Work Text:
There’s a text on his phone that gets him through the shift.
i’ll be awake
Sent by you, read aloud by his car’s Bluetooth system as he made his way to the PTMC. Dana called him in early. Mass shooting at PittFest.
Three simple words, but it’s enough to see him through, to ensure he doesn’t lose his shit.
The coffee helps. Lets him fool himself into believing that the trembling in his otherwise steady hands come from caffeine fuelling him past the dregs of sleep deprivation. Not from fear. Not from remembering lockdown drills upon lockdown drills that seemed to vanish from his head the first time he heard real gunshots echoing outside his Biology lab.
Robby looks stressed.
And almost immediately, John knows his role in this. “I got the front door. You worry about the back. Relax.”
If he choreographs enough calm, maybe he’ll believe it for himself. Like a duck frantically paddling webbed feet underwater while it appears composed to anyone perceiving it above the waterline. He’d disassociate if he didn’t have to rely on his brain to get through today.
“Hey.” Parker grabs his elbow in the rare quiet. After the rush that followed PittFest, after the kid with measles. “Don’t go back to your apartment.”
Alone. Dark. He knows what it looks like, because that’s how he left it. “I know.”
“Don’t think I won’t check.”
John dips his head, letting out a gruff chuckle. “I know. Bunch of snitches.” He’s intimately familiar with the group chat titled Johnwatch. It started between you and Parker, but you felt bad for not including Jack after meeting him at some Pitt social function where you were John’s plus one. You had added the attending into the group, despite the fact that Jack remained silent in it. You know that he’s reading the messages, though—Jack hasn’t learned how to turn off his read receipts.
What started as Johnwatch spawned two more groups titled Parkerwatch and Abbotwatch. If anyone found it weird that Robby was included in Abbotwatch, no one said a thing.
So.
John inserts the key he has to your apartment. Work is the only thing refraining you from moving in together. He knows his night shifts make it impossible to have a life, and he wants to be close to the hospital.
You run your own little shop, living in the upstairs apartment. It’s tiny, but you love your space and independence, and it means you’re close to your parents.
Even when he was just studying, you had watched his social life dwindle, heard your mutual friends go from asking about John, to not even extending an invitation to him. He’s too busy for us, anyway.
John knows you’re already awake by the light through the window. So he’s prepared when you’re a mass in his arms as soon as the door opens.
“God.” Face buried into the crook of your neck, arms cinching tight around you. He breathes you in. “Fuck.”
“You’re okay,” you murmur. You help shed off his jacket, the door kicked shut behind him.
“Come here.” Hands on your waist, tugging you in despite the fact that you hadn’t gone far.
“I’m here. Not going anywhere.”
He lets out a ragged breath.
“Let’s get you off your feet,” you say. You try to detangle yourselves, but his arm remains around you. “John—”
With his arm hooked around you, he lifts you.
“Jesus—”
“Bed?”
“Yeah.” A little breathless, your legs around his waist. He clicks off the light in the hallway as he navigates through the dark. He’s internalised the layout of your apartment as much as the emergency department.
When he deposits you on the bed, you situate yourself so your back is against the wall. He drops onto the bed, crawling towards you until his head is in your lap.
On the bedside table, the squishy little silicone lamp is already lit on its lowest setting. In the dim light, he can see two water bottles, a plate of sliced apples, and the white grapes that he likes because they’re seedless. There’s also a thermos and insulated food jar.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky with you. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Your fingers in his hair, carding through dark strands. Nails run across his back.
He sighs, eyes fluttering shut.
You upkeep the motions, and you feel him settle against you. Shoulders less tense. You reach over to the bedside table, grabbing one of the grapes. You tap his lips. “Open.”
Lips part lazily.
You insert the grape. He chews.
He doesn’t know what it is. Maybe it’s getting to eat something after a long fucking day. Maybe it’s knowing that you stayed awake, waiting for him to come home safe. One moment he’s swallowing the grape, and the next—
“Fuck.” The first crack, and tears flow.
“Oh, baby.” You shift, manoeuvring him and yourself so you’re both laid out on your sides, facing each other.
John tucks his face against your neck and shakes apart.
You try and hold your world together.
Very rarely do you see him like this. That’s not to say that John’s never emotional—he is. He loves and cares so brightly. You know he values that calm, chill facade he displays, and you’ve been trusted to hold him when he can’t hold it.
“Let it out, sweetheart. It’s okay.” You intermittently press kisses to his hairline, the crown of his head, his temple.
“Shit day,” he croaks out, some time after. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He’s not working tomorrow; your business hours are flexible to your whims.
“I know.” You kiss his forehead.
“It—sucks. It keeps happening, and nothing changes.”
Your heart is heavy. The feeling of helplessness weighs on you both. You know you were lucky enough to make it out of your school. But it never stops.
“Fuck me, man. Sorry—”
“Don’t apologise.” You stretch behind you for the bedside table, grabbing a bottle of water to give to him.
He sits up, scrubbing at his face. “Thought I was over it.” He avoids eye contact by opening the cap with the same intensity as he would in the trauma rooms.
You scoff humorously. The school had given every student a quick, mandated counselling session just to say that they had done something to try and mitigate the trauma that followed the incident. No follow ups. No further resources. “Yeah, I bet that 30 minute counselling session really stuck with you.”
John discards the bottle when he’s done. Pulls you into his lap. Hands on your waist, your legs straddling his thighs. “You really stuck with me.”
“Please,” you chuckle. You weren’t high school sweethearts, as much as Parker liked to coo over it. John was too focused on academics, and eventually admitted to having a crush on your high school best friend. You flew under the radar. Stayed within the same circle of friends that occasionally saw him. Went to university straight after high school for an arts degree that you have no use for, had your glow-up—so to speak—well into your twenties.
John settled into a year of his residency before he even allowed himself to deprioritise school and work. Catch up drinks with mutual friends, then somehow, drinks with just the two of you; movies; dinner; dates.
Your hands slide over his shoulders. A palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your flesh. Eyes studying his face as he studies yours. Taking in, breathing.
“What’s the diagnosis, doc?” John eventually asks, voice barely carrying over a whisper.
You grin. “I’m prescribing a shit ton of cuddles.”
“I don’t think that’s an official unit.”
“Oh, you have a problem with shit ton but not the cuddles?”
“Obviously not. I believe in the healing powers of cuddles.” Expert hands travel up, fingers cupping the back of your neck. Pulling you in for a lingering kiss. Foreheads touching when you pull away to breathe.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Feeling a lot better than I did. I love you,” he says, and he hopes it enough to encompass how much he appreciates you, how thankful he is to have you in his life.
“I love you,” you say. A you’re welcome, and to say you’re just as thankful for him. “You up for eating yet?”
John hums, kissing you again. “Probably should.”
Your phone buzzes on the bedside table. You had set it to ‘Do not disturb’ when you heard John’s car idling out front. The only contacts that were allowed through were your parents, the PTMC’s phone, and the other night shift workers, in the awful chance that they needed to call you while John was at work.
“Is that Parker?” John asks.
You reach over to grab your phone. It’s the Johnwatch chat. You angle the phone so you’re both able to read.
Parker: checking in
Sent: alive. getting better
“Tell her I said snitches get stitches,” John says.
Sent: he said snitches get stitches
Parker: tell him to keep the windows opened
Sent: they’re my windows??????
Parker: i’ll keep you safe, dw
“Alright. Quit flirting with her and come back to me.”
You send a quick gtg <3 and put your phone aside again. Your chin hooked over his shoulder, pressed into the warmth of his body whilst his arms wrap around you. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, baby.”
“That’s my line,” John says.
“I bet you to it.”
He hums, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “I’m going to marry you,” he whispers.
You try and stifle a yawn. “I can’t wait.”
“Go to sleep, baby. Thanks for staying up for me.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Obviously, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Yesterday was meant to be about John, but you wake up with the insulated food jar and thermos gone; a couple of apple slices left behind on the plate on the bedside. At least he ate.
The heavy arm around your middle lets you know that John hasn’t gotten up to start his day yet.
You shift, slowly extricating yourself from the bed. You brush your teeth, turn off the lamp, then take the plate and bottles out to the kitchen.
John comes out after you’ve finished drying the plate; you’ve set up the coffee machine. His arms circle around your waist from behind, lips pressed to the side of your neck. You smell minty toothpaste. “I thought I would be up before you,” he grumbles.
“You needed to sleep,” you say.
His fingers massage the plush of your sides. “Really wanted to clean up after yesterday.”
“You did.”
“You made yourself coffee.” Though you’ve just set up the coffee machine, you know he’s not talking about that. The thermos on the bedside contained coffee that you were relying on to keep you awake enough for John to get home.
You twist in his hold, facing him. He looks soft, sleep rumpled; wrinkled white tank top and grey sweatpants. He must have also changed after you fell asleep. “I did.”
“God, I fucking love you.” A hand cups the side of your face, thumb brushing against your lips before he leans in to kiss you. It’s nothing like the gentle ones from last night, the ones that were keeping him sane and alive. Grounded.
The small of your back digs into the edge of the counter. You gasp; his tongue licks into your mouth.
“Fuck,” you manage. “We don’t—John.”
“Yeah?” he says, distractedly. He nips at your neck, wet kisses against your skin.
“This isn’t transactional. You don’t have to do this because of yesterday—”
John chuckles, cupping your face again. Looks you in your eyes. Pausing, just to make sure he has your attention. “Baby, I’m doing this because I really want to be inside you.”
Your breath stutters out. Holy fuck. “John—”
“Yeah?” he teases. “Onboard now?”
Your fingers curl into his flimsy tank top, pulling him in again. You kiss him as his hands tuck under your thighs. He lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you back to your bedroom, lays you on the bed. Sprawls out on top of you. One of your thighs hiked against his side.
You roll your hips against him, just to hear the bitten out groan he lets out.
Your phone buzzes on the bedside table.
“Ignore it,” you both say at the same time.
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up.
John grins against your collarbone. Sucks a hickey against the flesh above it.
You moan, just as your phone buzzes again.
Sighing, John shifts up, knee indented on the mattress as he grabs the phone from the table, typing in your code to read through the messages. “Cockblocker,” he scoffs.
That must be— “Parker?” you ask. Your fingers brush up and down his thigh.
“She wants to come over.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now? Tell her to come in an hour.” Fingers further up his thigh.
John types something out. “It’s alright. We’ll be quick.”
“You will, you mean.”
“Hey, someone’s being cheeky today,” he tuts. He puts the phone back, rummaging through the bottom drawer.
You shift up the bed, taking the opportunity to take off your clothes. Panties off, fingers sliding down your core. Collecting wetness. Fingers circling your clit.
“We’ve got 30—” John falters. “Fuck.” He’s back on the bed, crawling over to you. Eyes transfixed on everything about you. He can’t decide—eyes, face, body, your fingers.
“Hi,” you whisper out when he’s right on top of you.
“Hi, sweetheart. You’re so fucking beautiful.” He leans in to kiss you again. One of his hand slides down, joining yours. He rubs against your nub.
You moan into the kiss, his teeth scraping against the plush of your bottom lip. “John.”
“I’ve got you,” he says. His other hand reaches for something, then—
“Did you grab my toy?” you ask when you hear the vibration.
“Yeah, one of them.”
One of the ends use suction, and he places that directly on your clit.
“Fuck,” you gasp out. We’ll be quick, he said. Fucking smug bastard. Of course it’ll be fast when he’s using your toys against you.
“Yeah?” John grins, leaning back to keep it in place. He presses a button to increase the intensity, and your hips buck up. Your legs are on either side of him. His free hand rests atop your knee.
“Oh my God,” you pant out in between breathless moans.
John watches, captivated by you. It’s quick—he knows it will be. But every time, he’s almost amazed by it.
You’re free-falling into your first orgasm. A sudden onslaught, breaths coming out in short bursts.
“There we go, baby,” John says. “Breathe through it. You can do it.” The hand on your knee slides to the side, thumb digging as he stops you from closing your legs around him.
“Oh my God, John, fuck—”
“Breathe, baby. I’ve got you.”
You try. God, you’re fucking trying. Breaths caught in your throat, trying to escape.
John keeps the suction against you. He’s not stopping. He doesn’t move it. Doesn’t let you move away.
“Fffff— John—”
“It’s okay. Give me another. I know you can.”
You moan, a ragged thing that stutters when you can feel that feeling in your stomach again.
Fucking relentless.
“John,” you sob. Your hand reaches for him. “Please. Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for. For some mercy; for him to keep going.
“I got you.” John grants some semblance of grace; the toy still against your clit, buzzing and suctioning. He leans down onto you, aligning the warmth of his body against yours. Capturing your lips with his.
You’re torn between a moan and cry, keening.
“Fuck,” John grunts against your neck, laying more kisses there. He’s so painfully hard, even without any attention from you. Just watching you—hearing you. Fuck. “One more, baby. Just one more.”
There are tears in your eyes. “Okay,” you whimper, legs shaking.
“God, you’re so fucking good for me. There we go. Show me, baby.”
Tipping over the edge. Again. Choked out gasps, eyes squeezed shut. Tears rolling down your temples. It’s deliciously painful. Your hips rolling against John’s still clothed body.
“John.” You’re heaving out mouthfuls of air. “Please,” you whine, overstimulated. The toy is still pressed against your clit. Fucking God. Your walls clenching around nothing. You can’t—you don’t want to go for a third like this. You need him inside you. “Please, John, please, please, I need you, please—”
“Christ.” John turns off the toy, tossing it aside before he kisses you. Deep, hard. Rough. Sloppy. It’s not a coordinated or soft thing. Shucking off his bottoms. Fingers around his dripping cock. Pumping once. Twice. Then he’s sliding into your entrance. It’s an easy glide; you’re practically leaking with your two orgasms.
You let out moan as he enters, sucking in a breath as he fucks into you, barely giving you time to adjust. “Fuck,” you groan, “you’re so deep. Fuck me, baby. Please.”
He’s not going to last. John thrusts, messy, chasing after his own release.
You blindly reach, fingers closing over the toy. You turn the vibrating end on; too sensitive for more suction. You press it against your clitoris, drawing out a gasp.
“Jesus Christ,” John huffs, when he realises what you’re doing. Giving yourself your third orgasm. “Fucking Christ, look at you. You’re so fucking perfect.” He bows over you, palm flat against your stomach. Pushing.
Your walls spasms around his cock, legs wrapped around his back. Your free arm hooked around his shoulders.
He leans forward, lips brushing against your ear. “There you go. One more. Wanna feel you come around my cock. There you go. Take it, baby.”
And you’re coming again. Clenching around him. He buries himself deep inside you, letting you ride out your orgasm. The toy’s still vibrating against your clit, overstimulating you again. It’s heavenly.
“Goddammit,” he bites out. He remembers telling you last night that he was going to marry you. Right now, all he can think of is fucking his babies into you; making you his, entirely and completely. He groans openly by your ear, knowing that it’s something that you like to hear. “I’m going to come in you.”
“Please,” you utter out. The toy cast aside. Your arms around him, holding on.
You feel his cock jerk inside you, once, twice, then John moans. Forehead pressed against your shoulder, collapsing onto you.
You take the weight—you take whatever he gives you. “I love you,” you say. Kissing his shoulder, his arm, his hairline.
“I love you,” he mouths against your neck. Lips against your racing pulse.
You turn your head, meeting his lips halfway. Exchanging lazy kisses. You stay like that, murmuring to each other until you hear the door to the apartment open.
“Fuck,” you swear.
“I used your spare key!” Parker yells from the front door. It closes behind her.
There’s a small lockbox on the street that contains the extra key to the shop. You, John, and Parker are the only ones that know the code. Inside the shop, there’s a spare key that leads upstairs to your apartment.
“I forgot about her,” John says.
You thump his shoulder. “You told her to come over,” you hiss.
“My bad, honey.”
“Don’t honey me.”
“Take your time, guys!” Parker calls out.
“See?” John says. “We’re fine—”
“Not too long, though! I’m making lunch.”
When you listen, you can hear her rifling through your fridge.
You sigh. Your thumb brushes across his cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” John whispers. “Promise.”
He helps you get cleaned up. You take what feels like the quickest shower of your life, not wanting to be rude and keep Parker out in the kitchen on her own.
She side-eyes the both of you when you shuffle into the kitchen. “I should’ve known before inviting myself over,” she says.
“Yeah, you should’ve,” John says, grinning.
You smack his chest. “You’re welcome here any time, Parker,” you say to Parker, refusing to look at him.
“I think that’s part of the problem.”
“Fuck you.” Parker wields the butter covered knife like a weapon, aimed at the attending. She’s barely holding back a smile. “It’s only a problem because you didn’t communicate the timing.”
“Alright,” John says, taking a seat on one of the kitchen stools. “That’s my bad. Honestly thought we’d be faster.”
“Gross,” Parker says.
You frown.
“Not you,” Parker corrects. “Him.”
Instead of flipping her off, John peace signs with his fingers before making himself some coffee.
You watch Parker move around the kitchen, fixing up sandwiches for the three of you. “You okay?” you eventually ask.
Parker nods. “Yeah. Yesterday was fucked, but—you know. Life.”
You lips twist. “Yeah. Life.” Unforgiving like yesterday, but somehow, provides you something like this.