in which, robby figures things out too late - you are gone, or are you?
CW: angst, unrequited love, mentions of death, terminal illnesses, reader is nicknamed sunshine. reader is lowk a bitch, mentions of suicide, robby does kind of love you back, no comfort guys im sorry, i could write a part two maybe!
making my debut in the pitt fandom with a 10k word fanfic. love u all. requests are open! (ignore spelling mishaps its 3:44am... yawn) heavily implied u served with jack
It was obvious to anyone – to everyone, perhaps, that you had some sort of weird crush on Michael Robinavitch.
It was almost annoying how unaware he stayed of it. It seemed you and everyone else could see it; but he just never turned his head far enough to notice. You would stand there sometimes, just watching him across the ED, hand on your cheek as you watched him, perched against the nurses desk; thinking there was no way he could be that intelligent and that blind at the same time. It felt like a lengthy chain and heavy ball were stuck to you.
It hurt your soul - a wretched burning feeling that sat under everything else, even under the noise of monitors and calls and footsteps that never stopped in this place. You watched him move through it all like he belonged to it more than he belonged to anything else, because it was true. Confident in the way he spoke, sharp when he needed to be, dismissive when things were wasting his time. And you, somehow, always just outside of whatever space he occupied in his head. His best friend. His best friend.
That word never stopped feeling strange.
You watched him now as he crossed the nurses hub with Noelle, already mid-conversation, both of them moving like they had somewhere important to be, which they probably did. He was leaning slightly forward as he spoke, and then he pulled her into a hug.
You looked away before it could sit in your head properly.
Dana’s hand landed on your wrist before you could drift too far again. “Sunshine,” she said, steady.
You blinked, dragged back into it, shoulders pulling back a fraction too quickly like you had been caught doing something worse than you were actually doing.
“How about you take your break, love?” Dana said, softer now. She gave your hand a light pat, motherly.
“I’m fine,” you said automatically, shuffling the notes and charts.
Dana gave you a look that said she was not going to argue with you, but also that she did not believe a single word of it. You opened your mouth again, probably to say something worse, then closed it. There was nothing clean that came out of this anyway - nothing that sounded normal when you tried to explain it out loud. So you did not.
Dana just watched you for a second longer, then nudged her head slightly toward the corridor.
“Go take five,” she said. “Before I decide you’re useless and assign you paperwork instead.”
A small, weak laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“Cruel,” you muttered. She chuckled, shaking her head. You left your charts in a pile; noting to come back and finish them before complete hand-off; You leaned against the desk for a moment longer, letting your eyes drop closed for just a second too long.
That was when your phone buzzed. You frowned before even looking at it, already expecting something work-related. Something trivial, something that would pull you right back in without giving you a chance to actually step out of it.
The message was from an unknown number, you stared at it, then opened it.
You re-read it twice to make sure you knew what you were looking at.
And something in you went very still; It was just the kind of moment where your brain stopped arguing with itself for a second and accepted what it was looking at before your emotions had time to catch up.
Your grip on the phone tightened slightly, but your hands were steady. That part surprised you more than anything else. You stood there for a moment longer than you probably should have, phone still in your hand.
Then you breathed out once, slow, and pushed yourself off the wall. “Yeah.. might take that break now..” You stuttered as you looked at the clock, words catching in a way that made your jaw tighten the second they left your mouth. At your grown age, stuttering. Fuck. You dragged your gaze away from the time, swallowing it down like it hadn’t just happened, like it didn’t mean anything. You hoped you weren’t late for your appointment.
You adjusted your grip on your phone, thumb hovering over the screen like you were going to check it again, like that would somehow change the time already staring back at you. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.
“Go,” Dana said without looking up, already shuffling through a stack of papers like she had ten other things occupying her brain at once. “Before I make it a command.”
You huffed out something that might have been a laugh, but it didn’t land properly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t start,” she muttered. You turned before you could hesitate. That was the only way to do it. If you paused, if you gave yourself a second to think, you’d stay, you always stayed.
You hurried into the elevator; doors shutting as you pressed for the sixth floor.
Jack evil-eyed Michael when he let go of Noelle - the woman smiled before heading to the already ascending elevator; Robby held up the middle-finger, as Jack scowled playfully; clearly he had been spotted.
“Unbelievable,” Jack muttered under his breath, though there was no real bite to it, just habit. He shifted his weight slightly, adjusting without thinking, eyes flicking after Noelle for a second before landing back on Michael.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Michael shot back, not missing a beat. “Yeah, yeah,” Jack waved him off, but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway. Michael turned slightly, scanning the department without making it obvious he was doing it, it was second nature, he tracked movement, positions, who was where, who wasn’t.
And then he paused. “Where’s Sunshine gone?” He leaned over the nurses desk, looking at Dana.
Dana didn’t look up immediately, continuing to sort through her stack like the question hadn’t reached her yet. “She’s on her break,” Dana shuffled a stack of papers, before looking up at him. “You are as blind as a damn bat, Robby.” She tuts, turning sharply and leaving. Emma following behind.
Michael blinked once, thrown just enough for it to show.
But Dana was already walking away, Emma trailing behind her, both of them disappearing into the movement of the department like it swallowed people whole if they stood still too long.
Jack watched as you were swallowed by the closing doors of the elevator; curious.
Michael knits his eyebrows, “Hey! What does that mean?” He calls after her, yet all he can see in the flurry of residents, interns and nurses is Dana’s raised arm with her middle finger up.
That earned a quiet snort from Jack. “Means you’re an idiot,” he said, not even bothering to soften it. Michael shot him a look. “Careful.”
“Or what?” Jack raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’ll glare at me some more?”
Michael exhaled through his nose, not rising to it, but not denying it either. His attention drifted back toward where you had been, like he was trying to piece together something he hadn’t been paying attention to in the first place. “You see her leave?” Michael asked, tone more neutral now.
Jack shrugged slightly. “Yeah.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
Jack gave him a look then, something pointed, something that sat just under the surface. “Was I supposed to?”
Michael didn’t answer immediately. His jaw shifted slightly, like he was working through the question and not liking where it landed.
“She didn’t say anything,” he muttered.
Jack huffed out a breath. “She said she was taking a break, not fucking moving to France..”
“That’s not–” Michael stopped himself, shaking his head once. “Whatever.”
Jack watched him for a second longer, then let it go. There were only so many ways to point something out before it became pointless. “Are you excited for the three-month respite?” He asks, glancing towards the chart hes holding.
Michael dragged his attention back to the present, to the paper in Jack’s hand, to something concrete he could actually engage with.
“Boy, am I ever…” He didn’t sound particularly excited, just tired. He scrubbed a hand down his face briefly, then straightened, like he could shake it off if he tried hard enough.
Jack gave a quiet hum, not entirely convinced but not pushing it either. “You’ve been talking about it long enough.”
“Yeah,” Michael said, flat. Jack flicked through the chart, scanning it quickly. “You’re actually going to take it, right? Not bail halfway through because you get bored.”
Michael shot him a look. “I don’t get bored.” Jack let out a short laugh. “Right.” Michael opened his mouth to respond, but a med student called his name from across the department before he could.
“Dr. Robby!” He turned immediately, attention snapping into place like it always did when work called for it. “Yeah?” he called back, the intern waved him over, urgency clear even from a distance.
Michael didn’t hesitate. He stepped away from the desk, already moving, already shifting back into it like the conversation hadn’t happened at all. As he passed Jack, he reached out, slapping him once on the back.
“Later, brother,” he said.
Jack watched him go, eyes narrowing slightly.
You, however, were entirely anxious. The elevator pinged as it reached Radiology. You sighed, trying to calm your shaking hands as you entered the floor. Your fingers didn’t listen properly at first, a slight stiffness as you reached for your badge, unclipping it from the front of your scrubs and shoving it into your pocket like it didn’t belong on you right now. You walked faster than you meant to, then forced yourself to slow before you looked like you were rushing. You reached Dr. Voss’ office, knocking.
“Come in,” A voice echoed, and you inhaled sharply before entering the room. Dr. Voss was an impeccably sharp woman usually, controlled and precise. What shocked you was the look on her face.
You have been in this side of work for far too long, you knew that look and what it meant. “Hey, Doc.” She smiled as she spoke - but it didnt reach her eyes.
“Hey, Sara..” Theres a slight pause, before you speak again; “It isn't good.. Is it?” Your voice came out trembling.
The signs had started not too long ago;
“What do we got?” You asked, slapping on the gloves as you entered the emergency room; Whitaker glanced from you to the patient, “Mid-30s male, MVC, significant facial trauma, sats dropping despite oxygen, airway compromised.” You huff, “Alright, prepare for an intubation, Whitaker.” You dart towards the unconscious male, and grimace as the tightening headache gets worse as you focus.
“BP’s unstable, eighty over fifty, pulse one-twenty and climbing,” a nurse called from the head of the bed, voice clipped and practiced, already hanging fluids as the monitor screamed its steady warning rhythm. The smell of blood and antiseptic hung heavy in the air, sharp enough to sit behind your eyes. “Suction ready,” you said automatically, extending a hand without looking away from the patient. The laryngoscope tray was opened beside you, metal glinting under the overhead lights – someone placed the bougie within reach, standard setup and familiar rhythm. Your body should have settled into it; it did not.
The headache tightened again, a hard band behind your eyes, and for half a second the room felt slightly out of sync, like the sounds were arriving a fraction late. You blinked once, slow, forcing focus back down into the airway. Blood pooled at the patient’s lips as the nurse tilted the head back, positioning for exposure.
“Okay,” you said, quieter now, more controlled than you felt. “Pre-oxygenate again. I want a clean window.”
Whitaker was already at your shoulder, close enough that you could feel the shift in his presence rather than see it, he did not speak yet, just watched your hands as you reached for the laryngoscope.
The first movement was wrong.
A fraction too rigid at the wrist, like the joint was resisting the angle you knew it should take. The blade tapped against the teeth slightly harder than intended.
“Sorry,” you muttered immediately, adjusting, forcing precision into it.
The monitor beeped louder.
You tried again, slower. Deliberate. Tongue displaced, blade advancing. Blood obscured the view and suction moved in, but the angle still would not settle cleanly in your hands the way it always had. It was as if your depth perception had narrowed, like your brain was insisting on a slightly incorrect map of the space.
“Bougie,” you said, sharper now.
It was already there, handed in without hesitation.
You went to pass it in, and that was when it happened again - a brief stiffness, not tremor, just resistance in the fingers, like they did not want to separate cleanly from the instrument. The bougie hesitated at the threshold.
Whitaker moved – just his hand sliding in under yours, steady and unassuming, taking the angle. He adjusted the laryngoscope position by a few degrees, almost invisible to anyone not watching closely.
“I’ve got the view,” he said simply.
The shift was immediate. Your hands dropped half an inch, hovering now instead of leading. The relief was subtle but undeniable, like a pressure point you had not realized you were fighting against finally releasing.
You exhaled once through your nose, controlled. “Tube’s yours,” you said, voice even, already stepping back into the role of observer without making it a surrender.
Whitaker did not look at you, thankfully. Behind your eyes, the headache pulsed again, deeper this time, less like pressure and more like something slithering and pulsing.
You blinked hard, it hurt, but you needed to refocus on the monitor instead of your hands.
“How about we talk, before we go over this morning's scans..” She sent you a tight-lipped smile. You sighed, feeling the tension in your head pull at the movement of your eyebrows meeting, like even that small shift took more effort than it should have. You didn’t like the way your head felt lately; wrong in a way you couldn’t quite name.
You didn’t answer straight away. Just nodded once, because speaking felt like it might make something in your chest tighten further around your heart.
Begrudgingly, you sat down opposite her; the chair felt too firm, too real. Your hands came together in your lap, fingers lacing without thinking, gripping tighter than you meant them to. They trembled — enough that it irritated you.
You focused - really, really hard.
And they stilled; it took effort, more than it should have.
“Now, I want you to know before we start off; whatever is said in this room is between us and only us.” She sighed, reaching for your scans – passing them to you over the desk.
That alone told you enough.
You reached, and took them. Your fingers brushed the edge of the folder, and for a second you almost missed it, that slight delay. That fraction of hesitation before you gripped properly - you ignored it.
A slight dredge of panic seeped into your skin as you opened the folder. The images were familiar, far too familiar. You had seen them a hundred times before, just never with your name attached.
Your eyes tracked over it once; then again.
“Fuck.” A shaking hand came up to your mouth, fingers pressing hard enough against your lips to keep anything else from coming out. “That's… bad..” You could feel the bile in your throat, sharp and immediate, rising faster than you could control.
She didn’t interrupt you.
“It is also.. Very rare. You are very young for this type of cancer.” She looked down at her nails, before back at you.
You let out a breath that didn’t steady anything.
Your eyes stayed on the scan.
You knew what you were looking at.
“It is… fast-growing, highly infiltrative, and in some cases not fully resectable in the way most tumors are. Even when a surgeon removes the visible mass, microscopic tumor cells could have spread through the surrounding brain tissue, we will only know more with extra tests.”
Your grip tightened slightly on the folder, the edge digging into your palm. You didn’t feel it properly.
“Listen, grade 3 astrocytoma is treatable. It depends purely on whether you choose further treatment.” She sighs.
You wanted to speak. You wanted to say something, anything, just to prove you were still part of the conversation. That you hadn’t just… checked out.
Nothing came. Your throat felt too tight. Your tongue too heavy. Words sat there and refused to move.
“Do you have someone you want to call, to tell?” She asks, standing up from her desk and taking the seat beside you. The chair shifted slightly under her weight. You stared at the scans, you had no one to call. Parents that felt like they were across the world, even when they weren’t. Conversations that had turned into occasional messages, then into nothing. Siblings gone quiet, lives moving on in directions you hadn’t followed.
You only had Dana, Jack and Robby. But even then; they weren’t family. Not in the way that counted for something like this – you refused to be a burden.
“No..” Your voice comes out shaky. You swallowed, forcing it down, but it didn’t steady. “No, there is no one..” Your eyes scan over the papers again, like you’re checking for a mistake you already know isn’t there. It is a sizable tumor - roughly the size of golfball, maybe even an extra half of one. You stared at it longer than you should have, in any other case perhaps you would have admired it. “Your symptoms will only get worse without treatment, so… I thoroughly recommend taking time off as soon as possible, even take the rest of this shift off. Its remarkable you're still standing - the slightest moments of stress or sudden action and that could trigger seizures, intense lack of speech, strokes, lack of memory…” She takes your hand in hers.
You almost pulled back, not because of her, just because you didn’t like being held in that moment. It made it real in a way the scans hadn’t yet. “If you need anyone to speak to, just someone to have coffee with – I'm only a call away.. Okay?” She pat your hand, before rubbing your shoulder.
You nodded automatically.
You had known Sarah for over a decade, almost two - stupidly you made sure to befriend as many people as possible, you used to be a lovely person. That's why they called you Sunshine.
A name you rebuked; It felt almost mocking now; more people to miss you when you go.
“We should go through treatment plans on Monday,” You nod as she speaks. The words blurred slightly at the edges, not unreadable, just harder to hold onto.
“Is eight okay?” She walks back to her desk, scheduling it into her calendar.
“Yes, um.. Yeah..” You stand as you speak, the movement a little too quick, like sitting there any longer would’ve pinned you in place.
Your break is most definitely over and it would only be a matter of time before either Jack or Robby attempt to scare you into coming back down.
“Okay, remember I'm only a call away. You aren’t alone.” She gives you a watery smile, that you cannot replicate.
It is as if the world has swallowed you whole. Your mind was a swirl of pain, flashbacks and lingering thoughts of doom as you slowly took in everything. The folder of scans in your hands felt heavy, heavier than it should have been, as if the weight had nothing to do with paper and everything to do with what it meant. It dragged at your arms like you were carrying men back to the pitched tents in Iraq again, boots digging into sand, shoulders screaming, lungs burning while you told yourself to keep moving.
You shook your head, sharper this time, trying to rid yourself of the thoughts of going back there. You weren’t there. You were here. Fluorescent lights, polished floors, the faint smell of antiseptic instead of sand, gunpowder and blood.
It didn’t feel any better.
The elevator dinged closed as you entered, the doors sliding shut with a soft finality that made your chest tighten. You were alone.
And the second you were alone, you broke.
A sob crawled out of your throat before you could stop it, raw and ugly, like it had been sitting there waiting for the moment the door closed. Your hand came up to your mouth, pressing hard against it as if that would quiet it, as if that would stop the sound from existing at all.
Cancer? The word didn’t sit right in your head. It didn’t belong there. It felt misplaced, like someone had written it into the wrong chart.
A month ago you thought it was burn out. A week ago perhaps stress. Too many shifts, not enough sleep, you had told yourself that with full confidence, like you always did. Like you always fixed things by naming them something manageable.
You heard the elevator ding once, then again. The sound snapped something back into place, just enough for you to move.
You hurriedly wiped your eyes with the heel of your hand, pressing harder than necessary like you could erase the redness, like you could wipe away the evidence. You dug into your pockets for your ID, fingers fumbling slightly before finding it. You clasped it back onto your scrubs, the clip catching on the fabric before settling properly.
You straightened your back, cxollected your shattered self and prepared to go back to work as the doors opened.
Jack Abbot knew something was wrong when you didn’t take your lunch to the roof, in fact he knew there was something wrong when you did not take your lunch at all.
He noticed things like that - always had.
Jack, a man you would call your brother, your confidant, your best-fucking-friend in the whole world stood outside the elevator; a flurry of emotions on his face as he looked to you. It shifted quickly, too quickly for anyone else to catch, but you saw it. Confusion first. Then concern. Then realization.
A woman he would call his sister, a warrior and a damn good doctor.
And right now, you couldn’t meet that version of yourself.
You stepped out, hiding the folder behind you, pressing it flat against your lower back like that would somehow make it invisible. “Hey, what are you doing here?” Your voice comes out raspy, the strain obvious the second it leaves your mouth, and Jack's face shifts to a look of pain.
“Looking for you, sweetheart.” He gives you something like a grimace mixed with a short smile, like he’s trying to keep it light and failing. “What took you so long, hm?”
You know he doesn’t want to be invasive. You know that. He never forced things out of you. Not unless it mattered.
“Erm.. nothing. Just talking to a doctor about something– seems to be all that I do now.” You chuckle, though it feels wrong– it sounds wrong, it sits wrong in your chest. And your heart burns as you lie. Fuck.
You don’t wait for him to respond.
You walk ahead of him, keeping a tight grip on the folder behind you, eager to keep it from him, like distance might buy you time you don’t actually have. Your steps are a fraction too fast.
He huffs, lurching forward to keep up with you, his stride uneven but practiced, closing the gap like he always does. “You wouldn’t lie to me, yeah?” He asks, hand coming to your shoulder, firm enough to stop you from returning to your job.
You contemplate telling him, but all it would lead to is either an argument or tears and grieving. You don’t have the energy for either. Not right now. Not when the word is still sitting fresh in your head, especially when it hasn’t even set in for you fully yet.
You shake your head. “No, of course not.” You don’t look directly at him. “Thats a lie..” He whispers, your jaw tightens.
“Tell me what's up..”Jack grabs each side of your head, getting him to look at you. His hands are warm. Familiar. Grounding in a way you don’t want right now.
You try to memorize his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes. The way his expression is already shifting toward something protective, something ready to fight something he doesn’t even know yet.
“I..” You whimper, a feeling of dread tightening into your stomach. “I…”
You huff, getting annoyed, frustration flaring sharp and quick. This wasn’t you struggling to speak due to the want to cry, this was something else. This was the stress of telling him, yes, but also something else, the stress induced lack of speech that Dr. Voss spoke about.
That thought hits harder than anything else so far.
“Tell me, sunshine..” He cups your head, affectionately; trying to calm you down, voice softer now, careful. You stare at him for a second longer. Then you sigh.
Your hands drop from behind your back, and you pass him the folder. Just like that, like it doesn’t matter, like it’s just paper.
Jack looks at it with a look of momentary shock, as though he can't quite believe the thought of a damn folder. His brows pull together, confusion flickering before something more serious replaces it.
Then he opens it; you watch as his face shifts as he reads further, horror on his face as he examines the scans, a hand goes to his mouth. “Fuck..” He muttered.
You don’t look away, you watch him read it.
“This..” He clears his throat, voice catching slightly before he forces it steady, “–is yours..?” He asks, flipping through the symptoms that are highlighted, the side effects – the treatment pamphlets.
You nod once; it feels like more effort than it should.
“How long have you known?” He asks, closing it as he looks around, like he expects someone to overhear, like this is something that needs to be contained immediately. It is just you two in this hallway and the lingering sounds of shouts of orders, faint machine noises and the sound of chatter bleeding through the walls. “I.. I just found out.. Like, twenty minutes ago.” You sighed, the headache pounding with each syllable, each word pressing against something already sore.
“I have to take time off after this shift; hell I was told I shouldn’t even be here now.” You busy your hands as you shuffle your feet, not looking at him, not wanting to see what is on his face now.
“Makes sense, I could call someone to cover for you for the rest of today...” He says it automatically, like he’s filling space, like he’s trying to keep things normal for just a second longer. Then he reaches out, grabbing your shoulder. “Don’t stress alright?” He pulls you into a hug.
Your head meets his shoulder and you shake with a small cry, your hands come up, gripping the back of his shirt without thinking. “I-It is just going to get worse, seizures, memory loss, lack of speech, motor troubles.” You huff, pulling back slightly, taking your arm back from being looped around his waist and wiping at your cheek with the back of your hand.
You hate how steady your voice sounds saying it.
You hate that you understand it.
“But you're gonna get treatment, right? You're gonna fight..” He pulls back fully now, hands on your shoulder as he studies your face.
Did you have it in you? The tumor would only get worse if you refused treatment – recurring seizures, memory loss, vision loss, scrambled speech, focal nervous system could be fully compromised. Death. But even if you fought what was there waiting for you? Certainly not a husband nor children – yeah, you had waited too long for those opportunities.
No, you hadn’t thought of fighting.
Or maybe you had, somewhere in the back of your mind, buried under everything else. You knew how these things went. You had seen it before, stood at bedsides, read charts, explained outcomes to people who looked at you the same way Jack was looking at you now. You knew the words, you knew the progression, you knew exactly what it would do.
You just hadn’t put yourself in it.
Survival felt.. weird. It sat in your chest wrong, like something you were supposed to want without question, but didn’t, not fully; It wasn't a relief, it wasn’t hope. It was a decision, along one and a painful one. It could promise years, yes, but would it be worth it?
Radiation would surely tear you apart. You would not be able to have children; though you really hadn’t thought that far ahead. A family felt so far away, especially with this life-altering road block. It all felt… strange. Off putting.
Like dragging something behind you that didn’t want to move.
You knew that with cancer like this, at the size like this; there would be a lack of you - the real you. Even if you did everything right. Even if you fought it the way Jack was already expecting you to. Surgery, chemo, radiation, time carved into appointments and side effects and slow changes that no one would say out loud.
There would be pieces missing. Pity at every corner, whispers of how strong you are, how this couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. You could already hear it, you had said it yourself to other patients, softer, but the same words all the same. You knew how it sounded. You knew how it felt on the other side.
You didn’t want that; You didn’t want people looking at you like you were something fragile. Something already gone.
You most definitely did not want to tell your friends; Dana, Samira, Robby…
Robby..
You could picture it too easily. The way he would react, or rather, the way he wouldn’t at first. That slight pause. The narrowing of his eyes as he processed it. The questions that would come, quick and precise. Clinical, because that’s how he handled things; then the shift, the kind that meant he had taken it on whether you wanted him to or not.
You didn’t want that either.
“I’ll need to think about it more, I have an.. appointment to discuss it further with Dr. Voss in Radiology..” You sigh, patting him affectionately as you pull your folder from his grasp. “I don't want to.. tell anyone.. Samira, Dana, Michael, especially Michael.. when he's.. about to be free of this place.” You wave off the idea, and Jack fixes his position, leaning on his good foot. “You don't want him here for your treatment? The treatment that you are most definitely going to do, whether I have to tie you to the chair or not?” He huffs a dry laugh. “Fine, but you will have to tell him eventually. He's your friend.” He sighs.
There's a temporary silence. Jack knew about your little crush on his friend from med-school; however he had been sworn to utter secrecy. Something that felt so small now.
A man so detached from the world, so sad and so miserable. You, a woman so entirely enraptured in saving him from himself, wanting to be there for him emotionally – wanting him to want you as much as he wanted his own self-assured destruction. It felt foolish, to want someone so much at your grown age; especially after all you had done.
You sigh, shoulders deflating as the world around you reconnects, like a plug being pushed into a socket. The noise returns and you are out of your own head and instead surrounded by medicine.
“I just want to go home.” You try to control your voice, holding it steady for as long as you can. It falters anyway. Your lip wavers, slight but noticeable, and Jack catches it without trying. It feels like something in you has been pulled back without warning, like peeling away decorative wallpaper only to expose the rot beneath – clean on the surface, held together just enough to pass, but never meant to last; It was never meant to be seen this closely.
You hate that he’s seeing it now, you’ve always been good at keeping it in place, keeping yourself in place. But it slips, just for a second, and that’s all it takes.
It feels like standing in front of something you wanted once, something you could have held onto, and choosing to walk away from it anyway. Not because you didn’t care, but because you knew you couldn’t keep it.
“Go get your things, sweetheart. But you will have to tell Dana.” He murmurs, voice low.
He isn’t usually the type to hug, especially not in the middle of a shift, but he seems to be giving them out freely today; He pulls you in as he sways slightly, just enough for you to notice, grounding more than anything else. “Do you want me to tell her?” He whispers into your hair, before pulling back to look at you properly as you wipe at your cheeks.
Jack had always been like that for you, steady, there without needing to be asked. Your head pounded as you shook your head, the movement sharper than intended. “Im a big girl, i’ll go tell her after grabbing my things.” You try to smile, but it doesn’t land right. The meek smirk pulls wrong across your face, more like a grimace than anything else, and the tightening at your scalp only makes it worse.
Jack rubs your arm, slow, absent, like he’s thinking about something he doesn’t want to say. He bites the inside of his cheek, jaw working slightly, and for a second it looks like he might argue. His pager goes off just as he opens his mouth; cutting through it.
“Okay… call me when you get home, please?” He asks instead, softer now, his eyes fixed on you in a way that makes it clear he isn’t asking. There’s something in it, something that knows you well enough to expect resistance. He knows that if you don’t let him in, he’ll find a way to be there anyway; he would force you into recovery.
One you did not know if you wanted. If you deserved.
“Yeah, okay.. Get going!” You usher him with a pat on his arm and a light shove, forcing a small smile that feels easier than anything else you’ve tried yet. He hesitates, just for a second longer than necessary, before turning and running off toward an incoming trauma.
As you trudge through to your locker, you think about ways you could summarise it to Robby. There would be no easy way, that’s for sure. There isn’t a version of it that sounds better out loud. Face to face would be too hard, being forced into telling Dana was almost too much as it is. The idea of someone looking at you and knowing, really knowing, about the fat tumor resting in your head, growing, sits wrong in your chest, not concern, not care. You don’t want that, you don’t want to be reduced to pity and people grieving you before you are truly gone.
You could write a letter, and give it to Dana; to give to him? You could summarise everything in an email?
Fuck, you might as well have plastered the folder’s scans around the hospital at this point.
Why were you so terrified about telling Robby? What, like the brain cancer is going to make him look at you in a different light? He was one loss away from hopping from the roof; it’s not like he could try and force you into recovery when he had spent all this time running from his. Especially with this reckless, half-thought-out bike ride he was leaving for.
Fuck this. Fuck this brain cancer. Fuck him.
You did not deserve to be pitied. You were not going to spend the rest of your short life being picked at by vultures, or pumped full of drugs that where only going to weaken you. You were going to go to Greece, or Italy or the Bahamas. You were going to enjoy life on a beach, or admiring art in the Lourve, or fucking a random Greek man from a bar during the sunset.
Maybe it was time for you to go on a spiritual ride of your own.
You pulled your bag out of the locker, clutching it as you held the folder. You felt sick just looking at it. You stepped out, braving the beeping, the yelling, the constant churn of chatter that never stopped.
Frank looked at you oddly, his gaze catching on the fact that you were only a couple hours into your shift and already had your bag slung over your shoulder. He narrowed his eyes slightly as you walked past, something about it not sitting right with him. He leaned on the nurses desk, chart in hand
You probably looked as bad as you felt. Fuck, you hoped you didn’t over do it.
The lights felt wrong, they seemed to pulse with each step you took, with each breath you dragged in, uneven and a little too fast. Your fingers twitched at your side, restless, and your eyes kept darting without meaning to, scanning the room for something familiar.
For your favorite charge nurse. Your vision blurred at the edges as you searched for that head of blonde hair. Finally, you found her, half-turned away, talking on the phone about an incoming emergency.
You blinked, forcing yourself back into focus, pulling yourself out of whatever daze you’d slipped into. Unbeknownst to you, Langdon was still watching, expression tight with curiosity.
Like he was trying to figure something out, something slightly off that he couldn’t quite place.
“Ah, there you are! What are you doing with your bag, Its not home time..” Dana smirked as she saw you, one hand resting on her hip, her eyes carrying that usual edge of mocking she usually held.
You tried to mirror it, but your smile came out weak, thinner than you meant it to be. The lights pulsed again, and you could feel your arm tremble slightly just at the thought of doing this here, in the open, where anyone could look a second too long. “I.. I have to go home, Jack told me that you could help me find someone to fill in for me?” You spoke quietly, just enough for her to hear, the words catching at the edges.
The smile slipped the second you looked back up at her.
“Whats up, doll?” She stepped closer, lowering her voice, not soft, but contained, like she already knew something wasn’t right.
The fucking lights. Why were they so bright.
“I can’t really say, but I can show you..?” You murmured, trying to keep it casual, like it wasn’t what it was, like your hand wasn’t giving you away as you passed her the folder. Princess and Perlah lingered nearby, but they knew better. They always did. Confidentiality wasn’t something you had to worry about with them.
Robby must be in on a trauma. And Abbot… Well, he was somewhere. Dana’s hand dropped from her waist as she took the folder from you, sharper than usual, opening it without another word. Her fingers stilled almost immediately, just for a second, before continuing.
You watched her face as her eyes moved across the pages. “What the fuck..” She tried to keep it down, but it came out wrong, the panic sitting underneath it pushing the volume up just enough.
Your eyes darted around in quiet panic, scanning the floor, the halls, anywhere but her face for a second, praying she didn’t accidentally summon Robby from wherever he was. The last thing you needed was him preaching about vitality and the importance of health and to fight.
Dana didn’t give you the chance to think much further. She grabbed you by the arm, firm, and pulled you with her. You followed, begrudgingly, letting yourself be guided into a supply closet. The door shut behind you with a dull click, and she pressed her back against it like she needed the barrier.
“Have you told anyone?” She asked, arms folding tight across her chest.
You had never really been able to get a proper read on Dana. Her Pittsburgh accent was thick enough to blur the edges of whatever she felt, something she leaned into, something she was good at, it kept things contained and rather controlled. Right now, it didn’t, it hurt.
This was exactly what you didn’t want. Not this part, the part where it stopped being just yours and started affecting everyone else.
“Jack found out. I was coming back from the appointment and he found me.. Crying in the damn elevator...” You whispered the last part, quieter than the rest, shifting your weight slightly like you could move away from it just by not standing still.
The supply closet was dim, thankfully. The lack of harsh light gave your eyes a break, took some of the pressure off the constant ache that had been building since you stepped back onto the floor. Dana stared at you for a second, then back down at the folder, like she needed to check it again. Like it might say something different the second time; She flipped through it, slower now.
“You.. You’re going to do chemo, yeah?” She nods as she says it, like she’s already decided, like that’s the only answer that makes sense.
You let out a breath, heavy enough that your shoulders shift with it.
“As I told Jack, recovery is not definite. Dr. Voss and I will talk about it in my next appointment. Chemotherapy would only give me a couple of weak years left, personally I would rather be tanning on a beach in Australia, or attempt to master a sport or instrument, or spend my money on a yacht, wasting away at sea and then leave it to Jack.. or you in my will.” You explain it as evenly as you can, like you’ve already thought it through, like you are no longer before her breathing.
“But.. but you are so young. There’s so much more to life. I.. We cannot lose you, sweetheart.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and you see it then; She’s crying – You don’t think about it. You just step forward and pull her into a tight hug.
“I do not have the fight in me,” You whisper, and she tightens her grip around your waist, holding on harder than you expected.
“I have no family, no husband nor any children– Chemotherapy would fuck up any chance of having them, and I’m not getting any younger so it’s not like they could just freeze a few eggs and call it a day.” You huff out the last part, a dry edge to it that doesn’t quite land as humour but sits close enough.
You both let out a small, uneven chuckle as you pull apart.
“You, Jack, Robby, everyone at the Pitt have been… amazing for the past some-odd years. But if I keep working here, I will die here. The stress could make me stroke, seize; I’m already losing some speech, fuck, even seeing is hard. I have a headache all the fucking time these days, I’ve had to give most of my cases to Whitaker recently because my hands are no longer steady.” You sniff, getting it out as evenly as you can, even as it burns in your throat.
Dana brushes your hair back from your face, careful, wiping at your tears with her thumb before she swipes at her own like it’s nothing. “I dont want to tell Robby.” You say it plainly, like it’s already decided.
She steps back slightly at that. “Why not?” She asks, eyebrows pulling together as she exhales.
“I do not want to ruin his sabbatical, and frankly, I dont want to waste my months left with Robby inserting himself into my final moments. Much love to him, but I cant focus on saving him from himself whilst fading into the abyss.”You huff out something like a chuckle and a scoff; hoping the gallows humour softens the look Dana is giving you.
She sniffs, a slight, disbelieving smile pulling at her mouth. “Thats funny, because hes the chief attending in the emergency department. He has to sign off on you leaving, not only today but until You. Pick. Chemotherapy. Because you will. Me and Abbot will force ourselves into your apartment to make sure you go.” She points a finger into your chest, firm, not backing down.
Your heart stills for a second, you had forgotten that. Somewhere between everything else, you had let yourself forget that in all of this, he was still your higher up.
Dana’s pager goes off, sharp in the small space. Her grip tightens slightly on your folder as she pulls it from her waist. “Its Robby, hey..” She says, cutting straight through your spiralling thoughts.
“He has to know, doll, its policy. You head off, I will deal with all the paperwork, okay? And Robby. Get some rest, and think about everything.” She pulls you into one last hug, holding you there just a second longer than usual. “I love you, kid, please… pick the fight.”She opens the door, leaving it open behind her as she steps out, the folder still in her hand, well, you guess that means you’ll have to come back another day for that.
You stand there for a second longer than you should before you force yourself to move. You fix what you can out of habit, smoothing down your scrubs, wiping under your eyes with the heel of your hand, dragging in a breath that doesn’t quite fill your lungs the way it should. Your phone feels heavier than usual when you pull it out, fingers fumbling slightly as you push back into the blinding lights of the department.
It hits you all at once again, the noise, the movement, the constant, never-ending rhythm of it. For a second, it feels too loud, too sharp, like everything has been turned up just a fraction too high. You would miss it. Langdon has moved from where he was studying you from earlier, you don’t see him now. Instead, Santos and Whitaker have taken over the space near the nurses desk, both of them mid-conversation, heads bent slightly toward each other.
You tap at your phone as you make your way toward them, pulling up the Uber app, your fingers not quite doing what you want them to as you type in your address. You have to correct it twice.
“Dont you have like another six hours of your shift left?” Santos asks, leaning onto the palm of her hand as she watches you, eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the bag, your posture, all of it.
You raise an eyebrow at her, finally glancing up. “Look at me, do I genuinely look fit to work.”
It comes out flatter than you expect.
You haven’t seen yourself, not properly, but you don’t need to. You can feel it. The heaviness under your eyes, the thin layer of sweat that won’t settle, the faint pull of dried tears on your skin. If you had any mascara on, it’s long gone, smudged somewhere it shouldn’t be. Your lips are raw from worrying at them, and there’s a slight tremor in your hands that you can’t fully control. Could be anything, low blood sugar, the cold, or the evil meteor in your fucking head.
“Yeah, im not gonna answer that.” Trinity smiles, small, knowing, dropping her gaze back to the chart in her hands like she’s giving you an out.
“Whitaker, I apologise but im gonna have to leave you to do the charts for our cases. Doctors orders for me to go home.” You keep your tone light enough, something close to normal, offering them a small smile that doesn’t quite reach where it should.
You linger there for a second, longer than necessary, committing them to memory without meaning to. They weren’t just residents. Not really.
“Don’t be surprised if you never see me again, Robby might kill me.” You let out a quiet huff of a chuckle; Both of them look at you, concerned. You ignore it, “Okay, have to go, bye guys!” You step forward, pulling them both into quick hugs. There’s something in the way you hold on for half a second too long before letting go.
You don’t think about that, you pull away, turning before either of them can say anything else. You move toward the ambulance entrance, pace just a fraction quicker than usual, wanting to get out before Dana finishes whatever conversation she’s having with Robby.
You glance over without meaning to.
They’re in the soundproofed psych room. Jack is there too, standing slightly off to the side. He catches your eye through the glass, and there’s a look there before he gives a small shake of his head. Dana and Robby seem to be arguing, and Jack joins in shortly.
You sigh, looking away immediately. But Robby had already seen you in the corner of his eye, your eyes squeezing shut for a second as your head pounds, steady and insistent, pressing behind your temples.
The doors slide open; cold air hits you straight away, brushing your hair back from your face, cutting through the heat and the noise and everything else for just a moment. The wind moves across your skin, and for a second, it feels like something close to relief.
You pace a hole into the concrete outside the ambulance bay, your steps uneven but constant, like if you stop moving for even a second everything will catch up to you. Pittsburgh traffic was no joke, so you weren’t worried about the late arrival of your Uber driver. It gave you something to focus on, something simple; In, out, wait, leave.
But the footsteps behind you cut through that almost immediately, recognisable, too familiar. It felt like you had been caught doing something you shouldn’t have; that instinctive tightening in your chest, the brief pause before you turn, you freeze for half a second, then shift slightly, already knowing what you’re going to see before you do.
Michael Robinavitch – his eyes land on you, sharp, disapproving, something heavier sitting underneath it. “So you were going to leave without saying goodbye?” He shrugs, like he’s trying to play it off, but his hand drags over his face, slower than usual, tension sitting in the movement.
“Well, yes..” You admit, because there’s no point pretending otherwise. That really is what you were going to do.
“Wow,” he exhales, looking away for a second before glancing back at you, “so the past 15 years of friendship mean that you dont…” He gestures vaguely, frustrated, searching for something that fits, before stepping closer, hands coming up as he finishes it. “You have fucking brain cancer and you didn’t want to tell me… why?”
You step back instinctively, more from the pressure of it than anything else, your head pounding in time with the shift. “I literally only found out an hour or so ago, Robby. It’s not some personal attack, it’s moreso preference. Because I did not want to ruin your sabbatical.” You huff, folding your arms across your chest, more to hide the tremor in your hands than anything else. Your fingers twitch against your sleeves, subtle but there.
“You have to be fucking joking me,” he snaps, shaking his head, disbelief clear across his face. “My sabbatical means nothing – if Dana hadn’t have told me I would have come back to attend a fucking funeral.”
That makes you look at him, really look; his eyes are glassy, not quite gone, but close enough that you can see it. “I would rather spend the next three months chained to your damn hip making sure you go to every appointment and chemotherapy session.” He steps closer again, voice lower now but no less firm, like he’s trying to push it into something solid.
It doesn’t move you, not the way he thinks it should. “I dont want treatment,” you say, steady enough, even if your head is screaming at you for it. “I have told Jack, I have told Dana. And now, I am telling you.” You hold his gaze, forcing yourself not to look away. “I would rather have four to six freeing months than seven painful, weak, draining years.”
Your voice lifts slightly without you meaning it to, the volumeof it carrying further than you intended. You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. Ahmad, not even pretending not to listen anymore; eyeing you two warily. A couple of others lingering just a second too long. Inside, Dana’s probably already snapping at people to get back to work.
“You might as well announce to our entire workplace that I’m fucking dying, Robby. Congratulations. Whatever dignity I had left is now gone. Thank you.” You let out a sharp exhale, but it doesn’t really settle anything in your chest. It just sits there, building. “You cannot look me in the eye and preach about life, and recovery when everyone knows what you were going to do on that fucking trip, Michael. No helmet, a spiritual retreat done by the most depressed person I know? Yeah… sure..”
Your voice cracks just slightly at the end, but you don’t stop, you can’t. It all spills out before you can think better of it, there’s a shift in him immediately. You see it land. Not just the words, but the intention behind them. And you know it cuts deeper than you meant it to.
“I have nothing keeping me here, no family, not even a fucking pet. I have dedicated my life to this hospital, to this country. All it gave me was a brain tumor and PTSD.” Your voice goes quieter at the end, but the weight of it doesn’t lessen..
“What about us, me, Dana, Jack.” His voice is lower now, almost careful. He steps closer like distance will fix something. You shake your head before he finishes properly, tears slipping anyway, uninvited and steady.
If you turn all of them away, they’ll leave you alone.
Your head throbs again, sharper this time, and your heartbeat feels wrong in your ears, too loud, too close. You can feel it in your vision, the edges of things tightening slightly as you force yourself to keep looking at him.
“There will be a time, where I will be just a mere back thought. Where you might see something and think of me briefly, but walk past and continuing on with another thought. And that is all I wish for you, especially Jack. To forget me is to honor me.” You push it out steadily, even as your throat tightens around the words.
It sounds final, thankfully– you intend it to. Push them all away, surely it will be for the better. No one to mourn you, no one to carry it further than it needs to go.
Your chest aches at the thought, but you don’t let it show, especially not now; not when you look back up and see him properly. Michael is looking at you like something in him has been pulled wrong; hurt, in a way he doesn’t try to hide fast enough.
“Don’t push me away, please, sweetheart. Not when you need support, not during this… not ever…” You turn at that, but not fully. Your shoulders move first, like your body is negotiating with your mind before you’ve even decided anything. Your eyes squeeze shut as another tear slips out anyway, you don’t wipe it straight away. You don’t trust your hands to be steady enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
Your chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with lungs and everything to do with this sudden overbearing pressure. Your heart is still going too fast, uneven, like it’s trying to outrun something it already knows it can’t.
You are afraid to look at him, not because you don’t want to, but because you do.
“Michael, please.. You have to accept this.” Your voice comes out rough, dragged low, like it’s being pulled through something heavy before it reaches him.
He shakes his head immediately, “You aren’t even looking at me. I can’t accept anything when you’re not looking at me.” His voice softens at the end, that makes you turn properly.
It takes effort, more than it should – its scary how much you decline the more tired you get.
When you face him, everything feels worse and better at the same time, which is its own kind of cruelty. Because now he’s there, fully, and there is no version of this where you don’t see him clearly. “If I do treatment, I will be signing myself up for seven– fuck even more than seven– years of loneliness, of peering into others lives and regretting a lack of my own. I thought I would be married by now, atleast three children.” You say it like you’ve rehearsed it, but the cracks show anyway. Mid-sentence, your voice falters, like it’s not convinced you should be saying it out loud.
You shrink after it leaves your mouth. Not on purpose. Just instinct. Like your body is trying to make you smaller so none of it has to stick. Robby watches you change in real time. You can see it on his face; the shift from argument to something lesser; like he wants to step forward but knows he shouldn’t, like that would break something you’re still holding together by force.
“I can’t take another seven years of this, Michael. Of loving but not being loved.” Your throat tightens on the last word. You swallow and it barely helps.
The air feels wrong, too still, too aware; Your vision blurs at the edges again, not fully gone, instead its llike your body can’t decide how much of the world it wants you to keep.
“I’ll love you..” he says, quieter now, and his hand finds your wrist, his touch is gentle, caring; that alone nearly breaks something open in you. You hate how quickly your body reacts to it – The immediate tightening in your chest, the way your breath stutters like it’s forgotten how to keep up with this moment. “You can’t do that, Michael. That would be a wretched thing– for me to allow you to do that.” Your voice shakes slightly, and you feel it immediately, like a flaw exposed too late to fix.
“I love you..” He steps closer again, this time you don’t move away, you look at him properly – really properly.
Your hand lifts before you decide to stop it, and it lands against his cheek, warm, gentle, real. The shape of him is suddenly too clear, too specific, like your mind is forcing you to store details you didn’t ask for; the grey in his beard, the way his lashes sit uneven with tears, the faint tension in his jaw like he’s holding back everything he shouldn’t say.
Your uber pulls up somewhere behind you, shocking you out of your haze – reminding you that life is continuing on around you. “Its too late for that, Mikey..” you whisper, and your smile barely holds its shape. It trembles at the edges, slipping in and out of place. Your thumb moves once under his eye without thought, catching what falls before it can fully leave him.
He goes still under your hand.
You see it then, the way he notices. The way he starts to track you differently, like he’s realizing time is doing something irreversible in front of him. You’re looking at him like you’re memorizing him; and then he’s realizing you already have. He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue – but you’re already stepping back, and you’re gone. Like you were never there to begin with.
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
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