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When John was first assigned to the night shift as a freshly minted attending, he was met with condolences from family and friends. “Man, that blows,” came from his best friend, Connor, who was still out in Orange County doing financial planning or some shit that made John’s eyes glaze over. His sister was more pragmatic. “Your hours are shit,” she said, “but you’ll have a good excuse to dodge calls from mom.”
And, yeah, sure, working days was preferable. His sleep schedule was fucked and he felt detatched from the regular rhythms of the world, but the thing was, if you cared enough to keep score, you could always find a better option, a better hand, than the one you’d been dealt. John had been working his ass off for over fifteen years to finally fucking become an attending physician. PTMC could slap his ass on any damn shift they wanted, and John would make it work.
Even Abbot, a guy who chose to work nights, assumed John was disappointed. “Short straw for the new guy. Always how it goes,” he’d said. “You’ll get used to it.”
Shrugging, John had responded, “I’m adaptable. No biggie,” before looking at the board to orient himself for the night.
Jack's instincts were right, though. John did grow accustomed to working nights, and more than that, he found he liked the shift. The flip-flopping shifts during his residency had been a drain and difficult to bounce back from, but over time, John acclimated to the 3 AM lull when his brain tried to convince him he should be asleep. His gym was open 24 hours, he could still meet friends for drinks on his nights off, and, if he wanted to be real, the apps made a hookup possible any time of day.
Where the day shift had their share of traumas and truly emergent cases, the majority of the shift was spent on a steady stream of patients who, in a world where insurance wasn’t an impenetrable barrier to appropriate levels of care, were better suited for an urgent care or family medicine visit. But very few people showed up at the ED at 2 AM for a cough that could wait until morning. The pace was slower, with a higher percentage of true emergencies, and while no one would ever accuse John of being excitable, he got a thrill out of treating so many life-or-death cases. He’d chosen emergency medicine for a reason, after all.
Unexpectedly, though, the best part of working nights came in the form of Jack Abbot. Battle-tested, unorthodox, and unflappable, John hadn’t met another physician he’d like to emulate the way he did Abbot. Observing Abbot in a crisis was like an emergency medicine fellowship of its own. Obviously, John would never have the kind of life experiences Abbot did, but that wasn’t something Abbot threw in their face; he simply used his experience to teach.
During John’s residency, he’d watched Abbot carefully, noting his effective balance of evidence-based medicine and risk-taking, and got a small buzz—different than he did from Robby or other attendings—when Abbot praised him for a job well done.
When John started on nights permanently, he hadn’t given much thought to how his dynamic with Abbot would change, but almost immediately, Abbot’s demeanor with John shifted. It wasn’t like Abbot stood on ceremony with residents and med students, but the supervision was always apparent. Now, while Abbot still used his additional decade-plus on the job to guide John, the reins were loosened. Abbot consulted with John on tough cases, asked him to take on additional responsibilities with residents, and, in a way so nuanced that John would have missed it if he wasn’t paying close attention, let down a wall that John hadn’t even realized was up until it had crumbled.
On paper, they had little in common. John learned that Abbot had grown up in Maryland with working-class parents and had used an ROTC scholarship to help pay for undergrad and then extended his service so the Army would cover med school, a stark contrast to John’s own childhood in an upper-class Orange County community. John never really got into sports once he quit the tennis lessons his parents had forced on him, while Abbot was like an encyclopedia of Baltimore and Pittsburgh sports stats. Their fifteen-year age difference left a gap in a laundry list of cultural references—John took particular pleasure in making offhand “Boomer” comments to Abbot, who’d grumble back good-naturedly, “Gen X, asshole”—and where John had eclectic taste in music, favoring indie bands, Abbot was stuck in some 80’s and 90’s rock timeloop.
None of those differences seemed to matter, though, in the early hours of the morning when adrenaline was crashing after a gnarly trauma, and the only way to center themselves following the effort was to take a minute privately, and then talk to each other about literally anything else. They shared movie recs, with John conceding that Midnight Run was decently watchable after streaming it on a day off, and took turns scouring med journals and Reddit for outlandish cases to share with each other.
The highlight, though, was watching Abbot treat patients night after night. John was known for being unflappable, but sometimes he’d been accused of not taking things—school, relationships, jobs, take your pick—seriously enough. During the worst traumas they saw, Abbot struck the perfect balance of necessary emotional detachment and an aura of complete command. He made John understand the saying about following someone into battle.
As a result, John found himself checking the schedule in advance, hoping to see that he and Abbot were working together. He liked to surround himself with competent people. So sue him. Every doctor went through a bit of hero worship with a senior physician.
One evening in early November, when the initial aftermath of Pittfest had faded to a dull ache, John was at the counter at Dunkin ordering his 32oz butter pecan swirl oatmilk iced coffee, extra sugar, and remembered that Jack had mentioned a recurring appointment on Tuesdays that butted up against the start of their shift.
Abbot’s conflict had come up in conversation when John gave Abbot shit for drinking the god-awful beakroom coffee, swill that John had vowed to avoid. He said as much, and Abbot nodded in agreement, but shared that he didn’t have time to stop on his way in on Tuesdays, and any coffee was better than no coffee. John actually found that point debatable, but simply grimaced when Jack took another sip out of a chipped mug, and let the topic drop.
He remembered that conversation now, however, and on an impulse ordered Jack a 20-oz black dark roast. Gourmet coffee, Dunkin was not, but anything was better than the burned grounds at the Pitt.
When Abbot arrived just a few minutes after John had clocked in, John glanced at the coffee cup sitting on the counter at Central and momentarily considered tossing it. John wasn’t a guy prone to anxiety, and the way his stomach fluttered at the sight of Abbot approaching frustrated him. Sure, he’d gotten coffee for a guy who was still kind of his boss—senior to him, at least—but it was just Abbot. There was no reason for his heart rate to have picked up.
Get over yourself, John thought as Abbot approached, and leaned back against the desk, taking a long sip of his iced coffee. He put his cup down when Abbot reached him, looking up over John’s head at the board, and when he had Abbot’s attention, nodded at the cup on the desk.
“Picked that up for you. I really can’t have you drinking coffee from the breakroom. We’re both on Tuesdays all month, and that shit is going to mess with your mood by 1 AM.”
“Hey, thanks,” Abbot said, picking up the coffee cup. “Even if it’s a self-serving gesture, I appreciate it.” He gave John a wide grin—one that went all the way up to his eyes, highlighting his crow's feet—and John’s belly fluttered in response. He could practically feel his heart beating in his chest, and his palms were suddenly clammy.
Well, fuck.
So much for run-of-the-mill hero worship.
*
John wasn’t one for soul-searching. He didn’t go home and stew over the realization that, perhaps, his interest in Abbot was more than strictly professional. Instead, he jerked off in the shower, then tucked the information away in a corner of his mind with the other detritus that didn’t serve him, and resolved not to let an inconvenient crush interfere with his work. As Andrew Scott’s hot priest would say, “It will pass.”
He was so determined not to let his revelation impact his working relationship with Abbot that he continued to bring Abbot coffee on Tuesdays. Abbot stopped his obligatory, “You didn’t have to,” after the third week, accepting the boring black roast graciously. In return, week after week, John was treated to a genuine smile, and sometimes a clap on his shoulder or a squeeze to his bicep, that fueled him through his shift.
John didn’t expect anything in return—reciprocation wasn’t the point of a gesture like a two-dollar cup of coffee—so he was surprised when Abbot arrived on a Thursday evening and flagged John down to say, “I’ve got something for you. One sec.”
Pulling his backpack off his shoulders, Abbot held it under one arm and used the other to unzip the bag. He rummaged through the contents for a second, then pulled out a gallon ziplock bag with a few sealed packages inside.
“I was stocking up on my Control-Crics. I know you’ve got a secret hard-on for them, so I grabbed a few for you, too.”
John took the bag with wide eyes, turning it over in his hand and counting five kits inside. He looked up at Jack. “Bro, these are fucking sweet. Thank you.”
“Bro,” Jack deadpanned.
“Fuck off,” John said blandly and rolled his eyes. “And my hard-on for these is not secret. I’m gonna sleep with these under my pillow. I’m gonna carry them with me and walk around the city, hoping I stumble on someone who needs a cricothyroidotomy. Sorry, citizens of Pittsburgh. I’m hoping for compromised airways.”
Abbot laughed and playfully grabbed for the bag. “I need to know you’re going to use your power for good, Shen.”
“Uh, uh,” John teased, holding the bag to his chest. “No takebacks. And it’s not like I’m going to be compromising airways. I’m just hoping to be in the right place at the right time.”
Abbot looked up to the ceiling in mock exasperation. “I’ll keep my ears out on the scanner for a civilian airway hero.”
John pursed his lips and nodded. “Airway Hero. Not as snappy as I’d make the title, but I could live with it.”
Laughing again, Abbot zipped his bag and slung it back over his shoulder. “Glad you like ‘em.”
“You didn’t have to, but I really do appreciate these,” John said, turning more serious, it suddenly hitting him that Abbot had been doing shopping on his free time and thought of John. Expensive shopping, too.
Abbot shrugged his free shoulder and met John’s eyes. “No biggie,” he said, clearly mocking John, and walked off toward the lockers before John had a chance to respond.
*
John was a lot of things—emotionally distant, too cerebral, a bad minigolf player—but what he wasn’t was delusional. He didn’t believe that Abbot reciprocated his unfortunately deepening feelings. Every once in a while, he caught Abbot watching him with a frustratingly unreadable look on his face, but that could have been chalked up to Abbot’s continued assessment of the night shift’s performance. He and Abbot were colleagues, and though John could consider them friends of a sort at this point, it stopped there.
But John also couldn’t deny that he and “just call me Jack already, for Christ’s sake” had a connection. They got each other in a way John didn’t usually find, not since he left California for med school in Boston, shocked by the northeast culture and the overt competition among the med students.
Like John, Jack didn’t feel a need to be showy; he let his work and the results speak for themselves. And also like John, Jack could separate the medicine from the people he was treating, focused and driven to save lives, but not to personalize. Until occasional losses dismantled Jack’s ability to compartmentalize, and the trauma Jack carried, but never spoke of, reared its head.
There had been a handful of incidents over the months they’d worked together, where Jack disappeared to the roof, a location John only learned about after overhearing Robby and Dana discussing Jack’s whereabouts. Generally, Jack pulled through the majority of his shift, only disappearing near handoff, and generally, Robby was around to seek Jack out and offer whatever comfort Jack needed in those moments. Jack’s pain felt private, something that existed outside of his burgeoning friendship with John; as much as John desired to help, he knew it wasn’t his place to try to ease the burdens Jack carried. Not that he had a clue how to help Jack, anyway.
Tonight, though, had been brutal. MVA involving a young newlywed couple coming home from dinner. They worked on the wife for over an hour, but their efforts were fruitless. The husband had, miraculously, walked away from the accident physically unscathed, but even John, who prided himself on his emotional detachment, would hear the sounds of the husband’s wailing for a long time to come.
John didn’t know what Jack saw in this couple that caused the haunted, stricken look on his face, but when no one was able to find Jack for some time, and with hours of their shift left to go, John took it upon himself to check the one place he could think of that Jack might retreat to.
He pushed open the door to the roof slowly, wondering if he’d have to search for Jack, but Jack was immediately visible, standing on the wrong side of the railing, staring out across the city. The night was cold—John should have thought to grab a jacket—but Jack didn’t seem bothered. He stood still, hands in his pockets, unmoving even when the door let out a creaky groan as it closed.
Jack didn’t move as John neared, though John took heavy steps to try to telegraph his approach, wanting to see how close Jack was to the edge before he spoke. The last thing he needed to do was startle Jack into a ten-story fall. Then Jack spoke up.
“I’m sure you’re needed downstairs,” Jack said, still looking forward. John wasn’t sure whether Jack was speaking to John specifically or to whoever might have come to check on him.
“It’s quieter now,” John deflected. “Bridget will page me if she needs something.”
Jack sighed. “I just needed a minute. You don’t have to worry about me.”
John played around with a response in his mind before settling on, “It’s not worry. I just care how you’re doing.”
His words were a little too honest for his comfort, but they must have resonated because Jack turned toward him and stepped to the railing, leaning his forearms on the metal divider. He looked up at John, who had his arms crossed over his chest and was trying to keep himself from shivering. Jack’s eyes roamed across John’s face, assessing him in a way that left John feeling like he was under a microscope, exposed, but he stayed silent and still under the attention.
“My baggage has baggage, kid,” Jack said after a beat. He looked as tired as John had seen him, weighed down by more than an unfortunate loss in Trauma 2. John itched to smooth the lines from his brow. But Jack’s appearance wasn’t what John focused on.
“We both know I’m not a kid,” John said, calling Jack out. At his age, no one referred to John as a kid unless they were trying to put distance between them, and he wasn’t going to let that stand, regardless of how vulnerable Jack might feel being found up here by John. “And even if I were, I can still care about your well-being.”
Jack sighed. “I’m fine, John. Just one of those nights.”
“Look,” John said, determined to stay until Jack was ready to head downstairs, too. “I’m obviously not Robby. I don’t know what to say to make tonight less worse. But there’s probably some apropos saying like ‘more people carrying the baggage makes it lighter’ or some shit. You get my drift?”
“Really?” Jack asked, raising his eyebrows, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Listen, man. I sleepwalked through half my psych rotation. You want a wise parable or someone who’s got the answers, I’m not the guy.”
Jack laughed, and some of the tension John was carrying dissipated. “Yeah, okay,” Jack said, and climbed to the inside of the barrier. He leaned back against the railing, though, rather than heading inside. John waited him out, turning to rest next to him, startling a bit at the cold metal against his back. Finally, Jack sighed and said, “Doesn’t happen often, but that woman reminded me of my wife. We’d barely started our life together, and there was a car wreck…” He drifted off. “Anyway, once in a while, there’s a casualty that blasts past my defenses.“
There wasn’t anything John could say that felt worthy of Jack’s disclosure, so he nodded in acknowledgment and squeezed Jack’s shoulder. Then he stepped back toward the center of the roof and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Great chat, Jack, but it’s fucking freezing up here.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Let’s not get ourselves hypothermia.”
Jack laughed again, sounding even more at ease, and followed John to the door, grabbing John’s wrist to stop him once they were back inside and on the stairwell and forcing the kind of intense eye contact that sent med students scattering.
“Just so you know, Robby doesn’t have a fucking clue what to say either. What helps is that he shows up.”
With that, Jack started down the stairs, leaving John to sort through the array of emotions that swirled through him.
*
“You coming out for breakfast?” Jack asked, sidling up to John as he finished charting.
“Not sure,” John said, distracted by how far behind he’d fallen when an ice storm jacked up their shift. Fortunately, most of the injuries were minor, but John had been looking forward to a mellow night. Somewhere in here was a lesson about tempting fate.
“Well, it’s Ellis’ birthday, and I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side when you try to explain what kind of lame-ass plans you have that are more important.”
John clicked ‘save’ on the record and lifted his head to look at Jack. “I don’t have any plans, which is the point. I’m fucking beat, man.”
“Lame,” Jack insisted, then his face softened. “Come out with us. It’s an hour tops. You can carb load and then go crash out or do whatever you get up to when you’re not here harassing me about my choice of music and movies.”
“Dude, your music could be on one of those 90’s late-night TV infomercial compilations.”
“Your generation has no taste,” Jack said, shaking his head.
“My generation.” John laughed. “You’re really not beating those Boomer allegations.”
Jack gave John a level stare and mouthed, “Gen X.” Then he flicked John on the shoulder and said, “Come to breakfast. Consider it a personal favor,” as he walked away.
A burst of warmth settled in John’s abdomen, and he sighed. It looked like he was going to delay his date with his bed.
*
John walked with a small group of night shifters from the Pitt to a diner a few blocks away. They were able to commandeer two booths, Jack sliding in beside John, Parker and and a nervous-looking med student across from them.
“Thirty, huh?” Jack said to Parker when they’d placed their orders. John had done exactly as Jack had predicted—ordered a tall stack of butter pecan pancakes with extra butter and a side of bacon. Jack had shaken his head at John’s order and proceeded to put everyone else to shame with his health-conscious, heart-healthy egg white omelet. At John’s eye roll, Jack had remarked, “Looking this good doesn’t come easy.” And, well, while he wouldn’t say it out loud, John could at least concede the point that, yeah, Jack looked good.
“Thirty and living my best life,” Parker said.
“Nah,” Jack said good-naturedly. “You’re still a resident. The really good life starts in six months when you make attending. Better hours and an attending salary.” He looked at John. “Right?” Jack asked, spreading his legs to knock John’s knee.
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” John agreed easily, but his mind was singularly focused on where Jack’s knee now rested against his, a single point of hot and steady pressure that Jack didn’t seem inclined to ease. John poured more sugar in his coffee and stirred repeatedly, distracted, trying to pretend that a bit of contact with Jack Abbot’s joint wasn’t about to send his libido into overdrive.
“Yo. Earth to Shen.”
John startled at Parker’s call-out, dropping his spoon and bumping his knee into Jack’s. He was sure Jack would pull away now, but Jack simply left his knee positioned against John’s, continuing his conversation with the med student, Charlie, without missing a beat.
“What were you saying?” John asked Parker, trying to rejoin the conversation while his mind swirled with questions.
“I was just reminding you that you may be an attending now, but I still smoke your ass at patient sat scores.”
“Everyone knows patients love me, and I am only letting that comment fly because it’s your birthday, Ellis,” John shot back, flipping her off.
“Can’t fight the data, man,” Parker said with a laugh, and turned to join Jack’s conversation with Charlie. John let his attention drift again. Feeling stupidly bold, he decided to test the waters, and while he took a sip of his coffee, he shifted his leg on the bench seat so that his thigh was pressed against Jack’s. For a moment, there was no response. Jack didn’t pull away, but he didn’t acknowledge John either. Then, as the waitress approached with their food, John felt a subtle nudge back.
Heat shot straight to John’s groin. Out of context, the contact was extraordinarily innocent, yet John was thrust back to his freshman year of high school when he’d gone to the movies with Lexie Stratton. They’d sat in the dark, sharing a tub of popcorn, and every accidental touch of their fingers had felt illicit. He’d kissed the butter off her lips later that night.
More than fifteen years later, John had that same rush sitting in a dingy Pittsburgh diner at eight o’clock in the morning, after a grueling twelve-hour shift.
There was no stolen kiss today, though. They dug into their food, raised their glasses to Parker, and when Jack picked up the tab for the group, they’d all headed out on their own. John almost wondered if his lust-addled mind had overplayed the whole thing.
*
Over the next few weeks, John tried to get a read on Jack, but the man was an enigma. John was almost inclined to ask Jack if he’d ever been trained in counterintelligence.
At times, John thought Jack’s hand lingered on his shoulder longer than strictly necessary, and they certainly spent more time shooting the shit than they did with any of the residents or med students, but John could easily attribute Jack’s attention to their friendship and mutual roles as attendings. He couldn’t think of any way to ask, “So, hey, you into me?” without the risk of looking like a complete idiot. Putting his cards on the table before he had irrefutable proof of Jack’s interest was a nonstarter, so John was left with a crush that was becoming more and more difficult to compartmentalize, and a daily, but unsatisfying, date with his hand.
The night’s shift was winding down, and John’s usual calm was near a breaking point. Jack had been giving John inscrutable looks all fucking day, but then interacting with John as if nothing was unusual. John was near ready to pull Jack aside to ask what the fuck was up with him when Jack beat John to it, pulling John aside when they passed in the hall and casually asking if he had a few minutes to catch up after shift.
The hours dragged, but finally, once they’d handed off patient care to the day shift and grabbed their bags from their lockers, Jack nodded toward the entrance to the hospital and set off, with John following behind.
It was a bitterly cold winter morning, and John fumbled in his pockets for his gloves and knit hat, walking down the sidewalk toward the staff parking garage, Jack at his side.
“You really don’t like the cold, huh?” Jack asked.
“I’m a SoCal boy, Jack. This weather is cruel and unusual.”
“Yet here you are, suffering for the greater good of Pittsburgh.”
“Something like that,” John laughed.
They stopped at the door to the stairwell and elevator bank, and Jack took his backpack off his shoulder, then glanced at John and pulled the door open, ushering him inside, where the air was still cold but not nearly as interminable.
“Don’t want you to catch a chill,” Jack smirked.
“I’m fucking delicate, okay?” John deadpanned back.
Jack just smiled and unzipped a front pocket on his bag to pull out a folded sheet of paper. “A little while back, you mentioned you like String Machine and said they hadn’t toured in a while. They’re doing a night at the Thunderbird Cafe in a few weeks, so—”
He handed John the paper, which John unfolded to find a printed QR code ticket to the show.
Staring at the page, John tried to collect his tangled thoughts, when Jack added, “There’s a second ticket for you, if there’s someone you’d want to go with. A friend, or…whatever. Or, I could go with you.”
John’s head shot up to look at Jack, who, to someone who didn’t know him, would appear completely unbothered, but John did know him and saw a rare uncertainty in Jack’s expression that sent John’s heart racing.
“Yeah,” John said, his voice catching in his throat. “That would be—you should definitely go with me. To the show.” He stuttered through his response, thinking, not fucking smooth, Shen, as he spoke, but Jack gave him a blinding smile and clapped him on the arm.
“Great.” Jack shouldered his bag. “You can’t possibly compete with my exceptional taste in music, but I’m looking forward to it.”
With that, leaving John staring in his wake, Jack pushed the button for the elevator and stepped inside when the door quickly opened, offering John a small hand raise in acknowledgement as the door shut, and then he was gone.
*
Over the next two weeks, John turned the invitation over and over in his head. Surely, this was a date. Right? It had to be. If Jack’s intention was a casual guy’s night out, he’d have invited John somewhere more public. And he wouldn’t have seemed nervous. There was no way John was reading into this. He and Jack had a date.
Only nothing between them had changed. They gave each other shit like always and kicked ass at work like the bosses they were, but nothing more. Jack had surreptitiously adjusted the schedule to ensure they were both off, and the only time their plans were even mentioned was when Jack caught John in the breakroom two days before the concert and said, “The show is standing room, but we’ve got some ADA seats tied to our tickets, so be sure to mention that when you get there.”
“Cool. So we’ll meet up there?” John asked neutrally, glad they were finally making plans, but mentally backtracking on his little fantasy of Jack showing up at his apartment to Uber over together.
“Yeah?” Jack asked, sounding surprised at the idea of an alternative, so John gave him a thumbs up, and once again, reconsidered the notion that anything romantic was underlying Jack’s invitation.
*
The afternoon of the show, John stared at his clothing, trying to decide what to wear that said, “this is a date, but only if you also think it’s a date, and also I’m a fan of this band and fit in here.” His friends would give him so much fucking shit if they saw him. John hated pretense. He’d grown up in a community where a high degree of importance was placed on how you presented yourself. Image was everything. As a result, and to his parents’ dismay, John had developed a cavalier approach to fashion, discarding polos for band tees and chinos for torn jeans. John wasn’t going to put on a show for anyone, yet here he was, dissatisfied with the entirety of his wardrobe.
Finally, when John reached a peak level of disgust with himself, he settled on a tight-fitting black t-shirt, jeans that were worn but still presentable, and the only pair of tennis shoes he owned that were fit for a concert venue—comfortable enough to stand in if Jack was up for that and old enough that he didn’t care if they ended up splashed with beer.
When John arrived at the Thunderbird, there was a short line queued down the street. He zipped up his bomber jacket and kept an eye out for Jack as the line slowly moved forward, not seeing him by the time his QR code was scanned at the door.
The venue was fairly crowded when John entered, and he was directed to the far side, where there was a wheelchair-accessible platform and a number of chairs and tables set up, allowing a view over the heads of anyone standing in front of the stage. There, he found Jack sitting at a table, drinking a beer and tapping his fingers on the table to the overhead music.
“Hey!” Jack said, grinning and standing, when John approached.
Jack looked fucking good. He was wearing a Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes t-shirt that looked decades old and a pair of jeans that clung to his thighs. Jack’s salt and pepper curls always drove John crazy, but they looked particularly good tonight, like Jack had spent time styling his hair.
They embraced in a loose, easy hug and sat down, Jack nodding toward the QR code on the table that had the link to order food and beer. John scanned through the beer list, settling on a Yuengling porter, before shifting his chair toward Jack.
“If I’d known you get the good seats, I’d have dragged you to concerts a long time ago,” John teased, looking toward the stage.
“We got lucky tonight. Half as likely we’d be somewhere on the floor behind all of those people,” Jack said. “It’s a crapshoot, but I’ve gotta save all that time on my feet for when there’s no other option.”
“I can’t imagine you were always so zen about your leg?” John asked, hoping it was okay to probe a bit.
“Oh, trust me,” Jack said, “I’m still not always zen. I’ve got bad pain days when I’m stuck in my chair and a beast to be around, but I’ve also got good pharmaceuticals, a great therapist, and, generally, the will not to waste the time I have. I left a lot of people behind who didn’t get a future, you know?”
John nodded, rather than state the obvious—he had no fucking clue what it was like to be in Jack’s position, or anything near it. Fondness and warmth curled through him, though, at Jack’s willingness to trust John with this side of himself.
“Okay, enough of that,” Jack said, holding his phone to the QR code. “Let's order some pizza and backup beers before the show starts and this place gets crazy.”
They looked at the menu, Jack somewhat askance when John suggested the chicken ranchero pizza. “Cheddar cheese and ranch dressing do not belong on pizza, my man.”
“I’m ordering it,” John said belligerently, “and you’ll live and learn.”
“No, I will be over here eating my meat lovers delux with extra olives like pizza is meant to be consumed.”
John raised his eyebrows, “We’ll see.”
They placed their respective orders, and with the venue filling quickly, Jack soon had to slide his chair closer to John so they could hear each other over the growing background noise. Just like at the diner, their knees touched as they sat and talked, the point of contact constantly in John’s awareness. As the volume grew, they leaned in closer to one another until they were virtually head to head, speaking into each other’s ears. Jack’s breath was warm, his voice low and huskier than usual, and it took all of John’s concentration to discard the thrum of arousal singing under his skin and pay attention to what Jack was saying.
When Jack turned his head to laugh at something John said, they found themselves face to face, lips so close that it would take no effort to close the scant distance and press his lips to Jack’s. But if somehow he were wrong—
John pulled back and took a long pull of his beer.
“Hey,” Jack said, tapping John’s arm with the back of his hand. “All good?”
Putting his bottle back on the table, John looked at Jack and licked his lips, buying himself time to sort through his answer. As he did, he caught Jack’s eyes quickly darting down to John’s mouth, and then back up, sending John to his breaking point.
“This is a date, right?” John blurted, amazed by his ability to lose all finesse where Jack was concerned.
Jack looked startled, but then his face softened. “I didn’t want to presume,” he said sheepishly.
John rolled his eyes as relief flooded his taxed endocrine system. “I mean, by now you’ve gotta know I’m gone for you.”
Jack’s eyes widened a fraction, but then he gave John a gentle smile. “I wasn’t sure. You’re not the most…emotionally available guy.”
“Says the guy who invited me on a date without saying it was a date.”
“I’m at least fifteen years older than you,” Jack said, looking wary.
“Just let me know if you want me to call you ‘daddy’. I’m flexible,” John shot back, absolutely unwilling to let Jack derail this now that they were finally, miraculously, getting somewhere.
“I’m—that’s not—” Jack sputtered, drawing a belly laugh from John, who was unaccustomed to seeing Jack on his back foot.
John was emboldened, though, and took the opportunity to wrap a hand around the back of Jack’s neck and pull him close, until their foreheads were touching. “Let me make it very clear that I am very available,” he said, then tilted his head and brushed his lips across Jack’s.
Jack let out a small, shaky exhale against John’s lips, then reached for John, wrapping his hand around John’s bicep, and kissed him back. Jack’s lips were full and a little chapped, and for as chaste as the kiss was, John was exhilarated. His entire body was buzzing, and only his awareness of the setting prevented him from deepening the kiss into something filthy, but oh, how he wanted.
When they drew apart, Jack’s eyes looked hazy with lust, and John nearly hauled Jack up and out of the club right then and there. But the lights dimmed, and the band came on stage, so John reined himself in, satisfied for now with the presence of Jack’s hand coming to rest firmly on John’s thigh.
He was worried he’d be too focused on Jack’s presence to fully enjoy the show, but as soon as the band started playing, he was immersed, singing along and tapping his feet to the music. After the third song, Jack leaned in to say, “Get down there. I can see how into them you are.”
“I’m into you,” John shot back easily, and squeezed Jack’s hand, which had inched up on John’s thigh.
“I’m good. Go,” Jack insisted, upping the ante by giving John a hot look and saying, “I wanna watch.”
“Fuck,” John breathed. “Playing dirty.”
“Get used to it,” Jack grinned wolfishly.
John stood and walked down the ramp to join the crowd, staying on the fringes where he knew Jack could see him. John didn’t consider himself a dancer, but he swayed his hips to the beat, hyperaware of the knowledge that Jack was watching, his arousal driving his movements as much as the music.
After a few songs, he wandered back to Jack, who looked at him with a hunger that made John’s body flush. They stared at each other, John acutely aware that if he kissed Jack now, he wasn’t going to stop.
“I’ve heard enough,” John said, so stupidly turned on he was going to end up on his knees in a dingy bathroom if they didn’t bail soon.
Jack looked like he was going to object, but then stopped himself and said, “Yeah, okay. Let’s get out of here,” and stood, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair, with a hand extended to John.
Jack let go when they pushed their way through the crowd to the exit, the cold air a shock, but almost welcome after the heat of the club. While Jack opened the Uber app, John shrugged on his jacket and looked over Jack’s shoulder.
“Yours or mine?” John asked, perfectly content with either answer, if Jack had a preference.
“Mine’ll be better for accessibility,” Jack said, ordering a car that was reported to be three minutes away.
While they waited, Jack put on his jacket, then stepped into John’s space and wrapped his arms around John’s back, rubbing gently to keep John warm.
“I hoped this was how tonight would go,” Jack said. “Well, not necessarily you coming home with me, but the rest.”
John raised his eyebrows, trying to look affronted. “You didn’t want to take me home?”
“Fuck off,” Jack said. “You know what I mean.” “Yeah,” John agreed. “I did, too, but I was angling for the whole shebang.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jack asked, looking pleased.
“You have no idea,” John said, willing to let Jack hear the honesty in his voice. Before Jack could respond, their car pulled up, and they climbed in the back, Jack holding the door for John and getting him after him. They rode in silence, but Jack returned his hand to John’s thigh, resting it high enough that the side of his hand nearly brushed John’s cock.
Suppressing a groan, John leaned his head back and, without looking at Jack, murmured, “I’m already half hard, and you’re not helping.”
“Kinda the point,” Jack said nonchalantly,
John glared at Jack, but sank a little lower in his seat to shift Jack’s hand directly against his groin. If Jack wanted to play games, John was very happy to up the ante.
By the time they arrived at Jack’s condo, Jack’s coat was draped over John’s lap, and Jack was cupping him fully, teasing John through the too-thick denim. The need to stay quiet had amped up John’s arousal, and he nearly pushed Jack out of the car, Jack laughing at John’s urgency.
John was grateful the elevator and hallways were empty, because there was no hiding the erection that pushed insistently in the confines of his jeans. As soon as they were inside Jack’s place, though, John’s nerves—and the reality of what they were doing—hit him. Sex didn’t typically make John anxious, but it had been a long time since he’d been with someone he wanted the way he wanted Jack.
“You good?” Jack asked, his tone serious. He tangled his fingers with John’s but kept his distance.
“Just don’t want to fuck this up,” John said.
“You don’t peg me for a guy who gets caught up in what-ifs.”
“I’m usually not,” John agreed.
“Then what’s different now?” Jack squeezed John’s hand, sounding genuinely curious. “I like you. You're sporting a hell of an enticing hard-on for me.” He inclined his head toward John’s groin, making John blush. “And it feels like we’ve been slow rolling toward this for a while now.” He dropped John’s hand, suddenly looking concerned. “We’re on pretty equal footing at work, but if you think there’s a connection between anything that happens between us and your standing at the hospital—”
“No! Jesus, no,” John interrupted. “Nothing like that.” He let out a deep breath. “I think I just needed to know we’re on the same page. That this isn’t a quick, easy fuck for you.”
Jack stepped closer and pressed the length of his body against John’s. “I promise you, if all I wanted was a quick fuck, I wouldn’t subject myself to the indie music scene.”
“You're an asshole.” John laughed and was cut off by the press of Jack’s lips against his.
“Mmmm hmmm,” Jack agreed, then licked across John’s lips, drawing him into a heated kiss. Winding his arms around Jack’s neck, he swiped his tongue against Jack’s, melting into the feel of Jack’s body, his mouth. He pulled Jack toward him, slotting their thighs together so he could grind against Jack’s hip, in need of friction against his cock. Jack’s cock was hard in his jeans, and John bucked his hips at the feel of it, moaning into Jack’s mouth.
Abruptly, Jack pulled back, but his hooded eyes and flushed cheeks assuaged any fear that John had done something that Jack didn’t enjoy.
“I think we deserve a little more than rutting against each other in the entryway,” Jack said, his voice husky. “We can at least move to the couch.”
Jack could have suggested the kitchen table at that point, and John would have been game, so he followed Jack through his home into a living room that housed a deep chocolate leather sofa, pausing on the way while Jack grabbed a pair of forearm crutches, which he leaned against the side of the couch before sitting down.
“Do you mind?” Jack asked, rolling up his pants leg to expose the bottom of his prosthesis. “I’ll be more comfortable with it off.”
“Course not,” John said, and kicked his tennis sneakers off and out of the way while Jack did the same, then popped the release on his prosthesis and rested it against the couch next to the crutches. While John watched, Jack opened a drawer on the end table and removed a jar of lotion, which he massaged into his stump, dropping the end of his jeans when he was satisfied.
“When I’m hanging out at home, I’m generally in shorts or some modified sweats that end with my leg on the right side,” he said, kicking at the floppy end of his right pants leg with his left foot.
John slid along the couch toward Jack until he was pressed against Jack’s side. “Maybe,” he said, mouthing along Jack’s neck, “pants are overrated.”
“Could be,” Jack said, pulling John up and into his lap, John’s shins resting on either side of Jack’s thighs.
With his hand fisted in John’s hair, Jack tugged John down and into a filthy kiss that felt like Jack was trying to devour him. John rolled his hips against Jack’s body, grinding against Jack’s cock until Jack broke the kiss, panting.
“Fuck.” Jack reached between them and flicked open John’s jeans button, then drew John’s zipper down as far as he could with how they were positioned, doing the same for his own jeans. “You walk around drinking those caffeinated abominations all night, that fucking straw in your mouth. Drives me fucking crazy,” Jack said, nudging John up a bit so they could free their cocks.
“Look who’s talking,” John said, hissing in pleasure when Jack pulled John back down and wrapped his hand around their cocks. Jack was thick and cut, and John was hit with a shock of arousal at the thought of Jack’s cock in his mouth, of Jack fucking him. He groaned and grabbed at Jack, desperate to touch him, shoving up the ends of Jack’s shirt to run his hands over Jack’s stupidly toned abs and chest, leaning forward to bury his face in Jack’s armpit, inhaling his musky, masculine scent.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” John rasped, then looked between their bodies, his hips stuttering at the sight of their cocks peeking encircled by Jack’s fist.
“I’m so hot? You’re like a walking Ken doll,” Jack said, breaking contact to reach toward the end table where the jar of lotion still sat. Jack scooped some from the jar and immediately took them both in his hand again, the lotion cold at first, but easing the glide as Jack stroked them.
John dropped his forehead against Jack’s and whined, unrestrained, encouraged by Jack babbling at him, “Wanna make you feel good. Yeah, lemme hear you.”
Heat coiled at the base of John’s spine, and his balls drew up against his body; he was leaking steadily and so close to the edge, his orgasm just out of reach. “I need— I need—” he panted, unable to find the words, but Jack seemed to understand.
“Show me,” Jack said, releasing John’s cock. Immediately, John fisted himself, fucking his fist furiously, never taking his eyes off Jack’s gorgeous, flushed cock.
When he came, his entire body went rigid in Jack’s lap, the cresting pleasure punching a rough grunt from his chest. He spilled over both their hands, onto Jack’s cock, and could hear Jack’s responding moan even through the haze of his own release.
Jack followed quickly after, just as John was refocusing his attention on Jack, and watched Jack’s face twist in ecstasy as he came.
John let himself fall into Jack’s body while they caught their breath. Jack’s hands came up and rested on John’s back, holding him close.
Once the mess between them became too uncomfortable to stay where he was, John sat up and traced the shell of Jack’s ear with his fingertip, Jack looking at John so fondly that it curled through John’s chest.
“Shower and then food?” Jack asked.
“Good by me,” John said, then grinned at Jack. “I just have one question.”
“Hit me.”
“How quickly can Boomers rally for round two?” He asked, laughing as Jack whacked him in the side with a throw pillow.