one hand skirts up her thigh, palm settling against her mons as his thumb works her clit in the kind of tight, direct circles that she's helpless against and of course, he doesn't stop talking. "feel so fucking good, honey. so clever, aren't you? don't need to help you at all, hm? fucking perfect."

honestly, it's just not fair how easily that rips through her, pulls a sob with it as it goes.

she's flipped with the sort of ease she's ashamed to admit she didn't think him capable of, at least not with his leg still abandoned in the bathroom. but his hand plants on her chest pushes, and she feels the broad belt of his rectus abdominus flexing before he's even out from under her, and then his hand's there to cradle her head as she slips sideways, sprawled out on the bed with gangly limbs being tucked one by one under his body, cocooned in his hold with her hands trapped between their chests to prevent her from tucking herself away. not that there's any hiding form him anyway, not when his face nuzzles into hers, susurrations pressed into her cheek, nearly too quiet to make out. you're alright. i've got you.

she knows.

with one hand keeping her from turning away, the other drifts lower, calms her trembling with a broad, warm palm. it settles in the cradle of her hips - not pushing, just resting - and he waits, with all the time in the world, for her to meet his gaze.

"there you are," he mutters, thumbing the steady font of tears as if it hadn't been his singular purpose to earn them. his next question is pressed into the crook of her nose, chapped lips absorbing salty tears. "needed that, didn't you?"

she can only nod, distrusting her voice. the motion brings her mouth up to his and he indulges her, his tongue slipping easily past her lips to make her taste herself.

he doesn't let her settle into it, pulls away just to butt his forehead against her. "i'll make it better," he promises, before promptly making it worse.

he's just so unbearably close. doesn't even give her enough room to catch her breath properly. samira hiccups when he slides back in, yet still she doesn't force him away when she gets one hand free. instead slips it up his chest to cup his neck and pull him closer, pants into his mouth as he just keeps pushing.

"so pretty, samira. just let me in."

she's not sure how else she can without giving him the scalpel and outlining where to start the y-incision. she settles for hitching one leg higher, up and over his elbow. doesn't quite manage to suppress the tremor when he thanks her.

thanks her. she should tell walsh about that one. maybe when coherence returns to her, if ever that is. no time soon at least, not when he's got all the leverage he needed apparently, clever fingers crooking until she feels full, his thumb pressed tight against her clit. it's good, but his voice is better, a steady constant as he works her over, leads her right up to the edge and gives her the strength to fall.

"you're right there, baby. can feel it. you feel it too, hm? feel how tight you are around me? you've got this. i'm right here, let it go -."

she'd feel bad about the flood of tears that goes with it, if not for how eagerly he groans in her ear, leaning his whole weight against her to better kiss them away. he's too heavy, her breath forced shallow and ragged, but it takes her a moment to even notice because he doesn't stop, and she assumes the hitching and the shaking are because he's got his fingers set hard against that spot that makes her want to flinch away but he won't let her, keeps her pinned so he can lap up the tears streaming down her face and swallow down her sobs.

he pulls away when the fingers on his neck threaten to draw blood, a line of little crescents lining his levator scapulae she'll find it within herself to regret tomorrow. for the moment, it's beyond her.

then the realization he hasn't cum yet crashes through her come down like a bull through the hall. one moment she's basking in the breath he finally lets her catch, and the next she feels him, hot and heavy against her hip and she groans, her throat feeling ragged and raw.

asshole that he is, he only chuckles, breath huffing across her cheek because he still hasn't stopped peppering kisses over her face and if she thinks about that for longer than two consecutive seconds she'll start crying all over again, so she doesn't. just holds him close and enjoys it for as long as she can.

of course, he misunderstands. "we can be done," he offers sweetly, and samira kind of wants to choke him again, though it's hard to articulate why when her thoughts feel like wool being spun. too tender, maybe. too much. at the end of his rope and in need of a win of his own, yet unwilling to take it. he seems the sort, self sacrificing to a fault. she knows it well.

"i thought you were gonna make it better?" she challenges, makes no effort to cover the raw edge of her voice.

jack sighs and leans their heads together again, eyes unfocused with nearness and still unblinking. "yeah," he mutters, lining himself up. "i've got you."

here is the patience he didn't show before, fishing delicately to the bottom of an overused bedside drawer to find a condom before sinking into her so slowly she thinks he's maybe waiting for her to confirm every centimeter. might be, considering how much he seems to enjoy the high, thin whine he pulls from her.

"that's it, honey. let me hear you."

she can hardly do anything but, breath hitching when his hips do, making any hope of keeping herself quiet much too difficult to bother. she's rewarded with a warm palm tilting her chin up, his hips halting when he bottoms out. he takes a minute just to look at her, tuts when she can't maintain eye contact because he's just too much like this.

of course, he's not pleased with this. "you're gonna look at me when i make you cum," he threatens - promises. he thumbs away the tears that are already building along her lash line and watches as they disappear into the dry, flaky skin at the edge of his nail. she hadn't even noticed them falling, too tired to care. easy target.

it's easier to watch him like this, with his gaze lowered. she takes in his damp curls, threads of silver catching the low light filtering in from the hall, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, inviting where his rigid military bearing had once frightened her away. she can only nod when he looks back, tongue tracing the salt from his skin.

there's not much left of that kind attending when he begins to fuck her, the slow roll of his hips mounting quickly into something that leaves her scrambling to keep up, her pleasure building before she even realizes it's there. but she's helpless in the face of it, so full she swears she can feel his pulse.

she's close, somehow, jack's will winning out against her body's every natural instinct to just be fucking done already, and she snakes her hand between them to hurry it along, fingers barely even reaching the edge of her trimmed curls before he's dropping to his elbow, his weight dispersed so he can chase her hand away and crush it to the pillow above her head, a cruel chuckle ringing in her ear when she wails in frustration.

abbot's teeth graze her ear, voice so close she swears she can feel his humid breath on her tympanic membrane. "slow, mo."

she should shove him off. she should call him an asshole and storm out of here, crawl into her own bed and sleep for three months and wake up in a world where she no longer holds a position under him, or fucking robby, or alongside anyone else at that godforsaken joint; where she can find a new career helping marginalized individuals struggling to find effective care because of ER cowboys like the man currently making a name for himself inside her fucking womb, it feels like.

and she may yet. one day. tonight, she's gonna let him pick up the fucking mess he made because she certainly isn't in any shape to do it herself.

she thinks she manages to tell him to fuck himself, but it garners no reaction beyond a breath punched through grit teeth, so probably all she's accomplished is a garbled moan, and by the time she realizes that she's already forgotten what she was so mad about so she gives it up, her hips flexing futilely off the bed in an attempt to speed him along. still, jack goes at his own pace - brutal, but effective. results oriented.

"you can do it, baby. know you can. just like this, i'll show you, hm?"

english is hard to parse, his voice even harder. samira shakes her head anyway, instinctive.

then he's gone from her and that's worse, her hands following after to grip the strong forearm by her head, plaster flat against the soft wall of abs flexing above her, anywhere at all just to pull him close, within touch, keep his hands on her -

one finds her jaw, insistent but soft as he tilts her face up. she can feel the film of something between them. perspiration and something similar, the grit of saline. her diaphragm buckles when she tries to speak and she abandons the attempt just as quickly as it came, meeting his eyes instead and hoping he has enough words for the both of them.

devastating mistake.

"you've got this, samira."

and of course she does, because jack's got her.

it leaves her breathless, but it's more than just that, the gasps she can manage only making her spiral further. pleasure mixes with pain, her body run ragged. there's a desperate, panicked edge as well, her inability to draw a full breath leaving her shaking in confusion. but it's good. great. more than she can handle on her own, but he's right there, catching her. his hips still with a groan as he seats himself deep within her, little aborted thrusts timed with the way she can't stop trying to milk him. when he sits back, his hands run over her thighs, pull her closer by a firm grip on her hips.

he makes her wait until she can meet his gaze as best she can, her vision watery and unfocused.

"christ, you're pretty," he mumbles, almost to himself. the shape of him blurs until it blocks out the rest of the room, his body warm where he folds himself over her to pepper more kisses over her cheek. "hiding all these away in some bathroom, weren't you? next time you have a fucking breakdown at work, you'll come see me, hm? i'll make it better."

she wants to be snarky. yes, doctor. more than that, she wants him to be nice. her curls are gonna be a mess, scraped across his pillow as she nods.

"you gonna be okay if i get up, or do you wanna be held a bit longer?"

and that's a bold question to be asking when he's not even really holding her now, so samira reaches up behind him and pulls until he flops, considerable weight pressing her into the mattress. (firm. excellent back support. old bastard.)

jack doesn't laugh at her, just turns so he can kiss her cheek, her temple, his other hand threading into her hair to keep her close. "you're okay, samira. did so good today."

"you did too," she manages, sniffles abated just long enough to eek it out.

she expects resistance, robby's typical rebuff. but jack just presses a smile to her hairline, nods. she forgets sometimes how vocal he is about attending therapy. "we all did," he agrees. "hell of a team we got."

and she wants to ask if that's what they are, a team, but when jack pulls away he only tosses the condom and fishes out some sleepwear for both of them, tucking himself up behind her before setting an alarm on his watch that makes her cringe, and she reasons she'll have time to ask tomorrow when he tells her not to worry about it.

"not for you. just my morning run."

she hopes she never lives to handle shit like tonight as well as he does.

[silverysongs]

one of the things I love most about dr. robby is that he is such a subtle rebuttal to toxic masculinity. yeah he has some screw-ups (see: the whole debacle with david and mckay) but he gives such a strong speech about how society is failing young men. he's so gentle and soft when he needs to be and when he can be. when mel is embarrassed at getting emotional about the mom and her daughter he says "never apologize for feeling something for your patients." he encourages his team to cry after the horrible day they've had because "it's just grief leaving the body." he says that as he's crying in front of them. the audience sees him cry like four or five times through the whole shift. he's not stoic and sullen after leah's death or any of the other horrific things he's witnessed that day - how could you be - but it's significant that the writers show us his panic attack when they had the option to not show us. he's not perfect by any means but it's still so refreshing to see

[pierremcguire]

all of my episode 12 live watch thoughts, written while I had no service on the plane 😭

• my stomach HURTS

• how do they even have this long to prepare

• mel my asd best friend

• i can't believe it only took a mass casualty event for gloria to be sympathetic. fuck.

• I know langdons coming back but I don't know how when or why and that has me on edge

• everything's moving so fast and im so anxious

• STOP. HE JUST SHOWS UP IM CRYING AND HE SAYS "TRUST ME" ?!?!?! GIRL. GIRL BABES I GET WHAT YOURE TRYING TO SAY BUT LIKE YOU SHOULD HAVE SAID. "I KNOW IM IN TROUBLE. YOU NEED THE HELP. LET ME HELP" if robby wasn't having literally the worst day of his fucking life you'd . be punched probably.

• this episode is somehow moving SO fast but time feels likes it's going so slow

• mel almost slipping in a puddle of blood. oh.

• "you're here!" MEL IM HAPPY THAT YOURE HAPPY BUT NOW IS NOTTTTTT THE TIMEEE ALSO DONT GET TO EXCITED ROBBY IS GONNA DESTROY HIM AFTER THIS YOUR NEW BESTIE IS GONNA HAVE TO FACE THE MUSIC

• McKays ex is the fucking worst. and then he tries to get the son to go home w him? would you lead him out of that room and let him witness that?? fucker.

• Garcia and langdon have the best banter he needs to go to rehab so he doesn't get fired so we don't lose this. I love frenemies

• if Dana ever looked at me like that I'd probably cry on the spot.

• LANGDON LEAVE. SANTOS ALONE RIGHT NOW GIRL YOURE ON THEEEE THINNEST ICE POSSIBLE DO NOTTTTT ENGAGE

• ok good ok langdon you used ur brain for once!

• JAVADI STANDING UP TO HER MOM!!

• mel donating her own blood !!!!

• lk surprised the people in the cafeteria weren't more hysterical?

• Abbott donating WHILE working on a patient. god i need more of this guy .

• SHOOTER COMING TOWARDS THEM.!??!!?!??!!??!?!?!?!?!!??!!?

• and we still don't know how jake is doing . . . . .

• oh my god how many people did this one person shoot what the FUCK

---

I forgot to put this in properly at the right time but

santos did a good job explaining to that woman about her injuries !!

hahaha. they still have three more hours . to go. hahaha. ok.

[hailturinturambar]

Thoughts on J.D and Patrick's interview

Loving the new interviews and I hope we get more content. It will be a while before season 3 is released, so anything we get is very important. And since an interview with J.D. Payne and Patrick McKay came out, I decided to share my opinions again.

I'm biased, because I have a visceral obsession with Jack Lowden, but I agree with Patrick and J.D. Jack as Sauron/Mairon rescued the beauty of the Elder Days and the delicacy of the Maiar and Elves of the First Age.

When we look at Jack Lowden's Sauron, we glimpse what Tolkien described in his books. As Patrick and J.D. say, aneglical, cherub. And this is how I imagine Sauron when he was in the service of Morgoth.

It is interesting the changes that Sauron undergoes physically when his new form is destroyed. And not only in appearance, but we have a change in his characteristics. Jack and Charlie are Sauron and the similarities are obvious, but we still notice that each one represents a phase of Sauron.

As for the time in Númenor, I admit I'm worried they'll change the actor, but considering Charlie remained as Annatar, I don't see why it would be any different. After all, he's now known in Númenor as Sauron in his Halbrand form. Charlie mentioned in an interview (I don't remember which one) that he's looking forward to the Sauron armor. So I assume he'll remain as the main form.

In my opinion, one of the biggest hits of the second season was Sauron's prologue. In the first season, we have Galadriel's prologue and she is narrating her story and the Elder Days.

This point of view, let's say, is the point of view of the heroes. Of the Elves who knew the beauty of Valinor and witnessed the evils caused by Morgoth and Sauron in Arda. This changes abruptly in the second season.

It's like one book told by the hero and the other by the villain. It's Sauron who is now telling his story. We get a more detailed introduction to Adar and his sons, how they were in Sauron's service and why they betrayed him.

What interests me most about the prologue is that we get an explanation for how Sauron came to be the mortal man Halbrand. We have a Sauron who is without a master and has to make his own way in Middle-earth, and then we see a broken Sauron struggling to survive. Until we finally meet Halbrand.

And indeed, Sauron's past explains much about his hatred of Elves and Orcs, and how he sees himself and the goals that will guide Sauron to Celebrimbor's path in Eregion.

When Tom's first episode came out, I saw a lot of negative comments about the character's portrayal. I like almost all of Trop's decisions in how the characters are presented, so I can't be impartial at times, but I still don't understand the criticism.

When we think about Tom Bombadil, we can't base ourselves on all previous sources. PJ fans often criticize the choices made by TROP, but Tom was an interesting addition. Is he different from the LOTR period? Of course he is! We are too far removed from Frodo to use such a comparison. LOTR Tom is not TROP Tom. He still has a long way to go.

Saruman was a general assumption, I would say. But I wouldn't want it to be Saruman. That character, in my opinion, can wait. I don't see a need for him in the plot right now. And I would like to know who this new character is in TROP. I like the characters created in the show, so I'm curious.

My opinion on this point may be a bit controversial. The mystery of who Sauron is in the first season was intriguing, I think for all of us. Even though we suspected Halbrand, we thought that many characters could be Sauron or that perhaps Sauron would not be introduced at all.

And I particularly enjoyed the reveal of Sauron at the end of season 1. This new form with new traits and deceptions was different from the Sauron in the books and I enjoyed how they set up the Halbrand/Sauron storyline.

As for Gandalf/The Stranger, well, I found it a bit tiresome in the second season. It was generally obvious in the first season and I was following the revelation closely. But I don't think it needed to be dragged out until the second season. Anyway, it wasn't that bad and maybe I'm being harsh.

I don't see how this could have worked and I don't like it one bit. I'm glad they changed it.

Sauron in Adar's camp doesn't make sense to me. Sauron was in Eregion forging the rings, why go to Adar's camp? We already had Halbrand meeting Adar at the beginning of the season. Galadriel and Adar meeting again didn't need Sauron's intervention or influence. It was time for us to glimpse the reunion of these two.

I can't think of Sauron in Adar's camp as anything other than an attempt to maintain the idea of ​​Sauron and Galadriel's romance. Other than that, it wouldn't add anything to the story. And I liked how they did it better.

I love SW, so I think this was the ideal reunion. Two opposing forces of Light and Darkness dueling, each trying to resist the temptation of the other, while being influenced by them.

I never thought of Elendil and Míriel as a couple when I read the books that featured the tales of Númenor. But as soon as I laid eyes on them in the series, oh my!

The chemistry was right there, being rubbed in my face. And if we think about Míriel and Elendil's future after the arrival of Sauron and the Fall of Númenor, that's what attracts everyone the most, isn't it? All the anguish and the impossibility of being together. I'll pick up my crumbs!

I was so infuriated by the comments on the internet when the Orc family was introduced. In short, I think it proves how ignorant people are of Tolkien's work if they didn't understand what was being represented there.

Everything in TROP talks about the tragedy that befalls all beings in Middle-earth. Why would it be any different with the Orcs? We know about all the evils caused by the Orcs, but in a war, evil comes from all sides, right? Comments about "TROP humanizing the Orcs" make no sense and are only said to harm the audience's view of the series.

TROP simply presents the point of view of all the characters and how they see themselves. Feeling sympathy or not for each one is not forced, it is just presented. And I like this dynamic.

The most important thing in Tolkien is the duality of the characters. Even though in the Third Age the line between black and white is more defined, in the first stories it is not. And TROP explores this well.

Because for Adar, they are not Orcs, they are children, and that is how they also see themselves. Because they are like the Elves, they have lives and families and live like all beings. But it is their choices that separate them from Men and Elves and that is where we enter the tragedy.

They are seen as monsters, so they do not fight for a different vision, because they would never be able to be seen any other way. Even though Adar's actions are wrong, like Sauron's, with both Adar and Sauron, we end up becoming attached to these damaged characters and we feel sorry for them.

No, don't be mean and tell me about season 3!

J.D. and Patrick's love for the history of Middle-earth is truly infectious. It's remarkable that they put their souls into the show and are committed to telling a beautiful story that honors Tolkien.

Don't judge me if you like the movies (I like LOTR, but not more than the series) but I feel that in TROP we really travel to Middle-earth, in a way that connects different people from different places and different ages.

I first watched the LOTR Trilogy (I hated The Hobbit movies, don't judge me) when I was a child or almost a teenager, I don't remember well. And although I liked it, I didn't feel completely connected.

But that's how I feel about TROP. When I watch an episode, I feel the same way I do when I'm reading one of Tolkien's countless books. And that feeling is so good.

TROP makes me feel at home, living the story. TROP means comfort to me and I hope the series lasts a long time.

[kaccvcate]

I recently added some things to my recommended reading list (in my pinned post.) I read a lot of things but only add what I find really life changing, mind opening, or feel is easily accessible to the uninitiate (for example, I've enjoyed many works by Aleister Crowley, but for someone interested in approaching his work for the first time I would probably recommend Magick in Theory and in Practice, or perhaps his "autohagiography.")

Zulu Shaman by Vusumazulu Credo Mutwa is partly autobiographical about the holy man who wrote it, and partly traditional folk stories. I had no idea that pre-Christian African religion was so similar to the native religion I was raised with. Some stories are extraordinarily similar. The way it's written most reminded me of Creek Indian Medicine Ways by David Lewis Jr., which I read a while ago, but my mind was too blown to write about it (I was always taught not to talk about religion publicly, so it also felt weirdly private, which is silly because the book was published a minute ago.)

The last book I just finished is Tell My Horse by Zora Neale Hurston, which is about the lives of voodoo practitioners Haiti and Jamaica (published in 1938). This is one of the most intense books I've ever read, her voice is so incredible, and her descriptions are so vivid. It was like being transported to another world (for me anyway.) her descriptions of race relations in Jamaica reminded me strongly of my experiences among mestizos in Mississippi, and her descriptions of rituals she witnessed are untouchably badass.

Today I picked up Voices of Our Ancestors by Dhyani Ywahoo, which is about the practices of the traditional (pre-Christian) Tsalagi/Cherokee priesthood. So far it is really far out and groovy, I'm only a few pages in. More than anything her writing reminds me of Dr. Timothy Leary or Robert Anton Wilson, or even Crowley. It has the same pervasive tone of consciousness expansion that those cats have, and she describes meditation and rituals in a similar way. I think it would be best to read this one after Myths and Tales of the Southeastern Indians by John Swanton (or similar) because she makes a lot of references to traditional mythology without telling the stories she's expanding on - maybe she gets to that later, though.

Tell My Horse I bought online at a friend's recommendation, the other two I picked up at McKay's, a used book and record store in Greensboro, North Carolina that had one of the most interesting occult sections I've ever seen.

[nerdygaymormon]

President Spencer W. Kimball received a revelation to approve the sealing of an MTF trans woman to her husband in the Washington DC Temple in 1980. The sealing was performed by a Elder Hugh W. Pinnock of the Seventy.

Dr. Gregory Prince wrote about it on the blog By Common Consent (BCC) in Nov 2015.

In January 2016, a blogger wrote about the BCC post. In the comments section, a person identifying as Ann wrote to say that she is the person who was sealed. She provides some detail, including the date of the sealing and the name of the Seventy who performed the marriage.

Unfortunately, I don't know an official Church source for this, so I don't know how much it will matter to your family.

It’s important to understand that Dr. Prince is credible because it’s his eye-witness account that we have about a trans woman being sealed to a man in the temple.

Dr. Gregory Prince has a PhD and his career was in the prevention and treatment of pediatric infectious diseases. 

He took the research skills in the medical field, combined it with his interest in history, and wrote several books on religious history and theology:

Having Authority: The Origins and Development of Priesthood During the Ministry of Joseph Smith (1993) 

Power from On High: The Development of Mormon Priesthood (1995)

David O. McKay and the Rise of Modern Mormonism (2005) 

Leonard Arrington and the Writing of Mormon History (2016)

Gay Rights and the Mormon Church: Intended Actions, Unintended Consequences (2019) 

He was also interviewed as part of the 2007 PBS documentary The Mormons

————————————————

This woman was sealed to her husband. So either she's gonna be a woman in the eternities, or if not then this is a same-sex sealing. It's an interesting example of how we could expand our use of the sealing power if we chose to

[blackstarlineage]

Claude McKay (1889–1948) was a Jamaican-born writer, poet, and activist who played a pivotal role in the Harlem Renaissance, a cultural and intellectual movement that celebrated Black identity and artistic expression in the early 20th century. His works explored themes of racial pride, resistance to oppression, and the struggles of the African diaspora, making him one of the most influential voices in Black literature.

Born Festus Claudius McKay in Sunny Ville, Jamaica, McKay grew up in a British colonial society where he witnessed firsthand the injustices of racism and class oppression. His love for literature and poetry developed early, influenced by Jamaican folk culture and the works of British poets. At the age of 17, he moved to Kingston, where he experienced the harsh realities of urban racism, a theme that would later dominate much of his work. In 1912, he moved to the United States to study agriculture at Tuskegee Institute and later at Kansas State College. However, he soon abandoned his studies to focus on writing, driven by the racial discrimination he encountered in the U.S.

McKay became a leading figure in the Harlem Renaissance, using his poetry and novels to critique racism and injustice while celebrating Black resilience. His most famous poem, “If We Must Die” (1919), is considered a defining work of the movement. Written in response to the Red Summer of 1919, a period of violent race riots against Black communities in the U.S., the poem urges Black people to resist oppression with dignity and courage.

His literary career spanned poetry, novels, and essays that examined race, class, and colonialism. His novel Home to Harlem (1928) became the first book by a Black writer to become a bestseller in the U.S., capturing the vibrancy and struggles of Black life in Harlem. Other notable works include Banjo (1929), which explored Black identity and diaspora connections, and A Long Way from Home (1937), a memoir detailing his experiences as a writer and activist. His later years saw a shift in his political and ideological outlook, as he moved away from communism and toward Catholicism, yet he remained committed to addressing racial and social issues.

McKay’s legacy endures as one of the earliest and most powerful literary voices advocating for Black empowerment and resistance. His works continue to be studied for their bold critique of racial injustice and their celebration of the strength and resilience of the African diaspora.🇯🇲

[vampirecorleone]

"There are some experiences worse than death, Renfield. Such as spending the remaining years of your miserable life knowing all the depravity you've witnessed in the last century will be nothing compared to the the suffering I'm going to unleash on this world. The world you chose over mine. When I'm finished, the entire human race, everyone you cared about, will suffer. Because you betrayed me."

Renfield (2023) dir. Chris McKay

[eveningspirit]

We got skills, baby!

I think this was my favorite episode to date. Almost all characters had nice moments and writing feels solid across the board. Save for Santos, that is.

I can't decide if she's just that kind of "person", or if writing for her is weak, but she feels so one-dimensional. I thought I would like her, because characters who seem unlikeable tug at my heartstrings. They must have some redeeming qualities, though, meanwhile she's... just mean. And self-important. Idek. Judgment is still out, but if they don't make some sort of plot twist with her very soon, I'm gonna go with "bad writing".

Mel was awesome helping Whitaker with his blister guy. Self assured and upbeat. She knew what she was doing, kept her cool, stayed on top of things and did it all with such an air of someone who's right where they belong. Loved it! And I love her.

With the old lady, and especially her caregiver daughter, she came off too stiff, though, and technical. But I guess, when it comes to emotional connection with patients, she's not going to excell.

The way, say, McKay does. The way she approached her patient, sharing just enough of her own life story to get that woman to open up -- that was amazing. McKay is growing on me with each episode. Indeed, like Langdon said "Cassie, she's great". Even her putting Victoria in her place felt right. A bit raw and pain-filled, but she course corrected, because, well, Victoria is still learning. And she has a lot to learn -- mostly things she won't find in books.

Speaking of doctors connecting with patients, Dr. Mohan was her usual caring self and it's so heartwarming. Btw, the wives were wonderful too. It's rare to see someone suffering the way Joyce is with sickle cell, and at the same time having a good life, being loved, having everything to live and fight for. No, her illness doesn't define her. She's a "mom" to a "bougie bitch", she loves Ondine. Their story is one I'm most interested in among the patients, and I hope we see her improving by the end of the shift.

The interaction between Dr. Collins and Dr. Mohan was pretty great too. And here's where I can confidently say that writing for this show is very good (and that's why I'm still rooting for character development of Dr. Santos). The way Collins apologized, and told Mohan to "never change" and "you do you, Dr. Mohan" -- that was true character growth. And we've known those characters for six hours! We never witnessed their animosities, or Collins giving Mohan that nickname "Slow-Mo". Nevertheless, that scene had impact.

Finally, I would be remiss if I didn't mention Langdon. Each scene where he and YoYo (Dr. Garcia) argue and bicker brightens my day. As did the one in this episode, when he finally didn't let her "crice" and instead McGyvered intubation with Dr. Robby's help. I'm a sucker for his entusiasm and joy he gets from his work.

I loved his scenes with Robby's son Jake, too. They had such a big brother / little brother vibe. Or two twelve-year-olds fooling around, lol. That warm welcome and their whole interaction made me wonder how long had Langdon known Robby. Because it certainly doesn't feel like four years of residency. There's more history there (no, not that kind, eeeeww)

Yeah, I think that's all I wanted to say about this episode. Looking forward to the next one. :)