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vanilleandclove · 1 month ago

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how to disappear; jack abbot x f!trauma surgeon!reader

pittsburgh is roughly 58 square miles, large hospitals in metropolitans are usually 1.2 million square feet. only making ptmc extremely confining with a certain trauma surgeon and senior attending physician in the emergency room especially during hostility.

warnings: emotionally constipated adults, language, talks of children and marriage, semi-medical accuracies (i have several immediate family members in the medical field, this is basically in my regular lexicon), gore adjacent, mentions of past sex, age gap: reader is 30-33, jack is 47-49. word count: 4.1k notes: mdni. call me disorganized, my oc fic is on HOLD, until further notice :3. this is part one of two (?) ask/requests are open!

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“I thought you were working day shift?” Parker asked, your eyes blinked roughly as they adjusted to the bright light of the patient’s board, “What’re you doing stuck down here?”.

“They requested for me to have a change of schedule to be on-call, couldn’t say no to the generous pay raise” you responded, cocking your head slightly to meet eyes with Parker, “Plus night shift always gets the most carnage”.

“You’re sick, you know that?” Parker chuckled, fist meeting your shoulder playfully before she walked off.

Clipping on your hospital ID was muscle memory, both Heather and Robby referred to as “overworker’s disease”, you saw it as being stuck in the place for several years at a time.

You needed a vacation, sweaty hot sex, vodka, or weed; or maybe just all of those in that order. Your eyes were glossed over from the eyedrops you have administered before leaving Jack’s house, they did good to conceal the hours of crying and bloodshot eyes.

But Bridget saw through that puffiness and reoccurring sniffle that matched the pout of your lips, she knew you well like you were her own daughter. She knew your breathing patterns were shallow and uneven, the eyebags that became a more pigmented purple, the constant fiddling of your rings.

She knew you needed a break, a break in bed where you could cry it out and come back renewed with extra hours of sleep and extra takeout.

“Honey, are you okay?” Bridget inquired, taking off her glasses and tucking them in her scrub undershirt, “You seem out of it”.

Your eyes darted towards her and all you could give her was a nod as you became tight lipped, worried that if you unclench your jaw for a second you’d break. Nevertheless, Bridget smiled and rested her hand on yours, knowing all too well what happened to you.

What Bridget saw was your hair blown out but tucked up a tortoiseshell claw clip for it to be out of your way. She saw manicured short french tip nails, residue of black eyeliner in your waterline, hints of matte red lipstick that must have been taken off in a rush as it made your lips look as if they were bleeding. She saw gold bracelets of all different textures and patterns, rings stacked beautifully and meticulously, necklaces that would accentuate cleavage with the right dress, diamond earrings that twinkled when moving under the LED lights.

She saw a woman who had just got stood up.

“Good evening everybody”.

And she just stumbled upon the reason.

You closed your eyes and sighed under your breath.

Luckily being a different specialty department, you weren’t required to be given the gist of speeches by the physicians and nurses. Some may say it due to surgeons being “above”, you say it’s because of different structures in departments- you can learn just as much during rounds in the emergency room as you would post-op, if not, you’ll learn more. Therefore you were able to walk off into the bathroom.

You enjoyed your job, you were grateful for your job that led you to places you never thought you would be. You were grateful for the smiles, the laughter, the songs the patient requested to be played during surgery, the parents or loved ones that would hug you tight, and yes, the gore and carnage.

You were also grateful that it led you to Abbot. 23, you were fresh out of an internship in Massachusetts, then you wanted a change of scenery. By 26, frequent hookups at your respective places were a casual way to start, end, and continue a week; just in time for your residency to finish and your fellowship to be fast-tracked due your rotations in the emergency department and competency exams. Hookups turned to dating by your 27th birthday, months later, Jack’s house was basically yours too. Now, you’re the attending who’s trying her hardest to hold it all in because a man decided no more to the most constant thing in your chaotic life- in a chaotic profession.

You had put on a silk dress that flowed perfectly enough to accentuate your curves, you wore lingerie, black heels, and smelt fucking amazing. You shaved, you wore your expensive lotion you could only justify using on special occasions, you wore jewelry you’ve collected over the years and that Jack had given you. You went the whole 9 yards and more.

“Okay so what is it?” you asked, sighing in defeat and barefooted in the living room, “You don’t want to go out, don’t want to talk about something you know I care about. Fuck Jack, you don’t even look at me when you know this is important”.

“Sorry I didn’t know dinner reservations were imperative to having a conversation with you” Jack scoffed, stressed and unnerved, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Jesus christ just forget about dinner!” you raised your voice, your throat began to slowly burn, “I don’t care about dinner Jack. I care about being appreciated from my boyfriend when I put on a fucking dress and heels. I care about you walking into that door every morning and kissing me. I care about having sex and ordering fucking pizza” you ranted, your time was almost up as it crept closer to your shift.

“Do you want kids?” he blurted.

“What?”.

“Do. you. want kids?”.

You blinked in confusion, swallowing whatever you had planned to say and again to collect what he had just proposed. “I would like to have kids but with my job and yours, that seems unlikely. I don’t mind not having them”.

“There was a positive test in the trash two weeks ago that you didn’t think to tell me about” he cleared his throat.

Your brows furrowed, “It was a false positive, Heather did a work up with full labs for me” you looked to the ground not noting that it would’ve also been nice for him to know both of those things. “If a pregnancy test is sending you to avoid me like the plague; we have a bigger issue here Jack”.

“It would’ve been nice to know that you were afraid you were pregnant that you told Collins before me”.

“Do you think I’m punishing you for withholding information that was irrelevant to me after a day?” you were shocked almost, still confused at the hostility, “I wasn’t afraid of being pregnant, I was afraid of false hope”.

“I don’t want kids, that’s just not something I see in my future”.

“Our future” your voice began to crack more and more. Kids weren’t a dealbreaker by any means, the way Jack worded it to be something exclusionary in regards to you is what broke you. “I need you to tell me if this is what’s causing you fucking hurt me”.

“It’s not- I just think we have a misconstrued view on the future of this” he pointed to both of you back and forth.

“Jack forget about the sheer possibility of kids, why are you being distant?” you took a step closer as he took a step back, the action only shattering your heart more, the tears began to flow as you straightened your back, “What about marriage?”.

“Same as kids”.

You nodded, looking away from him, “I’m not going to change your opinions about either of those, I’m not going to try”. You inhaled before a sob erupted from your throat, “I have to be able to want those things without feeling like you’re going to walk away. God, you never once spoke about this before so why now? Why all of the sudden vows and kids are a dealbreaker when- if I remember this correctly- the past year you’ve been asking for baby names and what rings I would like? Was it just for show? Was I just for show?”.

“Of course you weren't,” he sighed yet again, his eyes piercing yours, “You’re you, I guarantee you’ll find someone else who wants both of those”.

“I don’t want someone else Jack” you whispered, one tone louder and you’ll be a wreck in front of him.

Silence creeped over the room and nothing but the shudder of your breath filled the room, “I guess this isn’t working” his own voice cracked as if his mind betrayed his actions. With that, years of your heart shattered.

“I guess not”.

Jack was the same guy who held your legs as they rested on his during football games. The guy who tied the strings of dresses and kissed your shoulder, who stared in awe while you did your makeup, baked and cooked with you, danced to his best effort with you. Watched ‘Game of Thrones’ and ‘House of the Dragon’ with you every sunday without fail, not shy of commentary.

He would fix your hair after sex, clean you up in the en-suite with warm water, would make your toes curl around his waist as an orgasm washed over you, would coax another orgasm out of you. He would massage your clit, knew exactly where your g-spot sat, made your breath hitch and your eyes roll back. He never pressured, only asked a near sixty times if you were okay and comfortable. He would never degrade you even if asked, the most he’d do would be spitting in your mouth and lightly choking you. Wasn’t shy about having his dog tags pulled or you wearing them, loved the twinkle in your eye every time his cock grazed the right spot. The man was a dog. If you forgot an undershirt under your scrubs, his cock would strain from the veins coating your breasts, the slightest graze would send him on a frenzy when you’d get home if both of you were up for it, loved the lingerie just as much as he loved you in pajamas and a worn out shirt from college.

The same guy that would squeeze the back of your neck to relieve your worries, text you mid-shift about your wedgie and would fix said wedgie in passing, would wash your hair and body. Would watch every movie and TV show with a thousand questions, stare idly at you during every get-together as you mingled on your own with Heather. Every Fourth of July he spent with you, he was at ease, not jumpy or had his heart racing- you thanked therapy, he thanked you.

He’d stand in front of you and be the same guy during company basketball and baseball games that coached you on the sidelines, guided your arm, gave you water. You wanted to marry him, your parents always said when you do get married, it should be with someone like him if not him. You wanted rings, his and her matching towels, garter tosses and to take off his suit in the same night. He knew that, hell the whole emergency department was well aware of your dream wedding that changed every now and then.

Now you stand there beneath yourself because that is all gone on a random Wednesday. Didn’t wait for the weekend for it to settle, for hell to freeze over. While you went crazy thinking the worst, you had a job to do, and it was barely August.

Luckily, new staff and medical students were reserved for day shift, meaning you were secretly praying for both Robby and Collins sake.

“We have a male MVC victim, 10 minutes out, Abbot wanted you on standby” Parker opened the bathroom door only to be greeted with your meltdown, “You okay? Want water or coffee?”.

You shook your head only for her to fully allow herself in, “You and I both know the way you’re crying is going to lead you to dehydrate” she continued, “What happened?”.

“We broke up” you responded, curt and without remorse, “I don’t want to talk about it”.

“Okay, but just know you can always go home”.

“He’s home”.

You spent two minutes in there trying to gain your composure, worried that the MVC wouldn’t get the most accurate and resourceful amount of care with you like this. Splashing water against your face before exiting and being greeted with the beaming emergency department lights.

You checked up on three different patients, smiling and asking if they were comfortable and okay with waiting just in case the MVC took up more time than usual. As you left the last, the MVC arrived and both you and Abbot occupied opposite sides of the gurney.

The EMTs were able to stabilize him as much as they could, “Breath sounds are good so far a little too crackly but acceptable, there’s rigidity in his abdomen I need an chest scan to confirm bruising- I’ll call they always fast track me” you told Jack as you approached the trauma room, grabbing the phone as he took over, “Hey it’s Doctor L/n, I need a chest CT for a MVC victim, his abdomen is rigid and slightly distended with crackly breathing. No- I need you to take me up now, we’re already in a trauma room- okay, thank you see you there”.

Turning back to Jack, evening out the creases in your navy scrubs, “They’ll take him now, I’ll take him up” you whispered, grabbing a hold of the gurney from the bottom, “Can you open the doors?” you asked, “Get Walsh for me too, if it’s something with his abdomen I shouldn’t do exploratory”.

“You don’t only do exploratory surgery Y/n” Jack posed the statement as if you were undermining yourself for Walsh to be the scalpel junkie this shift.

“I know, Walsh is still learning the ways of being an attending, if anything I’m making sure she’s equipped to be in my stead when I’m not here” you argued back only for the MVC victim to regain his consciousness, “I know what I’m doing Doctor Abbot”.

“This morning it was babe, by the afternoon it was Jack, now it’s Doctor Abbot?” he queried, as if the whole ‘I guess this isn’t working’ bit was a skit.

“Last time I checked this wasn’t-“ you looked down to the gurney to see a conscious man with a smile on his face, “Good evening sir, I’m Doctor L/n, you’re at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, I will be taking you up to CT now” you feigned a smile and eyed Jack, he knew that look.

The ‘we’ll talk about it later’ look.

“You’re in good hands sir” Jack waved off.

The elevator ride was calming, the tension in the trauma was thick enough to cut with a knife. You learned his name was Raymond Orser, he had a wife and a daughter, served a couple tours in the military, his sister lived in Pittsburgh while he lived in Philly.

“So, what was the deal between you and salt and pepper?” Raymond asked, his breathing less labored as you both exited out of the elevator.

“Salt and pepper? Doctor Abbot?”.

“Or babe whichever you prefer” Raymomd joked, “Must’ve been a tough fight, my wife and I were the poster board for marital arguments about silly things- one time after my daughter was born we argued about the way the cereal box closed”.

“He’s not my husband Mr. Orser, technically he’s just a colleague” you told him. Eyeing around you to see who was there, “We dated for 6 years today, it’s our anniversary, was supposed to wine and dine him before our shift but…”.

“Ah. You know, I’m only 39. I’ve spent a great deal of it loving my wife before I had even met her." You made a face that exuded confusion, “I know you’re looking at me crazy, but you just know. When’d you meet Doctor Abbot?”.

“When I was 23, about to be 24, he was also relatively new; he beat me by 3 years. Didn’t start dating until I was 27 and he was 41” you confessed, “What about you huh? How old is your daughter?”.

“She’s seven, had her after I got discharged. My wife and I had a shotgun wedding, very intimate”.

“Okay, we are just about to go into CT, I’ll be on the imaging side, you’re going to feel a little fluid in your IV, it’s to highlight and pinpoint what’s going on internally. I need to know if there’s any metal on you like jewelry below or above the waistline”.

“No, just my wedding ring”.

“That’s fine, this arm is going to stay up away from the imaging zone for the ‘highlighting fluid’, you’re going to feel a bit warm throughout your body, completely normal. If you feel nauseated it’s also pretty normal, we keep a wastebasket on standby so no worries” you clarified, giving him a smile before handing him off to the nurses.

Going into the radiology room, both the radiologist and technician glanced over to you, “Good evening” you greeted, “His abdomen was rigid and slightly distended, did Foreman tell either of you?”.

They both nodded, putting on their glasses and administering the contrast fluid. “Any plans for the morning L/n? You and Abbot are celebrating your anniversary today, no?” Jackie the radiologist asked, her hand not leaving the mouse and her eyes leaving the desktop.

You shuddered under your breath, inhaling deeply, “Yeah, might just stay in today”.

As the scans progressed one thing became clearer, there was a bleed in Raymond’s organs, non-septic, but still worrisome. You immediately grabbed the intercom mic, “Okay Ray, the nurses are going to get you settled back downstairs for a work up, I’ll go over your scans with Doctor Abbot”.

Turning to the left you grabbed the phone on the desk and dialed for the emergency department, “Hi Bridget, I’m sending Orser down, the MVC victim. He has a rib fracture that's causing internal bleeding, a tension pneumo but his breathing sounds were clear- lightly shallow” you cleared your throat, “Tell Abbot to do a finger thoracostomy, I’ll meet him down there”.

Afterwards you phoned the surgical wing, “Good evening, I need an OR available on standby, I have a MVC victim with a tension pneumothorax and internal bleeding”.

Some days cardio and general hogged the ORs, trauma and the emergency department always had an OR prepped in the morning shifts. Gloria liked to boast about her surgical teams, how each specialty had their own set OR.

Heading down to the emergency room, it was less chaotic on the surface- the waiting room said otherwise. Every room was filled minus the trauma rooms, the hallway had spillover, and curtains were drawn. You decided to take your leave to peds, being greeted with a little girl with a rattling cough.

“Good evening, I’m Doctor L/n, who is this princess?” you greeted, snapping on your gloves.

“Your scrubs are different” the girl mentioned mid cough.

“Sorry, this is Amanda, she’s been having this ugly cough for two weeks, she woke up choking on phlegm” a woman spoke up, “I’m her aunt, her mom’s on her way”.

“Ah okay, well, Amanda, my scrubs are different because I’m a surgeon here. Don’t worry, you’re not a surgical case, I just help down here” you clarified, putting your stethoscope on her chest, “Did she cough up phlegm, if so what color?”.

“It was brown, though in the car she had a cough attack and I swear I saw red”.

“Any history of asthma? Was she around any strong fumes?” you asked, “Amanda can you give me two big inhales and exhales?” you requested, putting your stethoscope on the girl’s back. As she inhaled and exhaled, all you heard was rattling.

“My sister- her mom has asthma, nothing too serious, she self carries though. Mandy got sick last week, her fever was moderate but she sweated a lot of it off during her sleep”.

You nodded, putting your stethoscope back around your neck, “I’m going to order a chest x-ray, from the sounds of it, Mandy here has acute bronchitis, probably from a viral infection that went unnoticed” you smiled to them both, “Is she allergic to paracetamol or ibuprofen?”.

“No, just soy”.

“Perfect, due to her age, I’ll prescribe extra strength Tylenol and an albuterol inhaler, two puffs about 5 seconds apart when needed to stabilize your lungs sweetie” you told her aunt, walking out to tell Bridget for an x-ray on Amanda.

“Abbot’s asking for you in south 14” Bridget said as you walked off, all you gave was a nod.

Opening the door and being met with a scene you would not have guessed to stumble upon out of the confines of your home. “Bridget said you wanted to see me?”.

“I’m not a prideful man” he sighed, you moved closer to the hospital bed he sat on, his prosthetic beside him, he was rubbing a cream on his stump- it smelt like eucalyptus. Jack never complained of phantom limb pain, though his hip would hurt every now and then. “But I do know that I am self-conscious”.

You remained silent, allowing Jack to speak. You did most of the talking earlier, now, it’s his turn. “I don’t know if I’ll be a good dad, weddings require some level of dancing that I just can’t put aside that difference to give to you- and I want to, I can’t shake that feeling” he sucked in a deep breath, “There are days where I have coax myself off the ledge, today being one of them”.

“Jack I-” you sighed in disbelief, “I don’t care about those things- ever- you’re not taking away anything by us not having kids or not getting married-”.

“You want those things”.

“There was a point in my life where I wanted you, one thing I know for certain, I never regretted it. Though I would’ve regretted not doing anything, you gave me the best sex of my life” you joked lightly, “If loving you and being with you means I don’t get a wedding or kids, then I’m okay with that. Though, you would be one hell of dilf”.

He chuckled at the comment, “Shit, I’d be in my 60s by the time the kid was in high school”.

“Still my sexy man” you commented, “I love you okay? But we have a job to get to and a vet who is keen on you”.

“Orser?” Jack questioned as he stood up with your assistance, popping his prosthetic back into place. You nodded, giving him a longing look, “I can’t kiss you- wouldn’t be able to stop”.

“Yeah yeah, happy anniversary cowboy” you smiled, feeling your phone vibrate with a page to the OR, “Shit, emergency surgery”.

“I love you cowgirl” Jack spoke up as you ran off. It was already 4:30 in the morning, the heat kept piling up.

The surgery was needed for a thoracotomy on a 67 year old who took a fall down her stairs which caused a cardiac tamponade, it took 2 hours and 40 minutes to repair, drain and control her hemorrhage. Caught early, it took less time than usual. You reeked of pungent acid with a hint of metal from the blood, afraid it was stuck in your hair.

Luckily your shift was over 10 minutes ago, you gathered your things and looked around for Jack, being greeted with Heather and Frank.

“Dana, have you seen Jack? Good morning to you all” you stretched, looking around to see no sight of Jack or Robby.

“Up on the roof with Robby”.

“Jesus, the midlife crisis twins” Frank joked under his breath, only to be met with the dirty looks of you and Heather.

“When he comes down tell him I’m in the truck” you sighed, tapping on the desk before letting your hair down from the clip that has held up your hair through blood and way too many body fluids.

dividers by @cafekitsune

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot smut #jack abbot angst #the pitt #michael robinavitch #the pitt x reader #x reader #shawn hatosy #vanilleandclove

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sunriseverse · 2 years ago

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sometimes i’m like maybe i should make lys more normal she’s kind of weird :( and then i remember that this is LITERALLY dmbj and “deciding to cover for any possible crimes of a half dead woman you found in the woods just because she’s pretty” is like. objectively one of the LESS insane things characters do in canon.

#lys being my oc to be clear. i’m inventing women to be silly about #and yes that’s her canon reasoning for not calling like. an ambulance or the cops or anything #oh a woman was shot through the head? well she’s pretty i’d better nurse her back to health and be a ride or die for her #my ocs #lin yushan #c.txt

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popcornpoppypop · 1 month ago

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Butterfly

A/N: Well, The Pitt dragged my depressed ass back into fanfic writing and this weird, depressed, little guy has wedged himself into my brain and will not leave. Be gentle, it's been a while! I have a few stories with this OC, kind of a series but not really. Enjoy!

Summary: Callie is vet tech with a silly sense of humor. Jack Abbot was immediately obsessed. When she lands herself in The Pitt from a work injury, Jack falls apart.

Warnings: Blood, medical inaccuracies, mentions of death, facial trauma, dog bite

Word Count: 3,295 (it took me and ran)

It was one of those moments where everything had to line up perfectly to happen. The butterfly effect some call it. If Callie had stayed home like she wanted to that rainy Tuesday afternoon, she wouldn’t have gone to work and she wouldn’t have had to deal with the aggressive chihuahua and she wouldn’t have gotten bit and she wouldn’t have had to go to the ER and she wouldn’t have met Dr. Jack Abbot and she wouldn’t have flirted her ass off until his face turned beet red and they wouldn’t have gone out for coffee and they wouldn’t have slowly and completely fallen in love. She thinks about it a lot.

“So, what bit you?” Dr. Abbot asks as he pulls his gloves on with a snap.

“The most feared creature in all of veterinary medicine.” Callie sighed, mocking terror.

“What? A rottweiler? German Shepherd?” Jack looked at her with a flat expression.

“Chihuahua. Vicious little fuckers.” Callie snorted. Jack stared at her for a long beat before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, one he was clearly trying to subdue.

“Never understood why anyone wanted one of those rats in their house anyway.” He said as he pulled the overhead light into position to examine the wound on her forearm.

“Sometimes they can be cute. But it is few and far between, at least when I see them.” Callie winced as Jack prodded at the wound.

“Well, he got you good. We’ll clean the wound out and give you some pain management, antibiotics. Can’t close it though. Dogs mouths are nasty things.”

“Like yours is better?”

“Excuse me?”

“It was a joke. I’m joking. You should give it a try.” Callie winked. Jack stared again, almost frozen with what to do. He was not unfamiliar with being flirted with at work. Hell, Myrna said some pretty vulgar shit most days. This woman, she was something else. He couldn’t quite figure out why, besides the fact that she was stunning. But pretty people rarely interest him.

“I, uh, will be back. With antiseptic.” He gave a curt nod, rolled his chair back so hard it flew into the wall when he stood up. He closed the curtain and stomped over to the nurses station.

“Dana you got a nurse free to clean out the wound in 7?”

“They are all taken for the next twenty-ish minutes, can send them that way when I have one.” She said, her readers falling down her nose. Jack fidgeted for a moment before growling as he ran his hands through his hair.

“What’s up your ass? They being that bad?” Dana smirked.

“No. No, that woman is just the kind of person to throw me off.”

“She was very pretty. Nice, too. But you’ve had prettier patients.” Dana looked him up and down, hands on her hips.

“No. No, I haven’t. She’s fucking silly.” Jack groaned, his frustration making his face flush.

“Silly? That’s what does it for you?” Dana didn’t try to hide the laugh.

“Fuck yeah it does. I’ll go clean it. If I’m not out in fifteen minutes, send someone to rescue me.” He grabbed supplies and headed back to bed 7.

“No use, you’re already a goner!” Dana shouted, shaking her head.

Two years later, Callie was still making terrible jokes to make Jack laugh. Others would try to get him to laugh, telling the same jokes, but he wouldn’t flinch. They were only funny when she said them.

They would talk medicine with each other often, Jack was fascinated with the difference between Veterinary medicine and human medicine. Intrigued by the creativity of it. Callie was in awe of how fast emergency medical staff had to think and move, like a well-oiled machine.

Callie was a good technician. She had been doing the job in various forms since she was out of high school. She was efficient and quick. Most days she was quick. Most days she could read a dog or cat like a book. Knew when they were going to bite before they did. Today, she was not so quick. Today her reading was off. She was tired and she thought the cute golden retriever was nice and calm and would be fine to get subcutaneous fluids on her own. The needle went in and the dog turned and took a bite at her face. She fell backwards, the dog was pulled off by her coworker. She felt the warm blood trickling down her neck.

She was confused for a moment, there wasn’t pain. She felt fine, but when she put her hand on her cheek she felt the flesh missing and the blood, she saw the blood. But the pain wasn’t there. It made her panic. Did something happen to her brain? Next thing she knew, paramedics were in front of her asking questions.

“Just get her in the rig before she bleeds out!” one of her coworkers yelled.

“I want to go to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. My boyfriend works there, please.” Was the last thing she said before she was overwhelmed and passed out.

“We got a trauma coming in, ETA 7 minutes.” Dana called out.

“I swear, I’m never switching shifts with Collins again.” Jack groaned as he grabbed gloves from the wall dispenser.

“She is hard to say no to.” Robby laughed.

“What’s coming?” Langdon asked, practically drooling.

“Uh, looks like a dog bite to the face, female, mid-thirties.” She said looking up to meet Jack’s eyes.

“It’s not her. They would have called you, it’s not her.” Robby patted Jack’s shoulder, it didn’t stop the ice from flowing through his veins.

“Damn, that sucks. That’s why I tell my kids to keep their face away from the dog. You never know. The way some people just act like dogs are stuffed animals is crazy! Maybe she’ll learn her lesson.” Langdon prattled on.

“Shut the fuck up.” Jack growled. Langdon went white and took a few steps back. The paramedics came bursting in with their patient; blood covered the gurney.

“Female, mid-thirties, vet tech was performing treatments on a patient when it attacked. Bite to the face and neck, took some of her cheek with her. She lost consciousness not long after we got there. She requested to come here. Said her boyfriend works here.” The medic said. As Callie’s face came into his view, Jack felt his knees try and buckle.

“Fuck.” Was all he could get out.

“Jack you sit this out. We got her.” Robby pushed him out of the way as he and Langdon brought her into the trauma bay. Jack followed but stopped outside the door.

“Jack! Jack, oh my god! I’m so sorry!” Liz, one of Callie’s coworkers came running up and throwing her arms around him.

“I tried to call you and warn you, my phone wouldn’t get reception in the rig. They wouldn’t radio to let you know, they were kind of pricks honestly.” She rambled.

“Liz what the fuck happened?” Jack asked, his voice strained.

“we were so damn busy today, someone called out and corporate has us on quotas and if the clinic doesn’t make them it’s a whole thing. Anyway, she thought this dog was fine to give subq fluids to alone, she does it all the time. She was off today, kept saying she was tired. He just spun around and got her in the face. God, her cheek was on the floor. Her fucking cheek!” Liz said through tears. Jack put his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

“It’s okay, Liz. You got her here that’s what’s important. Dana? Can you put Liz in the family room? I’ll come by when I have information.” He promised as Dana walked her away.

She was so still as they worked on her. Her face, oozing blood onto the floor, it was thick as it had mixed with her saliva. He could see some of her teeth exposed through the wound. The tear at her neck was less extreme but too close to her carotid for his comfort. He wasn’t paying any attention to what they were saying or really what they were doing.

“You know they have her.” Dana put a hand on his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t let anyone but Robby touch her. Robby and Princess.” He sniffed.

“She’s a tough girl.”

“She’s going to need reconstructive surgery.”

“She’s going to be okay.” Dana squeezed his arm. He stood, still as stone, his expression the same.

Robby came walking out, throwing his gloves in the trash.

“She’s stable, she lost a lot of blood, we gave about two units. Surgery is taking her from here. But she’s going to be okay, Jack.”

“Who’s on surgery today?” Jack didn’t dare take his eyes off Callie.

“Walsh is on trauma. Craig is on for plastics. I made sure they were bringing him in.”

“She was tired today. Liz said she kept saying she was tired.” Jack’s monotone voice made Dana wince.

“This was a freak thing. She didn’t cause anything.” Robby said.

“She was slow because she was tired because I asked her to stay up late with me. There was a stupid eclipse last night. Didn’t get to totality until 2am. She’s here because of me.” There was a slight quiver to his voice.

“No, Jack, don’t do that.” Dana grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to face her. They both know that he’s let her.

“As if she couldn’t look at the stupid fucking moon any other night.”

“Hey! This was not your fault. If it’s anyone’s it’s those damn corporations working them to the bone for fucking quotas! Hell, this is barely the dog's fault!” Dana said, trying to keep Jack’s feet on the ground.

Jack nodded, wanting to stop the talking. He wasn’t going to be convinced this wasn’t his fault.

When Callie was brought out of surgery, her face was bandaged with gauze. It had already started to swell and turn five different shades of purple and blue. Jack felt a stab to the gut when he saw her. He could only imagine what the pain was like.

It was during the early hours of the next morning when she started to stir. Jack was sleeping in the most uncomfortable chair in the hospital, his hand firmly in hers. She groaned as she tried to open her eyes. Jack felt the slight movement of her hand and was immediately awake.

“Callie? Honey?” He smoothed the hair from her forehead.

“Jack?” She croaked.

“Hey, how are you feeling? How’s the pain?” He asked, searching her eyes for the truth, knowing she would say it wasn’t bad to spare anyone from going out of their way for her.

“It fucking hurts. My face is mincemeat.” She sighed. Jack nodded, hitting the call button and demanding she get more pain relief.

“I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t have made you stay up late. It wasn’t worth it.” He looked at the ground, ashamed.

“Hey, no. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t anyone. Just one of those things. I don’t regret it.” She tried her best to smile.

“I fucking do.”

“Naw. I got to see an eclipse, I got to see you being a big space nerd.” She squeezed his hand.

“I’m not a nerd.”

“Huge. Huge nerd. I like seeing you like that. Like…it’s what you were like before everything. A little glimpse at ‘Past Jack’. I love this Jack, but you keep that part locked up. I don’t need to question it, I understand. It’s nice when I get to see the whole picture. Besides, corporate is going to be giving me a big check when I blame this on them.” Callie huffed a laugh. Jack nodded looking at the ground, knowing her efforts to assuage his guilt were futile.

“They said it’ll be a few days until you can come home. They got you on some intense IV antibiotics.” He changed the subject away from himself.

“How bad is it?” Callie asked, her voice small. Jack hated it. She was never small. She was big and boisterous and loud and funny and all the things he wasn’t.

“They were able to graft the skin and close the wound.” Jack cleared his throat, he knew what she was really asking.

“Jack…what do I look like?” Her voice wavered.

“I honestly haven’t seen it fully since surgery. What I can see now, you’re swollen and bruised but still you.” He traced little anxious patterns on her hand.

“I want to see.” Callie straightened herself upright.

“I think you have a dressing change soon. But, usually we don’t recommend seeing this kind of thing until it’s more healed.”

“I want to see my face.” The tears were starting to sting her eyes as she fought them.

“Okay. Give me a second.” He grumbled as he got up and went to the nurse’s station.

“What can I do for you Dr.Abbot?” one of them asked, smile plastered on her face that didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“I know she doesn’t have a dressing change for a little bit, but she wants to see it.” He fiddled with a pen on the desk.

“Oh. Um, I can do the change in a bit, but we don’t let them see the damage for at least two days. It’s better once the swelling goes down.”

“I know that. I do. But, she’s set her mind.” “Dr. Abbot, it’s direct medical orders from Dr. Craig that she not see herself for two days, I can’t go against that.”

“Then get him on the phone!” Jack barked, startling the nurses.

“Jack?” Robby called from the end of the hallway, gift basket in hand, “hey man, let’s take a walk.” He pulled him down the hall.

“I’m not being stubborn. She wants to see, I told her why they don’t want to let her, she wants it. I’m going to get her what she wants!” Jack rubbed his hands down his face.

“I know you’re feeling guilty about this, but man, you know how these things go. You can’t be going above doctors heads.”

“Robby, she is going to have scars on her face for the rest of her life because of me. Everyone keeps saying it’s just a random turn of events. It’s bullshit you all are trying to get me to swallow, even her. If we had just gone to bed when we were supposed to none of this would have happened.” His voice was thick with emotion.

“if they had staffed them properly, if they didn’t have outrageous quotas to meet, if they had better equipment, better management none of this would have happened. It doesn’t always come back to you. Even if she had been wide awake and full of caffeine this still would have happened because of all the other shit.” Robby stopped at the end of the hallway.

“She said she’s going to make corporate pay.” Jack sighed.

“as she should.” Robby chuckled. “Look, you need to get your shit together right now. She is going to need you now more than ever. Her whole identity is going to be different. She isn’t going to feel like herself and she is probably going to feel like her appearance is going to drive you away. Show her that’s not true. I swear, if I hear you leave her, it won’t be just me coming for you.”

“I can’t live without her, Robby.” Jack bowed his head to hide the tears.

“I know, brother.” Robby wrapped an arm around him.

“Dr. Abbot?” The nurse cleared her throat. “yeah?”

“Dr. Craig said, and this is him I’m quoting, ‘if that stubborn ass thinks she can handle it he can do the dressing change.’ So, it’s up to you.” The nurse shrugged.

“Get me the dressing change supplies, please.”

“Jack,”

“Robby, she needs to see. We know that the healing process isn’t the same for everyone. I know her. She needs this.” Jack stomped back to the room. When he entered he could see the redness in her eyes, he kept it to himself.

“Robby’s here, is it ok for him to come in? He can help me with the dressing change.” Jack tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She nodded, not trusting her voice. Jack went and grabbed the supplies from the nurse and ushered Robby into the room.

“Hey kid, you scared the shit out of us.” He smiled.

“Gotta keep you on your toes. Must of have been a fun one for the med students.” Callie laughed.

“Oh Jack made sure they weren’t anywhere near you.” Robby laughed.

“I thought this was a teaching hospital? Surely this was good teaching case.” Callie shot Jack a look that could kill.

“Wasn’t going to risk it.” He stated.

“Anyway, everyone downstairs wanted you know they were thinking of you. All chipped in and got you this basket, not a healthy thing insight.” He said putting the basket on the nightstand next to her bed.

“That’s sweet. Thank you. I’m sorry he’s been extra grouchy. I’d keep the interns out of his way for a while.” Callie smiled.

“Way ahead of you.” Robby winked.

“We’re going to change the dressing now, it might sting a bit, you might feel it pull at the skin. Let me know if it’s too much.” Jack pulled his gloves on.

He gently unwrapped the gauze from Callie’s face. The cotton pads that stuck to her face gave some trouble, Callie winced as he pulled them off. The skin was sutured closed and was bruised and red. The sutures went from the bottom of her chin up to her cheekbone with a line going down her neck about three inches. Jack swallowed harder than he meant when he saw it. It looked so painful and dramatic. His chest tightened and he couldn’t speak without breaking.

Robby looked over at him, nudging him to say something, anything. When Jack didn’t move, he took the mirror and handed it to Callie. He held it down in her hands for a moment.

“Remember that the sutures need to be removed and the swelling and bruising will go down. It’s going to be very different.” Robby warned.

“I know.” Callie said. She lifted the mirror with shaky hands and took in her reflection. She couldn’t stop the tears, she didn’t want to. They flowed silently down her face, stinging the sensitive skin.

“Dr. Craig did a great job. The Sutures are some of the best I’ve ever seen.” Robby told her, trying to give her some solace.

Jack started cleaning the wound, his eyes red. He focused on the medicine. Keeping it clean and dry. Wrapping it up with precision. He had no idea Robby had left until Callie had put a hand to his face, pulling him back to earth.

“I have to ask this question because it won’t stop banging around my brain. I know the answer, I just need to hear it. Will you still think I’m pretty with all of this?” Her voice cracked as she fought through the sobs.

Jack looked at her with shock and disbelief. How could she think he had nothing but devotion for her?

“I love you. I will always love you. You will always be the most stunning woman on the planet. This changes nothing, not for me. You have me, heart and soul. What’s left of them at any rate.” He pulled her in for a soft kiss, tender but delicate, afraid to hurt her further.

“I think that’s what the kids call a simp.” Callie giggled.

“Seriously? Now?”

“Gotta keep you from breaking down completely.” She smiled up at him.

“I love you.”

“Ditto”

#the pitt #jack abbot #jack abbot x oc #jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbott #jack abbot fanfic #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. robby #dana evans #the pitt fanfiction #tw dog attack #tw dog bite

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wayiiseetheworld · 29 days ago

Text

Espresso

Summary: Robby's normal shift ends with Abbot's wife in the ER.

Warnings: Jack Abbot x OC!Wife. Established relationship. Age gap marriage.

Word Count: 1,176

Author Note: I am obsessed with Abbot, Robby, and The Pitt. Slowly going to post my stories from A03 on here. Rewatching ER and Animal Kingdom because of this show. || Not my gif.

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64238392/chapters/164875135

Prev | Next | Finale

Today was unusually calm. As much as he despised that word, it was undeniably true—there was an unexpected stillness in the chaos of the Pitt. "Quiet" was a banned term here for a reason.

Robby should have been grateful for the relatively uneventful shift he had been assigned, especially considering it had only been a week since the Pitt Fest shooting that had led to his emotional breakdown. This was his first day back since that harrowing night.

As he walked into the bay, he passed Dana, who was on the phone, frustratedly urging someone to pick up. Robby’s heart sank as he stepped into the trauma room and caught sight of the bed in the center. “Aila,” he muttered under his breath. His best friend's wife lay unconscious, surrounded by Collins, an intern, and two nurses working frantically.

“Robby!” Dana's voice jolted him back to reality. He realized she was desperate to reach Abbot. “He should arrive soon. I can’t get through to him. His shift starts in an hour, so he’ll be here any minute. The police said it was a robbery; they found her in an alleyway behind the bar.”

Cursing softly, Robby took in Aila’s condition. Collins was talking, but Robby was barely listening. Her face was bruised and swollen, likely with a broken nose. Her left arm bore fresh bruises, and there were stab wounds on her shoulder and thigh.

To put it mildly, Jack Abbot was going to flip. This was a beating.

He takes a breath, “Someone needs to meet Abbot at the lockers. He cannot walk into this mess.” He would say Langdon as those two got along, but Langdon was at rehab.

Suddenly the woman on the bed’s eyes open, she yelps in pain before moving her head away from Collins to Robby. “Michael.” A whisper comes from Aila’s lips. Only a handful of people called him that, her being one of them. Collin, only for a moment looks at Robby in shock, how does this woman know him, is she suppose to know who she is?

He wasn’t expecting her to wake up, but Robby is now focused on her. He heard Collins say the bleeding of her thigh has stopped, the wound in the stomach though would be an issue. Robby puts his hand on the left side of her cheek when he notices her starting to panic. “You're okay.” It wasn’t a lie, Robby told himself, she was awake and that meant she was okay even if it was just right now.

Aila flinches at the touch of his hand on her skin, tears welling in her eyes. “Jack?” Confusion darkens her expression as she tries to grasp her surroundings.

Robby feels his pulse quicken at the sight of her closing her eyes again, surrendering to the shadows. “We need to hurry!”

+++++

King took Dana's words to heart. “He seems to have developed an attachment to you. When Doctor Abbot arrives, you need to pull him aside and guide him to the staff room—it’s far from his wife. Tell him it’s urgent, then come find me. I'll handle the rest.” Dana would tell the man about his injured wife.

She paced the locker room after Dana left her to return where the action was, her mind racing as she awaited the doctor's arrival.

+++++

“Damn.” Jack Abbot spoke into his phone, leaving a voicemail for his wife. “You must be swamped at the bar if you can’t answer my call.” He wasn’t upset; he understood she was managing the restaurant after the manager failed to show up. Earlier discussions revealed that she was juggling two waitresses, the hostess, the kitchen, and her bar, all of which had stressed her out. “I just wanted to remind you that I love you and to make sure you eat and drink during your shift. I can’t have you ending up in the ER again due to dehydration,”—it has happened more than once and now a real worry for him—“Just call me back when you can. Love you.”

He ended the call, sliding his phone into his pocket as he approached the locker area. He froze upon spotting King by the lockers, the woman he had become acquainted with during his occasional shifts covering for Robby during this last week. Something was visibly troubling her.

“Is everything okay, King?” He stepped closer to his locker, ready to stow his bag, but King didn’t budge from her spot. He looked her up and down, before his gut told him that something was wrong.

“I need you to come to the staff break room with me. It’s urgent.” The words slipped from her lips with an air of rehearsed seriousness, he could tell. He was right, something was not right.

“King.”

She sighed, then whispered earnestly, “Please.”

Jack hesitated, reaching for his phone once more and noticing the five missed calls from Dana. “Where is she?” His heart dropped.

“What do you mean?”

“My wife—those missed calls from Dana, you waiting for me at the lockers, her not answering like she usually does when she’s at work.” He ran a hand over his face, frustration mounting. “King—I'm asking you one last time: where is my wife?”

King stands frozen, overwhelmed by uncertainty as she processes his question. Should she address him as the husband of a patient or as her supervisor? An uncomfortable silence hangs between them as she struggles to find the right words, until the sound of footsteps approaches from behind.

“Dana,” Abbott calls out. “Wha…”

Dana notices the recognition in his eyes; he understands that his wife is here. “She’s going to be okay,” she says gently, interrupting him. “Robby is accompanying her to surgery. I’ve already contacted Jason for you, so you won’t be able to work today.” There’s no room for debate; it’s already decided, he wouldn’t be working tonight and Abbot knows that is the right thing. As King quietly slips away from the conversation, Jack suddenly becomes aware of a tightness in his chest, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. The intense urge to flee to the rooftop fades away from him. Dana takes a step closer to Jack, a man she deeply admires—a dedicated doctor who has faced his own struggles since returning from war. “Jack,” her voice quivers as she places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “The police told me it was a robbery. They found her alone in the alley behind the bar. She fought back—she's one tough son of a bitch.”

“Surgery?” he asks, a mix of disbelief and shock in his voice, unsure if he truly heard her correctly. She was supposed to be working - not in the OR.

“Let me take you up.”

#the Pitt fanfiction #the Pitt fanfic #jack abbot #Jack Abbot Fanfiction #Jack Abbot Fanfic #jack abbot x oc #dr abbot

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dreamersparacosm · 28 days ago

Text

jeon jungkook - off the record (part two)

part two ; top secret arrangements

warnings ; none! (unless you count oc threatening murder about 293939 times as something that warrants a warning.)

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; greetings my loved ones! ah yes, another part that i deliriously edited at 3am bc my corporate job sucks the soul out of me <3 anyways! all your comments on the last part were so sweet and i appreciate every single one of you. MWAH.

this chapter is fun — we learn about oc’s family dynamics, watch her threaten murder a few times, even get to see her ambush an unsuspecting press rep. you guys are oh so lucky to be fed. and you’ll remain full because i just ran the calculations and… next chapter is nearing 15k words

playlist here

series masterlist here

“Have you talked to your boss about your promotion timeline?”

Your mother’s voice crackles through the speaker, overly crisp and awake for this hour. She always sounds like she’s calling you from inside an interrogation room, even though you know she’s sitting at the kitchen counter in her robe, nursing a mug of instant coffee with one slipper half off her foot.

“No,” you sigh, balancing your phone between your shoulder and cheek as you try to zip your pants. “Not this week.”

“You said that last week.”

You groan out some animalistic noise. “Moooom.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, undeterred by your sound effects, “these things don’t happen unless you advocate. You’re not a college kid anymore. You should be thinking about upward mobility, and your brand.”

She says mobility like she’s delivering some pathetic TED Talk in kitten heels. You make a face at your closet door and tug on a button-down that still smells faintly like the press room.

For all her perfectly cynical practicality, your mother has always reminded you of a bloodhound — relentless, sharp-nosed, and born with an uncanny ability to sniff out fear or any hesitation you try to disguise as composure. She’s the type of woman who taught herself how to file taxes on a borrowed library card and once negotiated a hospital bill down with nothing but a polite smile and the threat of local media.

She’s not cruel. She’s just focused. And being raised by someone like that, someone made entirely of high standards and survival skills, means you learned early that love can sound like a to-do list.

You grew up in a two-bedroom apartment with six feet between the couch and the kitchen. Rent was a monthly feat. Every leftover was frozen, labeled, and scheduled for a future meal. Your parents stretched paychecks like rubber bands and made “making it work” a sport. Maybe it wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest. Your mother didn’t believe in luxury, but she did believe in work and never, ever wasting potential.

So, of course, she calls every week. And evidently, she asks the same question every time.

“Are you working hard?”

You deadpan at your reflection in the mirror as you swipe on concealer. “Always.”

“Are you doing your best?”

The mascara wand in your other hand shakes a little. “Is there any other option?”

There’s a moment of silence. Then, her own exhausted voice: “You sound tired.”

The nerve.

You let out a small laugh. “It’s the White House, Mom. We’re all tired.”

Unimpressed, she hums. “Just don’t let anyone outdo your work.”

“I know that, Mom.” Really, you do. Does she mistake you for some fool with an Ivy League degree?

“We know you do. Quick reminder though.” She references your father quickly. The relationship between them has grown complicated, you’ll be the first to admit it. However, your desire to analyze the ins and outs of two people with avoidant tendencies feels like the last bullet on your list of priorities.

You stare down at your phone like it betrayed you. “How is Dad, by the way?”

“Good.”

Another agonizing second of silence.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and inhale through it. “Cool. Do you need money?”

It comes out sharp, but not unkind. It’s muscle memory at this point.

Ever since you started this job — also coinciding with when your apartment started having more than one window — you’ve asked her this every time she called. Sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end, but always without fail.

Do you need money? Are you okay? Do you need anything?

It’s the ritual you’ve carved into every phone call, a breadcrumb of care disguised as annoyance. She never says yes. Always waves you off, tells you she has enough, tells you to save. But asking makes you feel like you’re still doing something. Like you’re still useful.

“I’m fine,” she says now, predictably. “But thank you.”

You press your lips together. Nod to no one. Nearly knock over one of the many awards on your shelf while you shuffle around the bedroom.

Pulling your hair into a low, half-hearted bun, you glance at the time. Shit. Somehow it’s 8:50 AM again and you’ve given more time to this check-in than you wanted.

“Gotta go,” you say, grabbing your press badge and keys. “Talk soon?”

She makes a noise that sounds vaguely like approval.

“Be smart,” she chastises. “Be faster.”

And then, thank God, she’s gone.

You exhale. Look down at your phone. Try not to think about how expectations weigh on you like a slab of concrete.

Whatever. That’s a lot for a Wednesday morning.

By the time you get to work, the humidity has already declared war on your hair, your Celsius is sweating in your hand, and you’re pretty sure the inside of your flats have decided today is the day it slowly starts to detach just to humble you.

You swing into your usual hallway with a nod to the security guard who never remembers your name, badge swinging off your hip like a stressed-out FBI agent in some HBO drama.

Like every morning for the past few months, you find Emma already at her desk, hair twisted up in ponytail, glasses on, earbuds in, typing like the building is on fire and she’s the only one with a hose.

You plop down next to her, all theatrical effort and long-suffering sighs.

Nothing.

It doesn’t even earn you a glance.

“Good morning to you too,” you mutter, unwrapping your breakfast wrap that you snagged on the way in. “In today’s breaking news: the cafeteria is advertising something called ‘Tuscan Bean and Egg Wraps.’ Thoughts and prayers.”

Still nothing.

You lean toward her, waving the food like a white flag. “Do you think ‘Tuscan’ just means they dump a can of white beans into a tortilla and hope for the best?”

Emma blinks, looks up, finally clocking your existence like you’ve materialized out of thin air. She pushes one earbud out and glances at your breakfast. “Do not project your poor food choices onto me before 10 AM.”

“Bold of you to assume this has anything to do with choice.”

She snorts, pushes her glasses higher. “Eat your sad wrap and suffer in silence.”

“You have no empathy.”

“Correct.”

You settle in, taking a bite and immediately regretting it. There’s a faint remnant of bean paste. Why is there bean paste?

Emma’s already halfway through what looks like a policy brief and a media prep outline, and you find yourself watching her out of the corner of your eye. She’s been getting here earlier lately. A little too early. You’ve noticed it; how she’s always already seated when you walk in, coffee half-finished, eyes glued to the screen like the world might fall apart if she looks away.

You could ask her about it.

You want to. You’re good at asking things on paper. Sometimes though, with your friends, it's never the right things. The things that might mean someone has to ask back.

So instead, you pick the safer option.

“So…” you say around a mouthful of regret wrap, “Monroe and Delgado, huh?”

That gets her attention.

Her eyes flick to yours, and for half a second you think you see it. A flicker of something. Interest. Irritation. Annoyance?

“You heard anything else?” You ask casually. Like you weren’t up until 1 AM refreshing Twitter and trying to decode leaked parking lot footage like it was the Zapruder film.

Emma shrugs. “Same as you probably. Everyone’s scrambling. It’s a mess.”

You nod. “Jenna’s losing her mind. She thinks it’s going to blow wider.”

There’s a momentary pause again. God, you’re really starting to hate these silences people in your life keep inflicting upon you. You go back to dissecting your wrap.

Then, Emma muses, “So… you think Jenna’s gonna put you on the press pool?”

You briefly peek over at her. “Probably. She hasn’t said anything official yet, but she made comments the other day.”

Emma blinks. “Like what comments?”

“Wanting to send me since I’m apparently intimidating? Whatever that means in Jenna’s language.”

She hums, eyes flicking back to her screen. ��Well. Would make sense.”

“You sound thrilled for me,” You raise an eyebrow.

“I am thrilled,” she says, tone even. “Who wouldn’t want to spend a week attached at the hip to every misogynistic correspondent on the Hill?”

You pause, mid-chew. “I’m choosing to believe that was sarcasm.”

She avoids eye contact. “Believe whatever gets you through the week.”

Leaning back in your squeaky chair, you stare at the ceiling. “If I do get picked, I swear to god I’m packing tranquilizers.”

Emma doesn’t respond right away, just goes back to typing slower now. Subtlety simmers beneath her usual calm, but she masks it well.

You mutter something about needing another energy drink and whether Tuscan Bean Wraps are a sign of punishment, and Emma’s now moved on, two sentences deep into her reply to a senator’s communications rep, hands steady, mouth pressed in a straight line.

Something in your soul feels the need to disturb her peace again.

“I mean, obviously I’m honored or whatever. Yay, journalism. But also.. Jungkook.”

Now that intrigues her. She looks up again, brow raised. “You two gonna kill each other if you get chosen for the press pool again?”

“Unclear. Depends if he tries to mansplain joint bylines again.”

She smiles at that, pearly teeth unveiling themselves. “God, don’t let him outwrite you.”

A scoff leaves your lips, “Please. He’s still mad I beat him in college. He’ll implode before he gives me the last word.”

Emma turns back to her screen, but there’s a fleeting moment in the way she exhales. Not jealousy, really. The kind of thing you’d never catch unless you were looking for it.

You’re not. So you don’t.

You just keep eating your terrible wrap, think about your tasks for the day, and pray to god the lunch options are better than breakfast.

Outside, the city hums with noises through the one tiny window the rest of your team cracked open before you got there.

You’ve always loved Washington.

You came here for the first time when you were fourteen, cramped on a yellow school bus with your debate team and a $20 bill your mom told you not to lose, and it felt like stepping into something cinematic. The marble, the flags, the constant buzz of ambition in the air. Everyone here had somewhere to be and something to prove, and you remember thinking how do I get in?

You weren’t the loudest kid, or the one with the shiniest shoes, but you were intelligent. You had a hunger most people couldn’t see, the kind that made you rewrite arguments three times and memorize congressional committee names like flashcards. You didn’t come from legacy. You didn’t have connections. But that just meant you had to work harder.

Washington never made you feel small, not even when it tried. It made you feel like you could stretch yourself until you became something unignorable.

Which is why, when Jenna breezes into the room like she’s delivering news from Mount Olympus, you sit up just a little straighter.

“Morning, queens,” She sing-songs, coffee in one hand, iced green tea in the other, sunglasses still on despite being very much inside.

Emma perks up immediately. “You’re unusually chipper. Did something explode?”

“Exploded in our favor,” Jenna grins, handing you your coffee without asking your order. She hasn’t asked in over a year. She shows up with the perfect, soul-saving, too-expensive iced oat milk latte situation like a fairy godmother in a tailored pantsuit.

“Be honest,” you begin, eyeing her suspiciously. “You only get like this when someone quits, gets canceled, or calls you brilliant.”

Jenna sips her drink like it’s the blood of her enemies. “Guilty.”

Emma’s chocolate brown eyes widen. “Spill.”

Jenna shrugs off her coat, places her iced green tea down, drapes said jacket on the back of your chair (rude), and leans against your desk with the energy of someone about to ruin your life with a statement.

“There’s movement on Monroe and Delgado,” she clasps her hands together excitedly. “Source confirmation just came in. We’re about to be a few days ahead of the rest of the nation.”

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your face neutral. “That’s great.”

Here it comes.

“It is great,” Jenna nods, popping the lid off her green tea. “Because it means the press pool is going to heat up fast.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “And who’s going?”

Jenna glances between you both, grins deviously “Oh, her. Obviously.”

Your heart betrays you, skipping a beat with phantom excitement.

“Me?” You point at yourself as if there’s anyone else she could possibly be referring to. Suddenly, the bean and egg wrap taste feels lodged in the back of your throat.

“Who else would I send?”

Emma doesn’t say anything to that at first. Just slumps a little lower in her chair, like her spine suddenly forgot what good posture was. It’s subtle. But if anyone were watching closely — which you aren’t — they’d see it. The slight downturn of her mouth, the way her fingers hover over her keyboard.

“Literally anyone,” you retort immediately. “A well-trained intern. A potted plant. A ghost.”

Emma chokes on her saliva, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

Jenna laughs, although you’re not joking. “Relax. You’re the best we’ve got. Also the only one scary enough to intimidate the other networks out of quoting us without credit.”

Emma’s back is upright again. Mask back on.

“Flattering,” you mutter, taking a long, bitter sip of your iced latte like it’s going to protect you from what’s coming next. “Who else is going?”

You actually know exactly who else is going. The name is flashing across your frontal lobe in neon lights.

Jenna shrugs, like that’s a you problem. “Check the list outside. Should be posted by now.”

“Cool,” you cross your arms over your chest. “Super helpful. Really loving the clarity.”

Jenna taps your desk twice before snatching her green tea off your desk. “I’m gonna go steal someone’s yogurt. Be amazing.”

And then she’s off, gliding through the room like she didn’t just drop a career-altering bomb in your lap.

You sit there in stunned silence for a second, brain buzzing, caffeine doing nothing to calm the impending doom crawling up your spine.

Emma gives you a knowing look.

“Goddamnit,” you murmur. “Fuck me.”

Emma bites back a grin, the screen of her laptop illuminating her features. “You gonna go check the list?”

The list. Ah, yes. It’s been your best friend and your worst enemy. The first time your name appeared on the list, it was your first year working for CNN, and it felt like the puzzle pieces were sliding into place. Now it holds the same kind of excitement for you that someone on death row would probably have for the electric chair.

“I’m gonna pretend it’s not Jungkook and then collapse when it inevitably is.”

“You’re a beacon of resilience,” She places a hand over her heart in mock sympathy.

You stand up anyway, dragging your feet toward the hallway bulletin board where updates are usually tacked up with passive-aggressive thumbtacks and outdated formatting. Half of you is praying it’s not him. The other half already knows it is.

For everything in your life, the universe has taste. And apparently, a vendetta too.

You don’t rush. You walk with purpose, which is basically the same thing except your bun stays in place and you don’t look like a deranged intern sprinting to deliver coffee. You push past a gaggle of hungry correspondents hovering by the board like vultures, shoulder your way around two guys from the Wall Street Journal who once cornered you at a happy hour with “do you think it’s hard being a woman in political journalism?” like it was a pickup line. You sidestep a couple of overachieving interns whispering about embargoes and then, finally — there it is.

The List.

Printed out in 11-point Times New Roman and taped to the hallway bulletin board like a college theater audition call sheet. Which, fine. It might as well be. People are already murmuring behind you, trying to read over your shoulder.

You plant your feet. Press the tip of your nail to the column marked CNN. Drag it slowly down the page.

[Y/N, L/N]

In bold too. Curse the managers who used fonts and bold letters and other keyboard tactics to torture you.

Jenna has never once not picked you. You don’t know why you’re surprised. Your brain tries to say called it, but your stomach flops anyway.

Although your finger stays on CNN, your eyes keep scanning. Past NBC. Past Reuters. Past AP.

You’re not looking, not really, but your body betrays you before your mind can stop it.

Fox News: Jungkook, Jeon

You exhale like someone just unplugged your soul.

“Fuck me sideways.”

Some correspondent looks at you with a bewildered expression at that, but you’re too busy wallowing in self-despair to care.

You stare at his name for a second too long, as if the sheer weight of your gaze will make it disappear. It does not. It remains bold. Centered on the page. Clearly, the universe got bored and decided to make your existence recreationally miserable.

“Of course it’s Jungkook,” You sigh, pressing your forehead lightly against the wall, because humiliation rituals are best served on drywall.

Behind you, someone coughs.

You straighten quickly and pretend you were just squinting at the lighting or something equally embarrassing. Grab your phone out of your back pocket. Snap a photo of the list like it’s evidence in a trial and not your own personal descent into madness.

You know what this means.

Early mornings. Late nights. Shared interviews. Shared documents. Communal air.

You remember the last time you two got picked for the same story, a few months back. You both nearly got escorted out of a press van in Iowa for arguing over whether a quote was technically on or off the record. He kept repeating “just admit I was right” under his breath like it wouldn’t lead to his timely death.

And now here you are. Yet again.

You pivot and walk backwards in the direction of the CNN office, fast enough that your shoes move with intent but slow enough that you don’t draw attention. You pass the Wall Street Journal guys again. One of them winks.

In your dreams, fucker.

Mental curses ricochet through your skull like a smoke alarm — God, no. Please. Just once. Can you catch a break?

Possible strategies start flooding your brain. Maybe you can trade assignments. Fake mono. Throw yourself down the Capitol steps and hope it earns you a leave of absence.

“Oh, don’t look so devastated. I thought you’d be thrilled.”

You whip your head again — there goes your cervical spine — and sure enough, Jungkook is leaned against the wall a few feet away from the bulletin board, arms crossed, sleeves rolled halfway up like he’s starring in some Gap campaign for Congressional Casual. His hair is still damp like he just showered and didn’t bother drying it.

You stare at him like the audacity is physically painful.

“Were you… just waiting there?” You ask, brows amusedly raised.

“I was reading,” he replies, innocence deceitful. “Is that not allowed?”

You glance back at the list. “Slow reader, I presume? Take you that long to sound out your own name?”

“Time flies when you’re visualizing your shared press pool victory.”

You snort. “Please tell me that’s not what you call it in your head.”

“I mean—” he adjusts his position against the wall, slightly coming off it “—it is a victory. Two great minds. One huge story. What kind of snacks do you want me to bring?”

“I will set those snacks on fire.”

His smile is bordering on shit-eating territory now. “You always threaten arson when you’re nervous.”

“And you always mistake disgust for nerves.” Behind him, you glance at the clock. You didn’t really pencil in time for ‘argue with Jungkook’ on your calendar.

Jungkook pushes off the wall and walks closer, casual as if he’s not purposefully entering your personal space bubble like he’s been doing since freshman year.

“Relax,” he says, eyes glinting. “I’m excited. It’s been a while since we’ve been in the same room, working on the same story.”

Not that long, Jeon. You can count the months on your fingers if you really wanted to.

“Well, the last time it happened, you tried to quote me mid-sentence and almost caused a media blackout.”

“Allegedly.”

“You handed a live mic to a source on Capitol Hill and asked if they wanted to ‘clarify the vibe.’” The air quotes you make are condescending at best.

“It was a bold strategy. You have to take risks in this field.”

“You’re a walking liability.”

He smiles like it’s a compliment. “See? I’ve missed this.”

You take a deep inhale through your nose. Do not murder anyone before lunch. You just bought this button-down.

“Look,” you step forward, keeping your voice even, “I don’t care what story you think you’re writing. You stay in your lane, I stay in mine. We don’t sabotage each other, and we make it through this without an ethics investigation. Sound fair?”

Jungkook tilts his head, looking painfully unbothered. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“You’ve said that so many times I’m starting to believe you actually will,” he holds up his hands defensively. “I feel like that’d be hot. You all bloody, with a knife in your hand.”

Your gaze trails down to the tattoos that litter his arm, and you swear he has the sleeve half rolled just to prove no one is going to come and yank it back down for him.

Any color you had drains from your face. “Did I mention you’re deranged?”

He pats your shoulder, the touch searing through you like Satan just came up and personally felt you himself. “Tragically, you’re stuck with me.”

Your eye twitches. “There has to be a loophole. Some kind of clause.”

“Oh, I checked,” he comments brightly. “We’re bonded for at least a month. Like a very sexy journalism duo.”

You stare at him. A remark you hope will be scathing builds up on the tip of your tongue, but you’re interrupted by one of his winks before it can escape.

For the first time all morning, you seriously consider filing for witness protection.

Being in a room like this, with every top correspondent from every major news outlet packed shoulder to shoulder, all of you corralled into neat little rows like Type A livestock, feels less like journalism and more like being a zoo animal in a glass cage.

Everyone’s circling. Microphones are being tested. Cameras blink red.

And at the front of the room, Monroe’s press rep sits like he’s preparing to wrestle an alligator with his bare hands and call it diplomacy.

You’re gripping your notepad so tightly the edges have started to bend into soft curls. The same line has been rewritten three times just to keep your pen moving. Across the aisle, NBC’s political correspondents are arguing in hushed tones over language choices. To your right, a New York Times rep is chewing on his own thumb.

You’ve already rehearsed your questions at least 2,939 times. You know which quote you’re fishing for, which phrasing will work. You’ve triple-sourced the angle, practiced tone variations in the mirror like a lunatic, and cross-checked your questions against Jenna’s latest “make them squirm” rubric.

CNN has always been known for getting answers. They’re the “people’s news.”

You breathe slowly through your nose, eyes flicking from Monroe’s press rep to your legal pad and back again as a Wall Street Journal guy throws out a lukewarm question about committee oversight that gets swatted down with the elegance of a cat batting a fly. A few heads turn. Everyone’s circling the story but no one’s made contact yet.

“Would the congressman like to comment,” another recognizable deep voice says, “on whether Delgado’s trip to Puerto Rico last spring had any overlap with Monroe’s?”

Checkmate.

There’s a sharp inhale somewhere near the Reuters team. Someone else whispers “Jesus Christ.”

Your brain — your brilliant, well-trained, self-controlled brain — short-circuits.

You must have committed a devious crime in a past life. There's no other explanation for why the universe keeps hurting you like this.

That was your question. You’d buried it in your notes as a backup, a longshot, a play you’d pull if the answers were dry and the mood was right. Granted, this time, you did not plant it for him to find somewhere around the Hill.

This one was thought of with his very own brain cells, which somehow concerns you more. How some imbecile with a penis for a brain put together that invasive, probing question.

Jungkook read your angle. Now he’s thrown it into the fire like it was his to begin with (even though, yes, technically it was. Neither here nor there.)

Your hand shoots up so fast you nearly dislocate something.

The rep hasn’t even fully answered yet, but you’re already in motion. Already powered by pure professional rage and something that might be vengeance but might also be the ghost of college you screaming don’t let him win, don’t you dare let him win in the back of your skull.

The moderator acknowledges your hand. So does the rep.

“CNN?” They nod toward you.

You clear your throat, smooth the edge of your shirt with one hand and hold your notepad with the other. “To follow up on that,” you say dryly, “would you say Monroe’s own itinerary during that trip coincided with any other meetings not yet disclosed to the committee?”

You feel Jungkook’s beady eyes imprinting on your back.

The rep stutters. There’s a shuffle of pens moving, papers rustling.

You’re not sure what wins feel like for normal people, but for you, it’s this: a perfect follow-up delivered, a headline taking shape in real time, and Jungkook rows behind you, no longer smiling.

The answer you get is cagey and tactful but relevant. Enough to lead the narrative, to throw red meat to Jenna, to start sketching out the bones of what could be a front-page exclusive. You jot down a few key phrases, underline them, circle the most damning one like it’s a lover’s name in a diary.

You’re glowing a little. Still warm with the righteous satisfaction of a public takedown. The floor is yours, the quote is yours—

“Fox News?”

Your spine stiffens like someone just cracked a ruler across your back.

“Has there been any internal response from the committee regarding Monroe’s travel reimbursements?” he badgers politely. “Or is the team planning to handle that… informally?”

You flip your notepad to a new sheet so fast it’s a miracle you don’t give yourself a paper cut. There’s scribbles and venn diagrams that look like conspiracy boards until you land on your next question.

Hand up.

You could power the city grid with the force of your blood pressure alone.

The moderator blinks. “CNN…?”

The poor rep looks like a human paper straw. Wilting. Already on the verge of folding under the collective pressure of 25 ravenous correspondents. His tie is crooked and eyes are darting like a substitute teacher who knows he’s lost the room.

“Is there concern from the office about the appearance of misconduct regarding campaign funds being used for that trip? Especially in light of the allegations?”

You say it like you’re reading him his Miranda rights.

There’s an overhead light that keeps flickering. A few people scribble messily in notebooks, on post-its. A woman exhales, low but impressed.

The representative gives a forced nod. “We’ll be… issuing a statement later today,” he looks like he’s going to pass out. “We’re confident in our transparency.”

Translation: please stop asking us things.

You don’t admit victory. You just shake your head up and down, jot down statement = stall tactic, and allow yourself two full seconds of pure, undiluted smugness.

But before the moderator can even finish her next breath—

“Would the statement include a projected timeline for releasing that financial report to the public?”

You turn around so fast your chair squeaks. They really need to raise the budget on housekeeping and get chairs that don’t speak to your every movement.

Fucking Jungkook is leaning back in his seat like he’s posing for a campaign ad.

He lifts one hand in a lazy little wave and smiles over at you. Like he didn’t just hijack the pacing of the entire goddamn briefing. Like this is fun for him.

You imagine launching your pen at his face like a dart.

One time, he edited your op-ed with red ink and then smirked while asking if you wanted him to walk you through AP style. This is more dehumanizing than that.

He’s not just competitive. He’s observant. He watches your questions build, your rhythm form, your angles take shape and then undercuts you by milliseconds.

Turning slowly back around in your seat, your teeth grind like a dial-up modem. You write murder is free if you do it with a pen in the corner of your notepad just to calm yourself down.

Behind you, Jungkook clears his throat, essentially his mating call for war. You’ve known him long enough to catch on to even the most subtle of his quirks.

Quite frankly, you’re going to burn him to the ground.

It goes on longer than you’d like it to, though.

Back and forth. Ping. Pong. CNN. Fox. CNN. Fox. CNN. goddamn Jungkook. You.

There’s a strategy you’re both playing at now — nonverbal warfare. If he sees you flinch, smirk, or breathe too obviously, he’ll take it as encouragement.

The New York Times correspondent beside you keeps trying to interject, his hand half-raised in that tentative way journalists get when they’re not sure if they’re about to get obliterated. But every time he opens his mouth, Jungkook’s voice cuts clean across the room like it’s been waiting in a slingshot.

The other guy next to you sighs loudly and mutters something under his breath about “overachieving twenty-somethings.” You don’t acknowledge it. You can’t. You’re too busy jotting down your next question and preparing to strike like the world’s most caffeinated viper.

You prepare to go again — ask about Monroe’s office phone logs from last quarter, fully aware that the phrasing is risky but too good not to use. It lands like a bullseye. The press rep stammers over his own words, a few chuckles surfacing around the room. You bite your cheek to keep from smirking.

Across the aisle, you can taste Jungkook getting ready to respond. Probably some sly dig about his text messages.

You shoot your hand back up because absolutely not.

It’s gotten ridiculous, the two of you fencing with weaponized diction while the rest of the room slowly becomes collateral damage.

By the eighth exchange, someone coughs pointedly. By the ninth, a guy from Politico leans back with crossed arms and full-blown exasperation.

“Maybe…” the moderator says, voice cracking, struggling with the effort of staying professional, “maybe CNN and Fox News aren’t the only outlets in the room today?”

The tension breaks like a needle to a balloon.

Some dude near the back murmurs “thank god.” The New York Times guy next to you raises his hands to the ceiling in silent gratitude, like he’s been rescued from a hostage situation.

There’s a smile that threatens to unleash its full glory onto your face. Your ears catch Jungkook’s laugh across the room. You want to staple his mouth shut.

The pen gets wrapped around your thumb and pointer finger again, and you scribble stop reacting to him, you’re a professional at the bottom of your notepad. Then underline it four times.

The moderator clears her throat. “Alright, uh… Reuters, I believe you had your hand up?”

This is fine. This is normal. This is just another day in the press pool jungle, and if Jungkook thinks he’s winning this war?

He better start taking better notes.

The session wraps not long after the rest of the outlets speak, questions slowly fizzling into half-baked comments, reporters distracted by their own looming deadlines or the promise of free donuts in the next room. Monroe’s rep offers a pathetic and dull closing statement about transparency and continued cooperation, which is ironic considering he’s sweating through his collar.

You’re already grabbing your bag before the word “adjourned” finishes echoing through the room.

Success can only be determined by one person: Jenna. And until she gives you the proverbial thumbs-up (or better yet, a bottle of tequila and the words “great job, babe”), you are in full damage control mode.

You push past a specific breed of reporters, muttering random ‘sorry’s’ while speed-walking with the urgency of a woman who just saw her ex on a Tinder ad. Sometimes, you’ll hide behind the door and wait for the press rep to walk by to badger them for any last comments, but not today.

You make it about twelve feet down the hall before you hear it.

A cough.

That very specific throat clearing that says hey bestie, remember me? The bane of your existence?

There is a stupid, traitorous whiff of cologne wafting into your nostrils right about now. Woody. Warm. Expensive in the way that only someone with emotional detachment issues could pull off. You’ve never known the name of the cologne, but you know what it smells like: ego.

“I swear to god, Jeon, if you try to do a post-game wrap-up—”

“That was fun,” Jungkook interrupts, matching your stride and appearing beside you like a thief in the night. “Really took me back.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. “To what? The last time you tried to steal a quote and nearly caused an internal investigation?”

He shrugs. “To simpler times. You, me, the scrawny dude up there sweating bullets. Felt like college all over again.”

“You mean where you coasted off other people’s research and called it collaboration?” you clarify.

He gasps, mock offended. “I offered to footnote you.”

You stop walking, hold your ground. “Footnote me?”

Now that you're standing there under the lights that make anyone look horribly pale but, regrettably, work wonders for his alabaster skin, you take in his appearance.

He catches your gaze, “Like, ‘[L/N], et al.’ It had a nice ring to it.”

Your mouth opens — possibly to insult him, possibly to commit verbal homicide — but before you can say anything, the sound of approaching footsteps cuts through the corridor.

You squint in unison with Jungkook, twisting your head to see who possibly would dare to interrupt the two of you. You two uphold an unfortunate reputation on the Hill at this point.

Sadly, it’s the rep from the press pool. Jogging. Actually, it’s more like sprinting toward the two of you, tie askew, phone in hand like he’s about to drop breaking news and/or collapse.

Jungkook leans into you, whispers under his breath, “Oh no. He’s doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where they chase us down because we either scared them or accidentally got too good of a quote and we need to redact it.”

You glance at him. He’s oddly close to you, past the imaginary no-no square you’ve put up two feet within your body. There’s a faint scar you’ve never noticed on his right cheek.

And then you quickly snap back to peer at the rep, who’s panting now, almost there, waving his hand like an unpaid intern trying to stop a runaway bus.

You grimace at this man’s appearance. “Goddamnit.”

“Don’t worry,” Jungkook adjusts his sleeve, tone calm. “If it’s about me, just deny everything. If it’s about you, I’ll deny everything and throw in some fake tears for flair.”

You side-eye him. “You don’t even have tear ducts.”

“I have range.”

The press rep skids to a stop in front of you both, chest heaving, face that same color of chalk that the hallway lighting bestows upon pathetic people.

For some reason, you’re already bracing yourself for whatever act two of this absolute circus is about to be.

He’s got that “once interned for a senator, now drinks four Red Bulls before noon” vibe. Mid-30s, maybe? Hard to tell. Balding slightly. His face is trying to look calm and in control, but his body is screaming “I am being hunted by scandal.”

“Hi,” he exhales, clearly winded. “Sorry—hi. Yes. Hello.”

Naturally, Jungkook offers him a charming little nod, hands in his pockets like he’s not actively considering setting this man’s tie on fire.

The rep straightens his blazer (badly), pats his front pocket like he’s making sure his wallet is still there, and finally extends a clammy hand to no one in particular.

“I’m Mark. With Monroe’s team.”

His voice is wheezy, but trying.

You don’t take the hand and Jungkook doesn’t either. It kind of lingers there, awkwardly floating mid-air.

“Right,” you say after a beat, nodding stiffly. “And you… sprinted here because?”

Mark chuckles nervously, wipes his hand on his slacks. You’re starting to think it’s his first day on the job. Poor dude. Does he know there’s still time to escape?

“Just wanted to, uh, confirm,” he gulps, glancing between the two of you. “You’re the press reps? For CNN and Fox?”

Tentatively, you show signs of agreement. Jungkook, because he’s a show-off, salutes.

You’re standing there thinking: who the fuck is this guy, really? If you had to put money on it, your guess is some overpaid puppet with a job title like ‘Special Communications Liaison to the Chief of Staff.’ Probably thinks he’s the next Olivia Pope. You see the scuffed shoes, the fraying cuff on his blazer, the desperate gleam in his eyes. This guy’s not the mastermind.

He’s a chess piece. You want Monroe.

Mark lowers his voice like he’s about to hand you the nuclear codes locked in the Oval Office. “So… just between us, okay?”

You arch a brow, interest piqued.

Jungkook blinks, arms crossed. If this was Halloween, you two would be pulling off an honest interpretation of Bonnie and Clyde. “Is this off the record or…?”

“No! Well.. technically no,” Mark scratches the back of his neck. “But, like, also… you know.”

You do not, in fact, know.

“Right,” your voice is flat. “Very clear. Continue.”

Mark leans in, glancing over his shoulder like the ghost of Monroe might apparate in this very hallway.

“This thing,” he gestures vaguely as if the scandal is floating above you, “it’s messy. We’re trying to get ahead of it. We think it’s important that the public sees this the right way. Context is necessary. It’s.,, nuanced.”

Context. Nuance. Hmph. All words you equate with overachieving reps who are doing anything to keep the rumors afloat.

You fight the urge to pull out your recorder and hit play with your middle finger.

He keeps going. “And obviously, CNN and Fox… massive reach. Opposite ends of the aisle. But you kind of… shape the public opinion.”

You exchange a glance with Jungkook, who looks vaguely amused, like someone just asked him if he wanted to share his Netflix password.

“Get to the point,” you motion with your hand.

Mark nods, like he’s been waiting for your permission. “We want you two to help us tell the story.”

The ghost of Monroe may have actually possessed his body. There’s no other explanation for this.

A snort escapes your body. A real life snort. “Oh, nice try, buddy.”

Jungkook tilts his head at him. “I’m sorry, are you trying to pitch us a collab piece?”

“I’m sorry,” you add, “did you just chase us down the hallway to ask us to… team up and play Monroe’s PR Barbie?”

Mark flinches. “It’s not like that,” he insists. “We just think, if you two handle this with balance, with neutrality—”

“Neutrally report your version of events,” you clarify.

“Exactly.”

What the fuck is happening? you ask yourself silently. Your mind is still completely, absolutely blank with nothing but insults and denials loading into your brain in a single-file line. “Do we get stickers afterward?”

Jungkook turns toward you. “Maybe matching tote bags. ‘I survived a government scandal and all I got was fired.’”

Mark’s eyes are doing this twitchy thing now, scanning between the two of you like he’s starting to regret every decision that led him here. “We’re just saying… you’re already on it. We know you’re both on it. We’re just… trying to offer cooperation. A foot in the door. We’re hoping to help shape the conversation before it spirals.”

You look at Jungkook again, and for a flicker of a second, your eyes glimmer in that weird, quiet way they do when something actually is serious.

‘Mark’ is right. This is them trying to control the damage, trying to spin you both into pawns.

You didn’t claw your way from a rent-controlled walk-up in New York City to regurgitate talking points from a man who’s probably laundering donor funds through his third wife’s consulting firm.

You spin back to Mark.

“Thanks,” your voice is sugar-sweet. “But if we wanted to write her story, we’d be working for her team.”

Mark’s lip twitches. “So… that’s a no?”

Jungkook gives him a polite, diplomatic smile. “We’ll be in touch if anything changes.”

Code for: if our editors call us stupid, we might pick up the phone and beg you for a second chance.

You both walk off into the abyss of the hallway without another word. The shared satisfaction of a very well-executed fuck off lingers in the air. Honestly, you’re a little proud and surprised by Jungkook’s actions; for once, the man isn’t trying to pull the rug out from under your feet. He is choosing to deny a leg up on the competition, a—

“Wait! I have something you want!”

You and Jungkook halt mid-step.

Like the ghost of Monroe has returned to haunt you, you both whip around in unison. The hallway lights sparkle off Jungkook’s silver watch as he adjusts his cufflink. You fold your arms over your chest because if you don’t anchor yourself, you might actually sprint back and shake the answer out of Mark yourself.

Mark, for his part, looks like he wasn’t expecting that to work. He steadies himself, then offers a sheepish, almost triumphant smile. “I wasn’t finished.”

“I don’t know. Sounds pretty done to me.” Take a hint, Mark.

But he’s barreling towards you again, straightening his blazer like it makes him more credible, “Monroe. She’s been… cautious about this. About the media. But if the two of you together handle it…”

You frown. “What does that mean? Handle it how?”

“You want a puff piece?” Jungkook mirrors your current position, beefy arms crossed over his chest.

“No. Not a puff piece,” Mark refutes quickly, “I told you, we want neutrality. Credibility. That’s what the public needs.”

What the public needs and wants is an article with the likes of a Korean drama.

You narrow your eyes. “Cut to the chase”

Mark hesitates, then puffs out his chest. “She’ll talk. Off the record at first, but open to recording if she feels she can trust you. But only if you two do it together.”

The words drop at your feet, fall below the building, plant themselves in the dirt.

You go unresponsive. Hands fall to your sides. You swear the hands of the clock on the wall nearest to you stop ticking.

For the first time in a long time, you have been rendered utterly and completely speechless.

“Monroe will speak,” Jungkook enunciates slowly, as if trying to confirm that Mark hasn’t just had a stroke. “To us. Together..?”

Mark nods like a broken bobblehead. “Only to you two. It’s optics, if you think about it. It keeps her from looking like she’s hand-feeding one party.”

Your stomach churns, all giddy and horrified at the same time.

Oh, god.

This is the story.

This is exclusive access to the eye of the storm, a one-on-one with a political figure who’s been dodging cameras like they’re carrying the plague. This is headline-making, career-elevating, promotion-sending-you-to-the-moon type shit.

You actually might faint.

Then it all comes crashing down like Jenga blocks toppling over after a five-year old pulls out the middle one on purpose.

The catch. You… Jungkook… same room. For an extended period of time. Trying to extract intel while also trying not to throw a chair at his face.

You glance sideways, and of course he looks unbothered. No, ctrl, alt, delete that. He looks excited. Like he just got picked for the varsity team again and fully intends to score the winning goal.

His jaw tightens, the smallest flicker of hunger flashing in his eyes. He wants the story.

You know that look. You’ve worn it. Slept in it. Shaped your entire career around it.

For a brief second, you hear Jenna’s voice in your head. You hear her saying “great job,” hear the “we would love to offer you the position of Senior Correspondent.”

You’re entirely certain Jungkook wants the intel, and the promotion.

Honestly?

Fuck it. So do you.

“Fine,” you agree, stepping forward. You hold your hand out toward Mark. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Mark exhales like he’s been holding his breath for six years. He shakes your hand then turns to Jungkook, who gives a little half-smile and nods like, well, this should be fun.

You peer at the two of them. Under your breath, you mutter mostly to yourself, “I’m going to regret this.”

And beside you, Jungkook beams ear to ear. “I know.”

You’re not entirely sure this is a good idea.

Scratch that. You’re very sure this is a terrible idea.

You can already envision it: Jungkook slowly rotating in his chair mid-interview like a comic book villain, trying to slip cyanide into your iced coffee while simultaneously plagiarizing your closing paragraph. He’ll flash that dumb, media-trained smile, quote Monroe’s confession word-for-word, and beat you to publication by six minutes and forty three seconds.

But two things are true.

One: you are not about to sabotage your chance to get firsthand information out of Monroe — the kind of scoop that makes editors salivate and might get you an actual door to your office instead of a desk by the printer.

And two: you’re playing to win.

And you’ll be damned if you lose to Jungkook.

masterlist + ask

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